⊹ ࣪ ˖ UPGRADE U — michael jackson x blk!singer!dancer!reader
summary: just a few months after you and michael announced your marriage, the two of you split up. so you try to get him back the only way you know how, by releasing a song and being petty.
notes: angsty but a happy ending. slowburn so get ready to read. talks about childbirth complications. post-botdf era mike. mature era reader.
warnings: more abt reader here… and yes, she is named. you can just treat it like a regular story or a dr, whatever. if you don’t like it, scroll. xx 💋
Since your marriage three years ago, there has been no shortage of sexual affection between you and Michael. Everything felt freer now. There were no more carefully measured moments, no more quick kisses or hushed conversations about the future. You were husband and wife.
And with that came a new excitement, a new comfort in building a life together. You knew Michael wanted to be a father. He had never hidden that dream from you. And you wanted to be a mother just as badly.
Of course, there were fears. The thought of childbirth frightened you. The uncertainty of it all, the pain, the possibility that something could go wrong. But your desire for a family outweighed every nervous thought.
At least, that’s what you told yourself.
Yet as spring came and went, a quiet worry began to settle between the two of you. No matter how many months passed, nothing happened.
“There’s no need to rush it,” Michael said one evening, his hands gently rubbing your shoulders.
“We’re both busy with music and songwriting right now. Whenever it happens, it’ll be God’s timing.” His voice was soft and reassuring. “And when it does happen, it’ll be a blessing, okay?”
You nodded, leaning into his touch. You wanted to believe him.
Neither of you knew it then, but that moment would become the first seed of everything that followed. The beginning of a heartbreak neither of you saw coming.
At the start of the new year, you and Michael went on national television and announced your marriage to the world. The secret was finally out. What the public didn’t know, however, was that the two of you had also been trying to start a family.
For a brief moment you thought your prayers had been answered. The pregnancy test was positive. But as the months passed, nothing changed. There were no symptoms, no visible signs. Nothing. Eventually, you scheduled an appointment with your doctor, hoping for reassurance. Instead, you received something else entirely.
“Unfortunately, Mrs. Jackson, there appear to be some complications,” Dr. Fields said gently. “With this condition, your chances of carrying a pregnancy are very low. Pregnancy itself would also pose significant health risks to you.”
She folded her hands together. “I would strongly advise considering alternatives, such as adoption or other family-planning options.”
The rest of her words blurred together. Complications. Low chances. Dangerous. Fatal. The terms echoed in your mind over and over again. Your heart pounded against your ribs. Then your thoughts drifted to Michael.
‘Oh God. What is he going to think?’
You couldn’t even imagine his disappointment and sadness. The dreams the two of you had shared for years. All you could think about was how this news might hurt him. Especially after everything had seemed so hopeful in the beginning.
By the time you arrived back at your Los Angeles condo, the California sun was beginning to dip below the horizon.
Michael was already waiting for you. The moment he saw you walk through the door, his face brightened.
“There you are.” He wrapped his arms around you without hesitation. “How was the appointment? Are you okay? Any good news?”
You sighed softly, adjusting your sunglasses as you returned the embrace. But you didn’t let go. You couldn’t. The words refused to come.
“Minnie?” Michael looked down, trying to catch your expression.
Almost immediately, his smile faded. He knew something was wrong.
“What happened?” he asked quietly.
The lump in your throat finally broke. “I’m so sorry, Michael.”
The tears came all at once. A stream of them slipping down your cheeks. “I’m sorry.”
His confusion deepened. “Sorry?”
He gently guided you toward the couch, never removing his arms from around you. “Sorry for what?”
You buried your face against his shoulder. “I…” Your voice cracked. “I can’t get pregnant.”
For a moment, Michael went completely still. The warmth in his fingertips seemed to vanish as your words settled between the two of you. “Is that… is that what the doctor said?”
Then Michael pulled you even closer. His hand smoothed over your hair as he pressed a kiss against the top of your head.
“No,” he whispered. “Don’t say that.”
His voice shook slightly, though he tried to remain calm. “Don’t worry, Minnie. We’re going to be okay.”
It was clear that the news had taken a toll on both of you. Though you were devastated, Michael did everything he could to comfort you, telling you all the sweet things you desperately needed to hear.
But you knew Michael. Deep down, he was stressed. There had been so much planning that went into becoming a father. Debating baby names, imagining whether you’d have a boy or a girl. He had already started building rooms at Neverland for them, ordering custom furniture and making plans for a future that now seemed impossibly far away. Even after the news, he still hadn’t put a stop to any of those projects.
You could see it in his eyes, the quiet pain of a dream slipping through his fingers. The hurt of knowing he might never have children. And somehow, that pain was eating you alive even more than your own.
So you finally confronted him in the kitchen late at night.
“A break?” Michael repeated, his eyebrows raising in confusion. “You think we need a break?”
You shrugged, wrapping your arms around yourself.
“I just… I don’t know.” Your voice came out softer than intended. “I feel so suffocated in this house. From all the pressure and expectations… it just feels like I’m failing you.”
Michael immediately paused. “My expectations?” he asked quietly. “I never wanted to make you feel that way. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, don’t apologize,” you quickly assured him. “But I think I need some time to myself… just for a little while. To think.”
Michael nodded along to your words, his expression unreadable. The kitchen fell into silence, broken only by the low hum of the refrigerator and the ticking clock on the wall.
“You need space… fine.” He swallowed. “I think this break will be good for the two of us.”
And then Michael was off. He left the kitchen. You hurried after him, confusion settling in your chest. “Where are you going?”
“I’ll be at Neverland,” he answered without turning around.
“Right now?” You reached forward and caught his hand. “Michael, it’s almost midnight.”
He stopped. Gently, he lifted your hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss against your knuckles before rubbing them with his thumb.
“I know,” he murmured. “But I think space will be good for us… both… right now.”
You froze. You hadn’t expected him to be so willing to leave. The words had barely left your mouth, and already he was packing his things.
