Myx ⋆.˚

The transition from deep, suffocating unconsciousness to…well, consciousness, was a slow crawl.

The first thing that registered was the pain. A dull, throb heavy ache pulsed right at the base of your skull, radiating down into your neck. When you tried to shift your weight to relieve the pressure, a sharp, biting sting flared across your lower back. Your muscles were stiff, locked up from hours of being kept in an unnatural, rigid position.

You tried to blink, but everything remained pitch black. A thick, coarse fabric was tied tightly around your head, covering your eyes and blocking out every single shred of light. You instinctively tried to bring your hands up to tear the blindfold off, but the sharp, heavy clink of metal echoed in the quiet space.

Your wrists were bound behind your back. Heavy, iron cuffs bit mercilessly into your skin, connected by a short, taut chain that allowed for absolutely zero movement.

Panic suddenly flooded your veins. You opened your mouth to scream for help, to call out to anyone who might be within earshot, but all that came out was a muffled, choked whimper. A thick cloth gag was wedged between your teeth, tied securely at the back of your head, pressing down on your tongue and rendering you completely silent.

The air around you felt entirely different from the damp, drafty quarters you were used to. It smelled of expensive things; sweet beeswax candles, fine french lavender, and the faint, distinct scent of a high grade pomade. This was an estate room. A wealthy man's room.

Footsteps echoed in the space. They were slow and entirely unhurried, the click of expensive leather boots tapping against polished hardwood floors.

The footsteps stopped right in front of you. You instinctively pulled back, your spine pressing hard against the solid wood of the chair you were bound to, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

A pair of hands gently settled onto your shoulders. The touch was incredibly soft, almost reverent, completely contrasting the brutal reality of the chains holding you down. The fingers were long and slender, tracing the line of your collarbone through the cotton of your dress with a terrifyingly familiar tenderness.

"Shh...quiet now, my sweet girl," a voice murmured.

The sound of that voice made your entire body go rigid.

Mr. Jackson.

He was the wealthiest landowner in Louisiana, a man of immense status and quiet, reclusive habits. When he had first hired you to help manage the upkeep of his massive estate's library, you thought he was the sweetest, most gentle man you had ever encountered. In a world that was unforgiving and harsh, especially to a young Black woman like yourself, Mr. Jackson had been a sanctuary. He spoke to you with a soft, soft spoken deference. He brought you imported chocolates, complimented your intelligence, and always looked at you with eyes that seemed to see right through to your soul. You thought he was a protector. You thought he was kind.

So what the absolute fuck was this?

"I know you must be frightened," Michael whispered, his breath warm against the shell of your ear as he leaned down. "I know your head hurts. The chloroform...it can be quite brutal when it wears off, and you did kinda hit your head. I truly apologize for the discomfort, my love. But you left me with absolutely no choice."

You frantically shook your head, the heavy iron chains rattling loudly as you twisted your wrists, trying to find some slack, any way to break free.

"Stop, stop...don't do that. You'll only bruise your beautiful skin," he chided softly, his tone shifting into something slightly stern, like a parent correcting a stubborn child. He reached around the back of your head, his fingers deftly working at the knot of the blindfold.

The fabric fell away, and you automatically closed your eyes against the sudden, bright light. You blinked rapidly, trying to clear the blurriness from your vision.

The room was huge, and luxurious, and dimly lit by the golden glow of a dozen beeswax candles. Heavy velvet drapes covered the tall windows, sealing the room off from the outside world entirely. And standing right in front of you, looking down with an expression of devotion, was Michael.

He was dressed immaculately, as always, a crisp, white shirt, a dark silk vest, and his hair perfectly styled in soft, gleaming curls that framed his striking features. He looked like one of those oil paintings, all calm and poised and shit, completely unbothered by the fact that he had a woman chained to a chair in his private chambers.

He knelt down in front of you, his long legs folding elegantly as he brought himself to your eye level. He reached up, his long fingers gently untying the cloth gag from your mouth.

The moment the fabric cleared your lips, you didn't hesitate. "Michael, what the fuck is wrong with you?! Let me go! Unchain me right now!"

