Page 10 of Sweet Nightmare

My label Misfitz alone employs hundreds of people.

The investment firm Junie convinced me to start owns shares in everything from tech startups to luxury hotels around the globe.

Every year people publish lists ranking the wealthiest entertainers in South Korea.

Every year my name sits at the top.

I own properties in Seoul, Busan, Tokyo, Singapore, Sydney, Puerto Rico, Dominican Republic, Los Angeles, and New York.

Three recording studios.

A jewelry brand.

I own more real estate than any one man has a right to own.

My net worth crossed the billion-dollar mark last year.

The headlines lost their minds.

The first Korean rapper to become a billionaire.

Historic and unprecedented.

That’s what the media called it.

I look at it differently.

I see it as survival.

I have more success than the kid I used to be would’ve believed.

None of it fixed the part of me that’s still broken.

“Fuck.”

Someone clears their throat behind me, reminding me that I’m not alone.

Glancing over my shoulder, I find Zymon sprawled across one of the lavender leather chairs, his phone in hand.

The asshole looks like he just stepped off the cover of an Armani campaign. A black Ambrosa winter coat drapes over his broad shoulders, paired with tailored cream trousers and a custom Kiiro watch worth more than most people earn in a year. Even his Italian leather loafers are polished to fucking perfection.

Zymon has the kind of face and wardrobe that scream old money, even though we both know neither of us was born with shit to our names.

The difference is that he looks like the CEO of a Fortune 500 company, while I look like every publicist’s worst fucking nightmare.

I’m wearing an oversized Drunken Tiger T-shirt that hangs loosely off my frame, gray sweatpants, and a pair of beat-up white sneakers I refuse to throw away. A faded red hoodie covers my back, and a red baseball cap sits low over my forehead, casting a shadow over my eyes.

He looks like generational wealth.

I look like the reason a PR team drinks themselves into a coma.

Money changed my bank account.

But it’ll never change me.

“You’ve got this, man.” Zymon leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Now get your head out of your ass.”

I snort.