Slowly, you let go of his hand and took a step back.
“It’ll be easier to leave now before the crowds and all the people show up,” he continued, his voice calm.
You nodded, not because you agreed, but because you didn’t know what else to do. “…Okay.”
“No, yeah. Um…” You swallowed the lump forming in your throat. “I love you, Michael.”
A small smile appeared on his face. “I love you more.”
Michael pulled you into a hug, holding you close for what felt like only seconds and an eternity all at once. Then he separated, giving you one last lingering look before walking away.
It’s been two months. Two months since Michael left for Neverland. Two months of radio silence.
Of course, when you said you wanted a break, you only meant that you needed time to think—time away from the pressure and grief that had swallowed your marriage whole. But dealing with all of this without a single word from Michael felt even worse.
The silence had become its own kind of punishment.
“Ms. Jackson?” Your bodyguard, Carlton, popped his head into the living room.
You were in the middle of an aerobics workout, sprawled across your yoga mat and sweating bullets.
“You received a fax.” Carlton held a sheet of paper in the air.
“Put it… on the… table,” you managed, barely sparing him a glance.
“You might want to look at it,” he added carefully. “It looks like it’s from Mr. Jackson’s lawyer.”
You paused immediately, your head whipping around. “Huh? Let me see that.”
Walking over, you took the paper from his hands, your eyes scanning the neatly printed words. As you read, the faint music from your aerobics tape seemed to disappear into the background. The world itself went quiet.
Subject: Temporary Termination Of Marriage
I am sending you this letter to inform you of Mr. Jackson’s request for a temporary annulment of your marriage in order for him to pursue Debbie Rowe for consummation. After the birth of X amount of children, the marriage would be resumed under the agreements listed below.
Attached is the contract Mr. Jackson intends to send to Ms. Rowe. Please note that under no circumstances does this arrangement reflect Mr. Jackson’s feelings toward you or the other participating party.
If you agree with these terms, please sign below.
You couldn’t believe your eyes. Your free hand flew over your mouth. “Oh my God…”
Your breathing grew shallow. “Where’s my phone?”
“Is everything alright, Mrs. Jackson?” Carlton asked, concern creeping into his voice.
“No. Everything is not okay.”
You hurried toward the landline, immediately punching in Michael’s number. Your foot tapped frantically against the hardwood floor as your arms crossed tightly over your chest.
One ring. Two rings. By the third, he finally answered. “…Hello?”
“Michael, what the hell did you just fax me?” you demanded. “Is this what I think it is?”
You rarely cursed. But right now, your emotions took over everything.
A heavy sigh came from the other end. “I’m sorry, but I can’t do it. I don’t want to be selfish, but…” His voice softened. “I trust you understand how much this means to me. I found someone who could do it, and for me to, you know, do it—I can’t have sex with someone else while I’m with you. It goes against everything I believe in.”
“Right. Right, so you want to divorce me,” you interrupted.
“…Cleo, it’s only temporary.”
“But you’re still tossing me aside and bringing me back when you want me again!” Your voice cracked. “Michael, do you even hear how that sounds?”
“I hope you can understand.”
“No, Michael, I don’t understand!”
“…Well, maybe you should read over the letter again.”
“What…?” You stared at the receiver in disbelief. “No freaking way.”
Taking a deep breath, you tried to collect yourself before saying something you might regret. Then you dialed his number again. He picked up almost immediately.
“Michael, I swear, don’t you ever hang up on me like that again.” Your grip tightened around the phone. “I’m not signing anything.”
Then you slammed the receiver back onto its base. Forget the workout. You picked up the paper once more, reading through it again and again. No matter what angle you looked at it, the entire thing was insane. His plan was to divorce you, find another woman to have his children, and then remarry you afterward? In what universe would you ever agree to that?
But somehow, that wasn’t even what hurt the most. What hurt was the fact that Michael had never discussed any of this with you. He had already found the woman. He had already drafted the contract. All he needed now was your signature.
And he couldn’t even bring himself to tell you himself.
You sat down in your office, staring at the fax machine as another sheet of paper slowly rolled through. The letter you intended to send was short.
You: Don’t read this expecting it to be a letter of agreement, Michael. We are not getting divorced.
But I just wanted to ask… is there truly nothing I could say that would make you change your mind about this?
Less than an hour later, another fax arrived.
Michael: No. With love, Mikey.
By the next day, you were calling everyone. You called your friends, your mother—nobody could believe it. For six years, the two of you had been happily married, only for one devastating setback to turn everything upside down.
Next, you called Janet. She was just as shocked as you were and promised that she would speak to Michael herself.
Then there was Katherine. Your mother-in-law hadn’t heard anything about this arrangement and didn’t offer an opinion one way or the other. At one point, you even considered calling Joseph. But you doubted he’d have anything different to say.
For now, at least, this remained a private family matter. And that was the one silver lining. Your marriage had already faced enough public scrutiny after the rumors earlier that year. For many people, this was the first time they had even learned that you and Michael were married at all.
But if news of your separation ever became public…
You pulled your knees to your chest on the couch. ‘They’re going to crucify me if they find out. After all those rumors about me being a gold-digger… if people hear that we split up, they’re going to think it was true.’
And while you intended to do everything possible to prevent that worst-case scenario from happening, all you could do was pray that Michael planned to do the same.
— THE KING OF POP’S NEW BOO? WHO IS THIS MYSTERY WOMAN?
— MICHAEL JACKSON AND HIS NEW WOMAN?
— THE INFAMOUS SPLIT? WHAT’S GOING ON WITH THE JACKSONS?
— CHEATER? SEE MORE ABOUT THE MARRIAGE THAT BARELY LASTED!
These days, you didn’t even try with your outfits. Gone were the coordinated looks and designer pieces. Instead, you lived in black. Black sweatpants. Black velour tracksuits. Black flip flops—always accompanied by oversized sunglasses that hid your tired eyes from the world.