He didn't flinch at your language or your shouting. In fact, a faint, incredibly beautiful smile touched his lips, his eyes sparkling with a terrifying sort of pride.

"You always did have such fire in you," he murmured, reaching out to gently cup your burning cheek. You tried to bite his hand, snapping your teeth at him, but he merely chuckled, pulling his fingers back just out of reach. "So beautifully fierce. It’s the very thing that made me fall so deeply in love with you."

"You're fucking insane!" you gasped out, tears of anger and frustration already spilling over your lower lashes. "My family...my brothers, they're going to come looking for me! They know I work here! They'll find me!"

Michael’s smile slowly faded, replaced by an expression of calm. He reached into his vest pocket, pulling out a monogrammed silk handkerchief, and gently wiped the tears from your cheeks.

"No, they won't," he said, his voice dropping into a tone so steady and absolute it chilled you to the bone. "Because as far as your family is concerned, you packed your bags and boarded a train back to North last night. I took the liberty of sending a letter in your handwriting, which I’ve spent months perfecting, mind you, explaining that you found a better life elsewhere and that you wished not to be contacted."

Your breath hitched, the gravity of his words crashing down on you. He had planned this. He had planned every single detail. He had killed your ex boyfriend too. Which is why you’re here; but you had to ask-

"Why?" you whispered, your voice cracking as the reality of your situation began to settle in. "Why are you doing this to me? I thought you were a good man."

"I am a good man," Michael insisted softly, his hand moving to rest over his heart, his expression entirely sincere. "I am a man who recognizes a rare, priceless treasure when he sees one. Do you truly not understand the world we live in? Out there, you are subjected to the cruelty of small minds. Out there, men like Thomas think they can diminish you. They think they can possess you or treat you like you are nothing!”

He leaned closer.

"I cannot allow them to look at you anymore," he whispered, his fingers gently tracing the shape of your jaw. "I cannot allow this wretched world to touch you, or taint you, or take you away from me. Here, in this room, you are safe. You are a queen. I will give you everything your heart desires; fine silks, the rarest books, the most exquisite foods. My love. You will never have to work another day in your life. You will never have to face the coldness of society again."

"By keeping me in chains?!" you screamed, throwing your weight forward, the iron links rattling violently. "This isn't love, Michael! This is a fucking prison!"

Michael sighed, a heavy, sorrowful sound as he stood up, smoothing down the front of his vest. He looked down at you, his eyes filled with certainty.

"It is a sanctuary, my love," he corrected gently, walking over to a small table and pouring a glass of dark red wine. "And the chains are only temporary. Only until you realize that your place is by my side. Until you accept that we belong to one another, completely and eternally."

He walked back over, setting the glass down on a nearby stand before bending down to press a soft, lingering kiss directly to your forehead. The warmth of his lips made your skin crawl.

"Get some rest, my sweet girl," Michael murmured, picking up the glass before turning on his heel and walking toward the door. "I’ll return in the morning with breakfast. We have the rest of our lives to get used to this."

His movement died for a second.

“Oh, and please be quiet.” The heavy door clicked shut, the sound of the deadbolt sliding into place echoing through the silent room like a gunshot.

You didn't care about his warnings, his wealth, or his twisted version of romance. You opened your mouth and let out a blood curdling scream that tore right from the depths of your throat.

"HELP! SOMEBODY HELP ME! MICHAEL, LET ME THE FUCK OUT OF HERE RIGHT FUCKING NOW!!"

You screamed until the veins in your neck bulged. You screamed until your throat felt like it was coated in sandpaper. You thrashed against the chair, violently jerking your arms forward, ignoring the way the heavy cuffs tore into your wrists, drawing thin lines of heat across your skin. You screamed for hours. You lost track of time in that windowless, candlelit purgatory, but you kept going, hoping to God that a maid, a stable boy, anybody passing by the estate might hear you.

But you weren't dealing with a normal man. Michael had picked this room specifically. The walls were thick, and the only person close enough to hear you was the very man who put you there.

Suddenly, the heavy lock clicked again.

