Beautiful, Dirty, Rich (Monsta X Fanfiction)

Chapter Seventy Two: The Diary of a Fairy Godmother

This is the most iconic photoshoot in kpop ever. Minhyuk ate this, he left no crumbs. Years later, and I still come back to these photos for inspiration. 

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Minhyuk's POV [Starting from the day Yuri and Wonho made up]

My cheeks burned with anger, my fists balled at my side, as I paced my living room. I was pissed, majorly pissed, at Yuri. After the embarrassment of walking in on the two faded, I saw red. My knuckles still hurt from the death grip I had on the steering wheel while driving back home.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket, drafting a text: give me a fucking heads up next time you're-

But I stopped, taking a moment to evaluate what I was doing. 

It's my fault for just barging into their apartment without texting first. Yet, somehow, I'm angry at Yuri...

I've seen people kiss before, many times. It's nothing new. I have no aversion to PDA. 

So why was it pissing me off so much to see Yuri and Wonho making out? 

'Damn, I really need to chill.'

Besides, she was probably too preoccupied to see my texts anyway...

I deleted the angry message, in desperate need of a distraction. Something to take my mind off of things, anything that would make be stop thinking about Yuri and that bastard Wonho.

'Bastard?' I asked myself, 'I thought I was past the name calling and hate for him.'

For a while, me and Wonho were buddying up. Getting close, maybe. We were almost friends. 

Funny how quickly people can turn against each other. 

'No, I guess I still don't like the guy.'

From my perspective; Wonho was rude, arrogant, had everything handed to him on a silver platter. As a chaebol, I had things handed to me too. But at least I worked for them. I worked hard in order to take over the family business, in place of my younger brother. I've hardly been handed anything. I've lived a fairly pure life. But Wonho? He was handed half of Korea simply because he was born in the right family. 

Now, he was getting Yuri too? And he didn't even deserve her.

'Fuck it, I need a drink.'

I grabbed my favorite Dior smoking jacket, putting it on over my otherwise uneventful outfit, and headed out into the night. 

I drove, mind blank, to my usual bar. It was upscale, and usually very quiet. As a regular, everyone knew who I was, including the valet.

"Having a hard time?" the bartender asked as I arrived, placing my usual whisky in front of me.

I had to pull myself out of my thoughts to reply, "Oh, uh... yeah." I replied, downing the drink before motioning for a refill.

The bartender refilled the cup, "Are your designs not flowing like they used to?"

'Designs...'

Right, I used to sketch new designs nonstop. My mind used to constantly overflowing with new things, inspired by the styling that I did in my free time. 

'When was the last time I actually sat down and sketched something?'

I couldn't remember. I couldn't even think of what the last thing I sketched was. 

I had become so distracted with the drama of the socioeconimicly elite that I was falling behind on chasing my dreams.

"No, its some other bullshit," I confessed, shaking my head.