You simply didn’t have the energy anymore. And you certainly didn’t have the energy to deal with the paparazzi.
“Mrs. Jackson! Over here!”
“Mrs. Jackson, please, just one word!”
“Cleo! Is it true that you and Michael have split up?”
“Mrs. Jackson, why are you wearing black? Are you mourning your relationship?”
You raised a hand to shield yourself from the relentless flashes. You had just finished a meeting with your recording team and were making your way toward your car, but even that proved difficult.
Your bodyguards did their best to create a path.
“Hey, back up! Give her some space!”
The crowd pressed closer anyway, desperate for some kind of response. You lowered your head, pulling the hood of your tracksuit over your hair.
“Mrs. Jackson, please!” a reporter shouted as you reached your car door. “What about Michael? Do you care that he’s out parading another woman around?”
The question stopped you. Slowly, you turned your head just enough to acknowledge her presence.
Your voice was barely above a whisper. “No comment.”
And then the car door slammed shut.
For Michael, things were… okay. Physically? Sure. Mentally? He had seen better days. There was no denying the happiness he felt when Debbie became pregnant. He had promised himself that he would be there every step of the way, supporting her, protecting her, shielding her from the cruelty of the media whenever possible.
He never wanted things to spiral into something bigger. But, of course, everything involving Michael Jackson eventually became bigger. Being there for Debbie meant accompanying her in public. And when people saw Michael Jackson walking beside a woman who wasn’t you…
Speculation was inevitable.
Michael hated it. He hated what they wrote about him, about Debbie, but most of all about you. He could withstand whatever criticism came his way, he always had. But the thought of his choices causing you pain made him physically ill.
The problem was that the two of you weren’t speaking. So even if he wanted to release a statement, he had no idea where your head was at or whether that would only make things worse.
“You have to do something, Mike,” Janet remarked, resting her chin against her hand as she sat on the couch. “You can’t just leave Cleo in the dark.”
Michael paced the room, absentmindedly humming one of his newest songs while scribbling notes onto a pad of paper.
“That’s the thing, Janet. I want to. I really do, but…” He sighed. “She’s not answering my calls, and I don’t even know if she wants anything to do with me anymore.”
Janet stared at him. “Are you serious? She literally called me last month in tears. She was inconsolable, Mike! If I can't help her, you’re the only person who can.”
The room grew quiet. Finally, Michael sat down. “I never wanted to make her feel that way,” he admitted softly. “The thought of her being angry with me… my heart just can’t take it.”
Janet listened carefully. “But what about her heart?” she asked. “She felt like you abandoned her. Like she had some kind of defect.”
“Oh God, never!” Michael shook his head immediately. “Never. I never thought about her that way whatsoever. She’s perfect. There’s nothing wrong with her.”
Janet’s expression softened. “I understand why you did it, Michael. But the way you did it really hurt Cleo.”
Michael looked down at his hands. “I can see that now. I don’t think either of us were in the right headspace to be making decisions like this…”
“There’s adoption,” Janet continued. “There are so many ways to raise a child. But you never talked to Cleo about any of them.”
“I know. I know now… I just… I wanted to be a father so badly, Janet. I really did.” A small, bittersweet smile crossed his face. “And I don’t regret that. I can’t. Parenthood is a blessing.”
Janet fell silent. Because despite his words, she could already see it. The regret was there. Maybe not for becoming a father, but for everything he had sacrificed to get there.
“You already made your choice,” she said gently. “And you can’t change the past.”
She reached over and squeezed his shoulder. “So what you have to do now is make things right… and keep doing that every single day.”
Michael nodded. “You’re right, and I will.”
Your fax machine had officially become Michael’s personal mailbox. Every week, without fail, another letter arrived. Updates about his life, questions about how you were doing, stories about Debbie’s pregnancy.
At first, you thought it was cruel, almost mocking. So you refused to read them. But as the weeks passed, you realized something painful. This was the only way you would know if Michael was okay. Your only way of contacting him.
So eventually you started reading them.
Through those letters, you learned about Debbie. About her morning sickness, the back pain and sleepless nights. Her fears, excitement and the little complaints that came with carrying a child.
You read Michael’s updates during dinner, the pages spread out beside your plate like a bedtime story. A strange, heartbreaking bedtime story.
You learned about Debbie as a person, too. And despite everything, she seemed… nice. You still had your reservations. You hated how eager she seemed to become Michael’s saving grace. But hatred was difficult when someone had never actually wronged you.
During one of your morning yoga sessions, another fax arrived. It was the gender reveal. Michael’s excitement practically jumped off the page. Entire sentences were written in capital letters. He was having a son, and he was ecstatic.
The next week came a list of baby names. You hadn’t responded to a single fax. In fact, after reading them, you usually feed the pages into the shredder. But Michael kept sending them anyway.
This time, though, it felt different. As if he genuinely wanted your opinion.So, for the very first time, you wrote back.
You: Whatever you choose, I’ll be happy with. I trust you to make the right choice.
Along with the letters came holiday cards for the celebrations he knew you observed. Those you never shredded. Instead, you kept them inside a small shoebox. Sometimes, you’d take them out and run your fingertips over the dried ink of his cursive handwriting, as if touching the words might somehow bring him a little closer again.
After all the busyness at the hospital, Michael and Debbie finally arrived home with Michael Joseph Jackson Jr.—otherwise known as Prince.
Before the news was announced to the world, Michael made sure that you were the first person he tried to tell. He called you in the middle of all the excitement. You didn’t answer, but that was to be expected. So, instead, he sent a fax.
I have the most wonderful news to tell you. As of today, February 13th, 1997, I am a father to Michael Joseph Jackson Jr., the prince of my life.
When you read the letter, you couldn’t stop the smile that found its way onto your face. You were happy for him, you truly were. Which was why you decided to leave Michael a message.
Michael could rarely bring himself to separate from Prince during those first few weeks. He was constantly in the nursery, sitting beside the crib, staring in amazement at the tiny life in front of him. Sometimes he would sing softly. Other times, he’d simply watch him sleep.