The door swung open with a harsh bang, and Michael stepped into the room. The elegant, pristine gentleman from earlier was gone. Now, he was dressed in his nighttime attire; some silk, dark blue matching pajamas with white piping down the chest. His hair was slightly disheveled, a few loose curls falling wildly over his forehead, and his jaw was set in a tight line.

He moved across the room so fucking fast, though his feet made absolutely no sound against the floor. Before you could even inhale to let out another shriek, his hand shot forward, his long fingers clamping over your jaw with a bruising force that forced your mouth wide open.

"I asked you to be quiet," he hissed, his usual soft voice replaced by a dark rasp that made your stomach drop.

He pulled out a thick linen rag from his pocket. He stuffed it into your mouth, using his thumb to shove it deep behind your teeth, filling your mouth entirely until you choked, your eyes watering as your gag reflex kicked in. He didn't care that you were making muffled, suffocating noises; he pulled the outer binding around your lips and cranked it tight, tying the knot at the back of your head with a sudden jerk.

The fabric dug mercilessly into the corners of your mouth, stretching your lips to the point of cracking, pinching the sensitive skin until a sharp, throbbing pain flared through your entire face. It hurt like a bitch to say the least.

The moment the knot was secure, the anger in Michael’s eyes instantly vanished, melting back into that terrifying, soft spoken remorse. He dropped to his knees in front of you, his long hands immediately cradling your face, his touch suddenly trembling and gentle.

"God, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, my love," he whispered, his eyes looking up at you with genuine tears welling in them. He used his thumb to softly wipe away the tears streaming down your cheeks, completely unbothered by how hard you were glaring at him. "I didn't want to do that. I truly didn't. But you're going to ruin your beautiful voice, and the servants...I cannot risk them getting annoyed by you. Please, forgive me. Just sleep. Please, just rest."

He stood up, looking down at you with a heartbroken expression, before turning on his heel and leaving you in the dim room.

The next morning arrived, though you couldn't tell. In that sealed off room, time was an illusion. The candles had eventually burned down to mere stubs. Your jaw was completely locked in a dull, throbbing ache from the tight gag, and your throat felt swollen in a way.

The door unlocked, and Michael walked in. He was dressed for the day again; a fresh white shirt and dark trousers, looking refreshed, like he hadn't brutally silenced you a few hours prior.

In his hands, he carried a silver basin filled with steaming hot water, a clean cloth resting over his shoulder, and a small ivory toothbrush along with a cup of mint infused water. He set the basin down on the side table and approached you with a warm, cheerful smile, as if this were just a normal morning routine between a husband and wife.

"Good morning, my beautiful girl," he murmured softly.

He knelt down and reached behind your head, gently untying the gag. The moment the fabric came out, your jaw involuntarily clicked, a sharp pain shooting up to your ears. You couldn't even scream if you wanted to; your mouth was so dry your tongue felt stuck to the roof of your mouth. You instantly spat a bit of saliva onto the floor, glaring daggers at him.

"Let's get you cleaned up," he said, completely ignoring your hostility.

He dipped the clean cloth into the warm water, wringing it out thoroughly. He reached up, his hand steady as he began to gently wipe your face. He was meticulous, carefully cleaning away the dried tear tracks from the night before, washing your forehead, your cheeks, and gently dabbing at the raw, pinched corners of your mouth. The warm water felt good against your aching skin, but the intimacy of it made your skin crawl. You twisted your face away from his hand.

Michael’s hand paused. He didn't get angry. He just firmly but gently grabbed your chin, forcing your face back toward him.

"Hold still, let me care for you," he whispered.

Once your face was clean, he picked up the ivory toothbrush and the cup. "Open up, sweet girl. Let's brush those pretty teeth."

"Get away from me," you croaked, your voice barely a raspy whisper. "I can do it myself. Unchain my hands."

Michael let out a soft, amused chuckle, tilting his head. "Now, you know I can't do that just yet. Come now, don't be stubborn."

