Luxury Demesne // Part 2
To be the best means you have to know the best, but what if you are the best?
Synopsis: Taehyung, your boyfriend and the once lavish heir, falls to an average status after losing every ounce of his wealth. Within that same scene, Jimin’s family name rises in the affluent sphere. Thing is, you never expected that your arranged marriage with your boyfriend would shift to your best friend, Jimin.
Pairing: Taehyung x Reader x Jimin // Wealthy!AU, ArrangedMarriage!AU, ChildhoodFriend!AU + a love triangle
Genre: Fluff, Suggestive, Drama
Word Count: 7.4k
Series: Part 1 ||
A/N: finally got the chance to rewrite this :’) and here it is! it’s just light, brief smut this time, sorry booboos qq
An array of radiant gasps and hesitant applause ripples throughout the packed banquet hall, filling up every fraction of the quietude to your dismay.
Your father broke the news so nonchalantly, a hidden surge of delight coursing through his veins as the cameras flash on him. You snap your head at Jimin a few seconds after the startling information sinks in, the sudden turn of tables perplexing you both. Your feet begin to heavily drag on the marble tiles, clacking sound blossoming louder with every furious stop. “What happened, what is he talking about?” you spit out, eyebrows crossing together.
“I-I don’t know!” he spits out, hands flying into the air as if it would make up for the bland answer. “My father never told me anything about this arranged marriage, has yours?”
“No!” you exclaim and tug on the delicate chiffon of your dress, diamonds swaying with your resenting action. The distant camera shutters coast towards you and Jimin, or as the headlines would say, the future power couple of the world. Rounds of applause swirl together with rebarbative clicks of devices, people from the news already preparing their technology to catch the scoop of a surprising announcement. You exert a grunt and press a hand to your forehead dramatically, unable to fathom the cynical decision both parties have made. Jimin encloses his grasp around the small of our wrist and locks intense gazes — a dull flame igniting in his eyes out of damsel-like distress — and begins to ruthlessly drag you out of the cajoling crowd, brushing past the ocean of luxuriant figures that flash genuine beams towards you, frequently saying, “congratulations.”