But during one of the rare moments he stepped away, Michael finally passed by the landline. The blinking light caught his attention. One new message. He pressed the button.
“Hi Michael, it’s me. Cleo.”
He froze. The sound of your voice struck him like a ghost. For a moment, it felt as though you were standing right beside him. Immediately, he stopped in the middle of the hallway.
“I’m sure you’re busy, but I still wanted to say this to you…”
You were currently leaving him a message. If he wanted to, he could pick up the phone and interrupt the recording. But he didn’t. Hearing your voice again after nearly a year of silence was something precious, something that he wanted to keep. At least until his mailbox eventually filled up.
“Um… congratulations on the birth of your son. I hope everything went well with Debbie and that there weren’t any complications.”
The corners of his eyes already began to sting.
“I hope everything is going well. I’m sure you’re probably stressed… but you need sleep. Remember to take care of yourself, Michael.”
Then there was a pause. “Bye. I’ll always love you.”
And for several long moments, Michael simply stood there in the dark hallway. The red light on the answering machine blinked steadily. His eyes remained fixed on the phone. Your words alone were enough to bring tears to his eyes.
Because despite everything, you still loved him. And somehow, that made everything hurt even more.
After the birth of his son, every media outlet seemed determined to uncover the truth. Who was Prince’s mother? Was it you? Was it Debbie Rowe? What exactly was happening inside Michael Jackson’s marriage? Would he end up just like his brothers? Everyone wanted answers.
And more than anything, they wanted to know what the little boy looked like. Surely that would settle the rumors once and for all. You watched from afar as magazines and reporters fought to be the first to publish photos of Prince. You also witnessed Michael’s growing frustration and determination to protect his son’s privacy. It was one of the few things the world couldn’t take from him.
Of course, you hadn’t seen Prince yet, either. Not even a picture. But strangely enough, you didn’t mind. When Michael was ready, when he wanted to share that part of his life with you…
And until then, you were content simply knowing that somewhere in the world, the man you loved was finally holding the child he had dreamed of for so long.
By the winter months, you had left California and returned home to Chicago.
You were preparing to release a new album, and with the constant swarm of paparazzi on the West Coast, you desperately needed to get away. You needed silence. A chance to breathe.
You didn’t tell many people you were leaving. Only your parents, a few close friends, and Janet—just in case she wanted to pass the information along to Michael. You weren’t going to call him yourself.
Of course, that also meant that any letters, faxes, or phone calls he sent wouldn’t reach you.
That was something you could worry about later.
Instead, you spent your time doing something you hadn’t done in months. You wrote songs.
Every notebook in your apartment had become filled with scribbled lyrics, late-night thoughts, and half-finished melodies that had been born from one of the most difficult years of your life. You had written through the heartbreak and confusion. Through the strange process of accepting a reality you never imagined for yourself.
Everything was there, and all of it was going into this album. Your final album. The best work you would ever create.
And for the title track you had a special idea. Upgrade U.
“This is some real good stuff, Cle.” Your producer, Tre, flipped through the pages of lyrics in his hands.
“You know,” he continued, “I think if we get a rap verse in here, it’d be real good.”
The two of you sat inside his secondary recording studio. It used to be his main one before he moved out to California, but now it mostly served as a middle ground for artists from the East Coast. Instead of flying across the country, they could simply come to Chicago.
You absentmindedly twisted a pen between your fingers as your chair slowly swiveled back and forth. “Any ideas?” you asked. “I don’t know any rappers like that.”
“Hmm…” Tre rubbed his chin. “Jay-Z?”
He leaned back. “You wanna do some charity for my homeboy?”
You raised an eyebrow. “Charity? As in?”
“I got a young guy I just signed,” Tre explained. “His name’s Urban. He’s a rapper, and this could be a good opportunity for him to get some attention.”
You lowered your sunglasses slightly. “How young? I’m thirty-six. I can’t have no young guy all around me like that.”
Tre burst into laughter. “No, I hear you. But you look damn fine for thirty-six.”
A smile tugged at your lips. “Thank you.” You crossed your arms. “But you still didn’t answer my question.”
“Don’t worry,” Tre reassured. “He’s twenty-five.”
You groaned. “So I was like eleven when he was born. Great.”
Tre laughed even harder. “Don’t worry. I’ll call him and show him what we’ve got so far. I’ll tell him to keep it respectful and write something non-explicit.”
You sighed. “Okay, fine. Call him.”
With that settled, Tre turned back toward the mixing board. But before getting started, he suddenly looked over at you. “Oh, yeah. Congratulations.”
“I didn’t even know you were pregnant.” He grinned. “Must be good news for you and Michael, right?”
And just when you thought you’d finally escaped all of it Tre somehow found a way to stir the pot.
“You didn’t know because I wasn’t pregnant,” you replied calmly. “Prince is Michael’s child, but I’ll extend the congratulations.”
Tre’s mouth practically fell open. His eyes drifted down to your hand, where your wedding rings still gleamed beneath the studio lights.
“Wait… Are you two still…?”
You shrugged. “Oh, you don’t even know the half of it.”
“Is Michael…?” Tre hesitated. “Did Michael cheat?”
“Oh, God, no.” You immediately shook your head. “I don’t know what makes it worse—the fact that he told me through fax or the fact that I accepted it.”
Tre stared. “Are you serious?”
He leaned back in his chair. “Man, I don’t watch the news or read those papers, but all that stuff I was seeing…” He pointed toward you. “You mean it was true?”
You shook your head. “Please. Not even half of it is true. But right now, I’m in limbo and I wrote this song after everything happened, so…”
Tre nodded slowly as the realization settled in. “I get it. This song is you asking the question.”
You pointed a manicured finger at him. “Close. I’m telling him.”
“Ah.” Tre grinned. “A revenge album.”
The corner of your lips quirked upward. “Something like that.”