When you kept your lips pressed tightly together, Michael’s expression shifted. The warm, cheerful smile vanished, replaced by a calm, chilling neutrality. He set the toothbrush down and leaned in incredibly close, his big ass eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made the breath catch in your dry throat.

He reached out, his long fingers gently trailing down your neck, his thumb resting right over your pulse point, feeling the frantic, rapid beat of your heart.

"You know, my love..." Michael began, his voice a low purr, delivering the threat in the sweetest, most polite tone imaginable. "I want nothing more than to treat you like the lady you are. I want to feed you from silver platters, buy you the finest gowns, and love you until the end of days. But if you choose to make this difficult...if you refuse to let me care for you, or if you ever scream like you did last night again...I will be forced to ensure you can never speak at all."

He smiled, a gentle, beautiful smile that didn't reach his cold eyes.

"And I would truly hate to have a doctor remove that lovely little tongue of yours just to keep our secret safe," he murmured, his thumb lightly pressing against your throat just enough to make you swallow hard. "We don't want that, do we? We want to be happy here. Together."

He pulled his hand back, picking the toothbrush back up and holding it out, his expression instantly flipping back to warm and inviting.

"Now...open up for me, please."

Defeated, exhausted, and utterly terrified by the casual malice hidden behind his sweet words, you slowly opened your mouth. Michael smiled brightly, leaning forward to gently brush your teeth, treating you like a porcelain doll he had every intention of keeping broken in his cage forever.

He didn’t rush the process. He spent another few minutes carefully rinsing your mouth, holding the silver cup of water to your raw lips, patiently waiting as you sipped and spat into the basin. When he was finally satisfied that you were completely clean, he patted your face dry with a fresh velvet towel, his movements so delicate you could almost forget the heavy iron cuffs still eating into your wrists behind your back. Almost.

He stood up, towering over you, smoothing down the front of his white shirt.

"There now," he murmured. "Much better. A beautiful girl should always start her morning feeling fresh."

He walked over to the table, setting the silver basin down. He rested his long, slender fingers on the edge of the wood, tilting his head back to look at you over his shoulder.

"Now that we've taken care of that, we need to get some food into your system. You burned a great deal of energy last night with all that fuss," he said, his tone carrying a light, almost teasing amusement that made your blood boil. "What is it you want to eat, my love? Name anything your heart desires, and I’ll have the kitchen prepare it immediately."

You stared at him, your eyes burning with a mixture of exhaustion and deep hatred. Your jaw was still throbbing from the hours it had spent stretched around that fuckass rag, and your throat felt like it was lined with broken glass.

You swallowed hard, trying to summon enough moisture to speak.

"Porridge," you croaked out, your voice barely a faint, raspy whisper that carried no further than a few inches in front of your face. "And some tea. With honey."

Michael stayed perfectly still by the table. He didn't blink. He just stared at you, his pretty eyes hooding slightly as his face flattened into a calm, unbothered neutrality. The playful warmth from a moment ago vanished, replaced with something else entirely.

"Speak up," he commanded softly. His voice wasn't raised, but it carried a dangerous edge. "You know I dislike it when you mumble. Raise your voice and ask me properly."

You felt a hot flash of anger tear through your chest, momentarily burning away the fear. You glared at him, pouring every single ounce of your disgust into the look, wishing your eyes could strike him dead where he stood, because you didn't know shit! He was the one who had jammed a gag down your throat until you choked; he was the one who had ruined your voice, and now he was standing there playing the grand master of the house, demanding politeness.

You took a ragged, heavy breath, your chest heaving against the tight constraints of your dress.

"I WANT PORRIDGE!" you snapped, your voice cracking violently on the words, the raw friction in your throat making you wince. "AND HOT TEA WITH HONEY, MICHAEL! IS THAT LOUD ENOUGH FOR YOU!?"

Instead of getting angry at your outburst, Michael’s expression instantly broke into a wide, brilliant smile. The sudden shift was dizzying, making your head hurt like crazy. He let out a soft laugh, his white teeth gleaming as he walked back over to you.

"Perfect," he whispered, leaning down to pinch your cheek gently, ignoring the way you tried to jerk away from his touch. "See? I know that beautiful voice is still in there. You just have to use it for the right things."