By the following year, more news found its way to you. Not only was your album halfway finished, but Michael had sent another life update. He had a daughter and her name was Paris.
You laughed when you read the fax. Of course he named her Paris. You remembered the little pact he’d made years ago with LaToya and Kathy Hilton. The three of them had promised that if they ever had daughters, they would all name them Paris.
Still, the smile on your face faltered. A small sting settled behind your eyes. You had always hoped your firstborn would be a girl. And you had agreed that her name would be Paris. But now that dream belonged to somebody else, and Michael had already fulfilled it. Not only that, but something about the timing bothered you. Prince had only been born the year before, and now Debbie was pregnant again? You weren’t usually the jealous type. Especially not at thirty-seven years old. But you couldn’t help how it made you feel. It almost felt like a slap in the face.
Why did you have to be the one with complications? Why did things have to happen this way? When Michael had faxed you that letter two years ago, he never specified when the two of you would remarry. At the time, you told yourself it was temporary. Eventually, things would return to normal. But now, watching his family grow from afar…
You hated to admit it but It was beginning to feel as though he had never planned on coming back. The thought hurt more than you cared to acknowledge.
Yet if there was one thing you knew, it was this: You wouldn’t be the first one to break. It had to be Michael. For your own sanity it had to be.
— THE PRINCESS IS BORN: MORE ON THE KING OF POP’S DAUGHTER!
— WAS GARETT RIGHT THIS WHOLE TIME? WHERE IS CLEO IN THIS JACKSON FIASCO?
As the media continued speculating about Paris’s birth and the strange relationship between Michael, Debbie, and yourself—You were nowhere to be found.
Every attempt to contact you was shut down. Nobody was saying a word. The only things that leaked were small details about your upcoming album. A few promotional mentions. Some photographs from the studio.
And one particular paparazzi photo: You and Urban together. Naturally, the tabloids had a field day. But if there was one thing you’d learned over the past two years, it was how to ignore them. Besides, nothing scandalous had happened. The two of you had simply left the studio together after wrapping up a successful music video shoot. That was it. But, of course the media didn’t know that.
For Michael, however, the news reached him through his staff. Logically, he knew better than to believe the rumors. But logic and emotion rarely walked hand in hand. Because in Michael’s mind, you were still his person.
And rumors like that? Well, he couldn’t completely ignore them.
So, for the first time in a long while, Michael picked up one of the papers and carried it back to his bedroom. His eyes scanned over the photograph.
Then he let out a long sigh of relief. “And here I thought it was actually something…”
Immediately, he recognized the location. It was outside your studio. You were working. It was just another example of the media blowing things completely out of proportion.
Michael shook his head. But before putting the paper down, he found himself looking a little longer. “Oh…”
It had been a while since he’d seen you. You looked good. Really good. You wore black, as always. The color had practically become your signature now. You wore a cropped black denim top that revealed just a sliver of your warm brown skin. Black capris, simple sandals, and a tiny purse hanging from your shoulder. And of course, those oversized black sunglasses that never seemed to leave your face anymore.
Michael barely noticed Urban standing beside you. In fact, he didn’t notice him at all. All he saw was you. The way your curls danced in the wind. The slight turn of your head away from the cameras. The familiar confidence in your posture.
The woman he had fallen in love with. The woman he hadn’t held in nearly two years.
Michael was definitely feeling you.
And more than anything, he missed his wife.
Today was a happy day. For the first time in years, the atmosphere inside your studio wasn’t serious. People were laughing and celebrating. That was because today marked the release of your newest album: Cleo Minnie Jackson - The Deluxe.
This project was unlike anything you had ever done before. You used new sounds, new genres, mixes—everything to make it experimental and bold.
For the first time in what felt like forever, you had created something that made you genuinely happy despite everything life had thrown at you.
Not only had you recorded brand-new songs, but you had also gone back into the vault, polishing unfinished tracks that never saw the light of day during the earlier years of your career.
As for the album title, that choice was no accident. You were tired. Tired of the headlines, rumors and people speaking for you.
You were a Jackson. The break was over. You had respected Michael’s wishes and now it was time for him to respect yours.
It was time to get your husband back.
The release of your album was an instant success. After nearly three years of silence, the public was desperate to hear what you had been working on. Speculation spread like wildfire. Was this album finally your response to everything? To Michael? To the rumors? To the questions the entire world had been asking since 1996?
Then came the release of the Upgrade U music video. Within weeks, it dominated radio stations everywhere. The song climbed the charts, eventually reaching the Top 10 in the United States.
Michael listened to the album the moment it was released. Of course he did. A small part of him was hurt that you hadn’t told him about it. But then again the two of you hadn’t truly spoken in almost a year.
He wasn’t sure he had the right to feel wounded by that. Still, no matter how complicated things had become between you, Michael would always support you. Always.
And since you never answered his calls, this would be the third time in years that he got to hear your voice saying something new.
The first being your voicemail. The second being the songs you’d recorded before everything happened. And now this.
As expected, it sounded incredible. But Michael possessed a songwriter’s ear, and because of that, he couldn’t help but wonder if some of these songs were directed at… well, him.
In some ways, he suspected the entire album might be a revenge project. He wouldn’t have blamed you if it was. Not after everything that had happened. Especially after hearing He Loves Me.
The song made him pause. That track was an obvious response to Vincent Garett’s accusations back in 1996. He remembered those conversations. He remembered sitting with you while you worked on the demo. Back then, you had decided not to release it. Life had gotten in the way.
But now, here it was, finally seeing the world.
And strangely enough listening to the album gave Michael hope. Because among all the hurt, all the anger, all the heartbreak there were still love songs. If you could still write songs like that, then maybe you weren’t completely tired of him yet.
Michael was in the living room, watching his two children babble and reach for anything within their small range of discovery. The space was warm with soft light, scattered toys, and the quiet chaos only young children could create.
In the background, a familiar voice filled the room. It was your song: I Wonder If I Take You Home.
For some reason, Paris and Prince loved that song. Every time it played, they calmed down—giggling, kicking their feet, swaying in their own way as if they already understood rhythm.
So Michael kept it on repeat. Not just for them, but for himself. He told himself it helped them get used to your voice, but deep down it helped him, too.
He sat nearby, watching them carefully, as the door to the living room opened. Debbie walked in with grocery bags hanging from both hands.
“Oh, welcome back,” Michael greeted softly.
“Michael… it’s good to be back,” she said, exhaling. “I mean that honestly.”
Something in her tone immediately shifted the atmosphere.
Michael straightened slightly. “What? Did they hassle you at the store again?”
Debbie let out a long sigh. “They did. And… I don’t know how much more I can take.”
Silence settled between them. Michael knew just from the way she said it…
He already knew what was coming next.
Meanwhile, your world was moving in an entirely different rhythm. Each day was something different. You attended talk shows, interviews, press conferences. Everything was thrusted into the spotlight. You were everywhere.
Because alongside your album, you’d made a major announcement on The Jessica Davies Show: An upcoming U.S. tour.
“So, tell us about this tour!” Jessica said brightly. “I’m sure your fans are excited. I mean, throughout your highly successful career, you’ve only done a handful of tours.”
“Yes, this is a big tour,” you replied. “I thought my fans deserved it. Not many have seen me perform live at all, really, except for award shows or special appearances.”
“Right,” Jessica continued. “And those were usually in California or Chicago. This will be all over the U.S., correct?”
You nodded again. “Yup. Coast to coast. I think it’s needed. This might be my final album… so this will be my first and last U.S. tour.”
The audience reacted instantly. There were gasps, murmurs and excitement mixed with disbelief.
“Whoa!” Jessica exclaimed. “That’s a big statement!”
“It is,” you said with a small, composed smile. “But it also means this concert will be unlike anything I’ve ever done before. It’s going to be great.”
“I can’t wait!” Jessica said, placing a hand over her chest. “I’ll be one of the first to get a ticket. Now I am just dying to know something.”
‘Oh God…’ You already felt it coming.
Jessica leaned forward slightly. “Your latest song, Upgrade U. There have been rumors it’s aimed at a certain someone. Is it or is it not about Michael Jackson?”
You kept your expression steady. A closed-lip smile. “I don’t remember circling that question.”
“Oh come on!” Jessica pressed. “Don’t be shy! The lyrics make it sound like you’re begging him to take you back!”
You shook your head gently. “No, I’m not begging him for anything,” you said firmly. “I can’t beg someone to come back if they never left.”
“Three years ago, you sat here and told us you were married to Michael Jackson,” she said. “Now you’re here alone. Are you still happily married? If he never left, then what’s going on with Debbie Rowe? Is this a new marriage situation that the world doesn’t know about?”
You exhaled slowly through your nose. This was exactly why you hesitated with interviews like this. Because no matter what you said it always came back to him.
“It’s a private matter between me, Michael, and the people involved,” you said carefully. “It’s stressful having your marriage turned into a circus.”
Jessica tilted her head. “Then how do you feel about Debbie Rowe? She’s spending more time with Michael. She is the mother of his two kids—we can’t ignore that they don’t look like you.”
The question was phrased so bluntly it almost felt intentional. “I respect her. Even though I’ve never met her personally, I don’t have any ill will toward her. Michael trusts her, and I trust Michael. So I trust her. She may be their biological mother, but she has repeatedly said they are Michael’s children. And I think that should be respected.”
Jessica nodded, visibly resetting her tone. “Well, you heard it here first, ladies and gentlemen! Stay tuned for ticket information for Cleo’s upcoming tour!”
The sound of your blender filled your kitchen. You switched it off, pouring your strawberry-banana smoothie into a glass. As you sipped it, you walked toward your office to check any emails.
The fax machine whirred to life.
“Ugh, what now?” you muttered. “It better not be Tre. I don’t feel like doing business—”
You stepped closer, still holding your glass.
Your eyes scanned the page as it slowly moved through the machine.
Debbie and I filed for a divorce.
She couldn’t do it anymore. With the stress and everything that comes with being involved with me. It was sad to see her go, and I still care for her very much. But she also expressed something to me that I didn’t acknowledge before. My love for you.
I will always have a special place for you, Minnie. Both now, then, and forever always.
By the middle of the year, you were attending an award show. You hadn’t been invited to one since your win for your album Me & U back in 1994.
So in a way, this felt like a return. A reminder that you were still very much present in the industry you helped shape.
You were nominated, and you were also doing a halftime performance for the show. With your comeback in full swing, no expense was spared. You hired top stylists, makeup artists, and designers.
And when you finally stepped into the mirror even you had to pause. The dress shimmered under the light like liquid gold. A structured bodice, encrusted with beads and crystals that caught every flicker of movement. The slit rose dangerously high along your leg, but still drifted between the balance of elegant and scandalous. Your hair was silk-pressed and curled to perfection, framing your face.
Now, you could lie and say you wore it just for yourself. And in a way, you did. But you also knew the truth. Michael would be there. And if anyone should see you in this dress, it had to be him.
The universe had a way of placing you exactly where you didn’t want to be. Tonight, it made it so the two of you would sit next to each other.
After three years that alone felt like a test. Sitting in the same room as Michael Jackson again? That was something else entirely, and you refused to be the one who cracked first.
That was easier said than done. The moment you sat down beside him, something in the air tightened, like a cord pulled too taut. You kept your gaze forward, trying to focus on anything but him.
But Michael saw you, and the biggest smile broke across his face. He sat by you as if the last three years hadn’t existed at all. But everyone in that room knew the truth. You hadn’t arrived together. And everyone was waiting for the first crack in the wall.
“You look gorgeous tonight,” Michael murmured. It was so low you almost convinced yourself you imagined it.