He gathered the silver basin, the toothbrush, and the rags, balancing them all in one hand with the effortless grace of a man born to luxury. He walked over to the heavy door, unlocking it. He stepped out into the hallway, turning back to give you one last, lingering look.

"I shall return shortly, my sweet girl. Don't go anywhere," he joked softly, before closing the door and sliding the heavy deadbolt back into place.

True to his word, it took about thirty minutes. Thirty agonizingly long, silent minutes where you sat alone, staring at the closed door, the reality of your absolute captivity sinking deeper into your bones. Your back was screaming from the rigid wooden chair, and your wrists were throbbing where the iron cuffs had chafed against your skin.

The door opened again.

Michael stepped back into the room, carrying a heavy, polished silver tray. The aroma hit your nose instantly, making your stomach do an involuntary, painful flip. He had brought exactly what you asked for. A bowl of thick, steaming porridge swirled with brown sugar and cream, a teacup filled with dark tea, and a small crystal jar of pure honey.

He set the tray down on the small table right beside your chair. He pulled up a cushioned stool, smoothing his trousers as he sat directly in front of you.

He picked up the silver spoon, ladling a small, perfect portion of the warm porridge. He blew on it gently before holding it up to your lips.

You didn't open your mouth. You just stared at the steaming food, a sudden spike of paranoia freezing you in place.

"Come now," Michael said softly, his voice dripping with patience. "It's getting cold. Take a bite."

You lifted your gaze from the spoon, locking your eyes directly onto his calm ones.

"Did you poison it?" you whispered, your voice still cracked and fragile.

Michael stopped. The spoon remained suspended in the air between you two. The warm, doting expression on his face slowly melted away, replaced by a heavy, unreadable look. His eyes narrowed just a fraction, a flash of offense flickering in the dark depths of his pupils. It was the look of a man who prided himself on his absolute, twisted devotion, a man who genuinely believed he was saving you, not harming you.

"Poison you?" he repeated, his voice dropping into a low, terrifyingly quiet tone that made the hairs on your arms stand up. He slowly lowered the spoon back into the bowl, never breaking eye contact. "After everything I have done to ensure your safety?"

He leaned forward, his face coming so close you could see the amber flecks in his eyes, the gravity of his obsession radiating off him like heat.

"If I wanted you dead, my love, I would have left you out in that wretched world to be torn apart by the wolves," he whispered, his fingers reaching up to slowly trace the line of your lower lip. "I do not want to destroy you. I want to keep you. Forever. Now...open your mouth and eat the food I had prepared for you."

Your lower lip trembled beneath the pressure of his finger. The smell of the brown sugar and cream was torturing your empty stomach, but his eyes was what truly forced your hand.

Slowly, reluctantly, you opened your mouth.

Michael’s expression instantly softened, a tiny, satisfied smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he slid the spoon into your mouth. The warm porridge was thick and sweet, coating your raw, scratched throat and providing an immediate, desperate relief to your empty stomach. You swallowed hard, the warmth spreading through your chest, though the food tasted like ash in your mouth because of who was feeding it to you.

"There," Michael murmured, his voice dropping back into that gentle, doting purr as he scooped another perfect spoonful. "There's my good girl. See? I told you it wasn't poisoned. I only want to make sure you're strong."

He fed you slowly. Every time you finished a bite, he would take a white silk handkerchief and gently dab at the corner of your mouth, ensuring not a single drop of cream marred your skin. He followed the porridge with small, careful sips of the hot honey tea, holding the delicate porcelain cup to your lips like you were a fragile glass doll that would shatter if he handled you too roughly. You hated every second of it. You hated how dependent you were on his hands just to survive, but you ate every bite, knowing you needed your strength if you were ever going to find a way out of this nightmare.

When the bowl was completely empty, Michael set the tray back down on the table. He stood up, stretching his long legs, and looked down at you with his hands resting casually on his hips. His eyes scanned your rigid posture, taking in the way your shoulders slumped from the exhaustion of being chained upright for nearly twenty four hours.