Your eyes briefly flicked toward him. He looked exactly like he always did, and one hundred times better than the man you were used to seeing in memory. He wore a glittering, structured, military-inspired suit softened just enough to feel effortless rather than theatrical. On anyone else, it would have looked like too much. But on him, it just worked.
You let your eyes drift over him once before replying.
“Thank you,” you said carefully. “I can say the same about you.”
As he shifted his scent hit you, familiar and warm. It smelt like old memories, like comfort. Like all the happy times spent with him.
‘Oh God. Don’t start this.’ You forced your gaze forward again. ‘There’s no way his scent just made me sentimental. If I start thinking like that, I’m done.’
The night moved forward as planned. There were performances, presenters, applause, nominations—it made you remember just how long and tedious these things really were.
Then, Urban stepped onto the stage. “Tonight, they’ve put me in charge of announcing the nominees for Best Hip-Hop/Contemporary R&B Single…”
You couldn’t help the small smile that formed. He was excited but also a little nervous in a way only you would notice. He hasn’t been in the industry very wrong, and this was his first big role. In a way, he felt like a little brother to you.
“…and the winner is… Upgrade U by Cleo!”
For a second, you didn’t move. You were so caught up in your thoughts that you didn’t process it. Then it hit you all at once. A smile broke across your face as your hand flew to your mouth.
You rose carefully, lifting the front of your gown as you stepped onto the ground. A brief instrumental of Upgrade U filled the venue as you made your way up the steps. On the big screen above your image appeared, looking every bit as good as you thought you did.
Urban met you halfway, pulling you into a hug that made you laugh under your breath. A presenter handed you your trophy. You stood at the microphone once the applause began to settle.
“I just want to start by thanking everyone who made this possible,” you said. “Tre, all the engineers, my dancers… I can’t name everyone because I’ll forget someone—so if you worked on this project, you know who you are.”
A ripple of laughter moved through the audience.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve been on a stage like this,” you continued, softer now. “So forgive me.”
You glanced down at the trophy in your hands. “This album wouldn’t have been possible without a lot of things that happened in my life over the past few years. Good… and bad. So in a way, I have to thank those events. Please show the album love,” you added, lifting your head again. “I’m really proud of it.”
Then you turned slightly toward Urban. “And please show him love too. He’s just starting out, and he did a phenomenal job. He has my full support and I know he’s going to do incredible things.”
Urban practically bounced beside you, overwhelmed, grinning wide. He grabbed the mic for a second. “Y’all, I just got complimented by someone I admire a lot! My sister’s gonna be so jealous!”
The crowd laughed again. You hugged him once more before stepping back. Your performance was next so you turned to leave the stage, carefully gathering your dress and trophy. Hands immediately reached out to help you down the steps.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, the hottest chick on this coast—Cleo!” As the announcer stepped aside, the lights dropped into darkness.
For a moment, there was nothing but silence and anticipation.
Then you stood center stage with your back turned to the audience. The set around you had been built just for this moment, sleek and metallic. After a few minutes of silence the brassy bassline of ‘Upgrade U’ cut through the arena.
A single light hit the stage, carving your silhouette out of the dark.
“Yeah, Cle!” Urban popped out from the side of the stage. He was dressed in a white shirt layered under a golden basketball jersey, paired with bedazzled, oversized jeans and shimmering gold sneakers. “Talk yo’ shit!”
A grin tugged at your lips. You tilted your head slightly, one hand resting on your hip. “Partner… let me upgrade you.”
The crowd exploded in cheers as you turned around. The audience finally saw you.
“I hear you be the block, but I’m the lights that keep the streets on…”
Gold reptile-patterned pants clung to your frame, catching every flicker of light. You wore golden studded heels and a glistening belt wrapped around your hips and a structured brown leather jacket with fur trim sat perfectly on your shoulders. Your hair was pinned into a sculpted updo, and your earrings caught every movement of your head. As a finishing touch, a headset mic rested against your cheek.
“Sending me a drink ain’t appeasing, believe me…”
Michael visibly froze. He knew you were beautiful—that had never been in question. But this version of you on stage was something he had never seen before. And for a moment, he couldn’t tell if he was watching a performance or witnessing something he had lost.
“You need a real woman in your life!”
Oh. Michael understood the lyrics. No matter what the media would say or how they would interpret it, this was directed at him.
“Partner, let me upgrade you. Audemars Piguet you, switch your neck ties to purple labels…”
A lot of tabloids wondered how someone could ‘upgrade’ the King of Pop. He was doing fine before you, and they were sure he would be fine without you. But Michael didn’t even entertain that thought. He needed you.
“It’s very seldom that you’re blessed to find your equal. Still played my part and let you take the lead role, believe me…”
Michael wasn’t just watching a performance anymore. He was inside a memory. You were the yin to his yang. There was a reason why Michael wasted so much paper writing to you—even if, at times, it felt like sending letters to an abandoned house. He knew exactly why he kept updating you on his life, even when you never updated him on yours.
Michael always kept his phone nearby, hoping for that rare chance that you might call or leave him a message. He even started checking the mail himself, just in case you had sent him something.
You were the reason he grinned from ear to ear when you emailed him a funny video one afternoon. The only message attached read: “You were the only person who would laugh at this.”
On late nights, whenever you accidentally left a drunken message on his landline, sometimes rambling for nearly an hour, Michael listened to every second of it just to hear your voice. He would giggle to himself whenever you stumbled over your words, pray that you wouldn’t wake up with too terrible a headache the next morning, and wish that you were there beside him instead.
“…and rumors you on the verge of a new merge, ‘cause that rock on ya finger’s like a tumor.”
Back to the performance, however, Michael noticed that you hadn’t looked at him once all night. In fact, you seemed to be avoiding his entire section altogether.
But what frustrated him most was watching Urban move around you, hyping you up, dancing beside you like it was nothing.
You had said it yourself, Urban was simply a new artist. A collaborator. Nothing more.
But in Michael’s mind, you were still his wife.
“…and you already is a star, but unless you’re flawless, then ya dynasty ain’t complete without a chief, like me.”
That line landed differently. Because for the first time in the night you looked at him. Just for a second.
Something in Michael’s expression shifted immediately. That was the moment he knew that he had made a mistake. And he had nothing but regret for it.
You moved across the stage effortlessly. It was no surprise, you had always been a performer, a dancer at heart. Despite everything that had happened in your life, you hadn’t lost that. If anything, you sharpened it. Your movements were controlled but sensual, every step measured, every turn precise even in heels.
You avoided looking at Michael. But every so often it happened anyway. And each time you saw it, the realization in his eyes. Of what he had been missing—the woman who has been standing in front of him all along.
By the time your performance ended, Michael had already made a decision. He needed to speak to you alone.
The award show was winding down, people spilling into hallways, exits, and waiting cars. Security shifted into controlled chaos, managing crowds, fans, press, and celebrities all at once.
Michael used that as a distraction. “Excuse me, Carlton?”
Carlton turned in surprise. “Mr. Jackson! It’s been a while.”
Michael let out a small laugh. “It has, it has. Uh… I need you to do me a favor.”
Carlton immediately raised an eyebrow. “Of course, but you understand I have to get to Cleo first…”
“Yes,” Michael cut in gently. “I know. But before you do… I need you to do something for me.”
“Any words for your fans?”
“How do you feel about winning tonight?”
Outside was no easier than inside. Flashes of light cut through the night air like lightning. Voices overlapped, questions collided. You could barely see through it all.
“Keep your head down, Mrs. Jackson,” Carlton said, shielding you with a firm hand as he guided you through the crowd.
“She’s not taking any comments right now!”
You finally reached the car, slipping inside with a long breath. The door shut behind you. Silence at last. You leaned back into the seat, staring out through tinted glass as bodies pressed against the vehicle, cameras flashing nonstop. ‘I know it’s your job… but can a woman breathe? Damn.’
You reached for your seatbelt before pausing. Something felt off. You looked around. This wasn’t your car. You knew this kind of interior, but it wasn’t familiar in the way it should’ve been.
“…What the—” The leather and scent hit you all at once. You were inside Michael’s car. “Oh my God. No way.”
You leaned forward toward the partition, peering toward the front.
The driver turned slightly, smiling brightly. “Mrs. Jackson! Good to see you again!”
Your eyes narrowed. “What am I doing here? This isn’t my car.”
He shrugged casually. “I was told by your people not to let you out.”
“My people?” You turned toward the window again and your stomach dropped. There was a new wave of commotion outside, but that could only be explained because Michael Jackson was walking straight toward the car.
“Oh my God—” You immediately slid across the seat, pulling away from the door as if that alone could hide the situation.
If cameras caught this, if they saw both of you enter the same car it would make the headlines of every tabloid in the area.
The door opened followed by the explosion of noise outside. Then Michael stepped inside. The door shut behind him, sealing the two of you in silence.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. You just stared at him. Three years of distance suddenly compressed into a single breath. “Michael—”
“We need to talk,” he said immediately.
You exhaled, turning slightly toward the partition. “About what?”
He didn’t hesitate. “About us. About everything. And where we stand.”
You shrugged lightly. You didn’t know what to say. Michael watched you carefully. His gaze eventually dropped to your hands. The rings were still there and so were his.
“I want to apologize,” he said quietly. “For everything. For leaving you like that… shutting you out. It was a big life-changing decision, and I shouldn’t have pushed you away. It wasn’t fair to you.”
You still didn’t look at him.
“I could see it,” he continued. “I can see it took a toll on you. And I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me… and still love me. This wasn’t easy for me. I cried when I wrote that first letter. I couldn’t even send it myself. I had someone do it. I didn’t want to be the one to break your heart.”
Your jaw tightened slightly. “Well, you did, Michael. You made it seem like it was my fault I couldn’t give you what you wanted. Like I was the problem.”
Michael’s expression changed instantly. He reached for your hands. “No—no, that is not true. Not even close. Please don’t say that. I have never been disappointed in you. Never. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you.”
He swallowed. “I just… I tried to solve it the only way I knew how. And I see now that it wasn’t the right choice.”
A long silence stretched between you.
“It’s been three years, Mikey,” you said softly. “I’m not the same woman I was before.”
Michael leaned in slightly, like he was afraid of the distance growing again. “And I don’t want the same version of you,” he said honestly. “I want to know who you are now. I want to learn everything with you. Together.”
Your eyes finally lifted to his. “You know,” you said quietly, “when I suggested that break… I didn’t think we’d end up here.”
“I know,” he whispered. “And I’m going to make it up to you. All of it. Everything I missed.”
You searched his face. “Promise me?”
His answer came without hesitation. “Truly. I promise.”
Something in you finally gave way. You pulled him into you, arms wrapping around him tightly. Michael didn’t hesitate either. His hand cradled the back of your head gently while his other arm locked around your waist. He pressed a soft kiss to your temple.
“Do you promise not to make decisions like that again without me?” you mumbled into his shoulder.
“I promise,” he said instantly.
You pulled back just slightly meeting his eyes. Then you kissed him.
“I missed you,” you whispered.
Michael smiled against your lips. “I missed you more.”
You rolled your eyes faintly, breath shaky. “I’m sure I missed you more. I mean—honestly. Leaving me like that?” You lightly hit his shoulder. “Don’t do that again, Michael. I’m serious.”
“I won’t,” he said softly. “I won’t ever dream of it.”
You finally leaned back, glancing out at the glittering city lights sliding past the tinted windows.
“So…” you asked quietly, “where are we going?”
Michael looked at you like the answer should’ve been obvious. “To our house. Oh—and I can’t wait for you to meet the kids. They’re the most adorable little angels. They’re going to love you.”
[a/n]: bruh this is so long, and im sorry for releasing this angst on this anniversary but i had to. anyways, i hope you all enjoy! michael lives on forever 🕊️
if you want to see an alt ending, please vote here: !