"You must be terribly uncomfortable in that chair," he said, his voice laced with a sudden, deep empathy that felt entirely misplaced given the situation. He walked around to the back of the chair, his shoes clicking softly against the floor, and placed his large hands on your shoulders. "Your back must be aching fiercely. And these irons...they're so hard against your skin, aren't they?"

You stayed perfectly still, your heart starting to pick up its pace again. "Yes," you whispered, your voice still cracked.

Michael leaned down, his soft curls brushing against your cheek as he whispered into your ear from behind. "I have a beautiful room upstairs, my love. A room with massive windows that look out over the gardens, though they're locked tight, of course. It has the softest feather mattress you've ever felt, nice sheets. A crackling fireplace to keep you warm. I would love nothing more than to take you up there, to unlock these heavy chains from your wrists, and let you rest like a queen."

He paused, his hands sliding down your arms, his fingers lightly tracing the edges of the cuffs.

"But that privileges requires absolute trust," he murmured. "It requires you to promise me that you are going to cooperate. That you are going to be good for me. No more screaming. No more fighting. Just peace. If you can do that, I will take you out of this dark room right now. What do you say?"

A desperate wave of hope and calculation rushed through your mind. A room with a bed. A room without chains. If you could just get him to untie your hands, you’d have a chance. You could look for a weapon, a weak point in the windows, anything.

You didn't want to look at him, but you needed to convince him. You quickly nodded your head, jerking it up and down to show your agreement.

Michael didn't move. He didn't reach for the keys in his pocket. Instead, the silence in the room stretched out, growing heavy and suffocating. You could feel his gaze burning into the side of your face.

"No," Michael said softly, his voice dropping into a stern, chilling tone. He walked back around the chair, stepping directly into your line of sight. He looked down at you, his features flat, his jaw set. "Use your words, my love. You know a simple nod isn't enough for something this important. I need to hear it from those beautiful lips. Tell me."

You glared up at him, your chest heaving as the humiliation burned in your gut. He was playing with you, forcing you to beg for basic human comfort, demanding complete submission before he'd even think about easing your pain. You swallowed the lump of pride in your throat, your voice cracking as you forced the words out into the quiet room.

"I'll be good," you rasped, the words tasting like poison on your tongue. "I'll cooperate, Michael. Please...just take the chains off."

Michael stared at you for a long beat, searching your eyes for any sign of deceit. For a second, you thought he was going to refuse, that he was going to see right through your lie. But then, a breathtaking smile broke across his face, transforming him back into the sweet, gentle man you thought you knew.

"Beautiful," he whispered, reaching into his vest pocket and pulling out a heavy iron key. "That is exactly what I wanted to hear."

The heavy iron key slid into the locks of the cuffs and the moment the metal parted from your skin, a rush of cold air hit your raw, bruised wrists. You instinctively tried to bring your hands forward to rub at the deep, red indentations, but your muscles were so stiff and locked up from hours of tension that they barely moved. You let out a soft, involuntary whimper of pain, your shoulders slumping forward in exhaustion.

Before your feet could even ground the cold floor, his long arms slid beneath you; one supporting your aching back, the other hooking securely under your knees. He lifted you out of that wooden chair effortlessly, pulling your body against his chest.

He smelled so clean.

"Shhh, I got you, sweet girl," he whispered, his voice vibrating right against your ribs as he turned toward the door.

You didn't have the strength to fight him, so you let your head rest heavily against his shoulder, your eyes wide as the door swung open and he carried you out of the dark.

You had worked in his estate library for months, but you had never actually been inside the residential wing of his house. The scale of it was overwhelming. As Michael carried you down the expansive, high ceilinged hallways, your eyes darted to every corner, trying to map out the layout, trying to find anything you could use to your advantage later.

It was nice. Ridiculously nice. And absolutely massive.

The floors were a gleaming, polished marble that reflected the light from the windows. Huge chandeliers hung above, their crystal teardrops catching the sun. As Michael walked with steady, unhurried steps, you caught sight of massive, heavy double doors made of dark oak, leading into rooms that looked big enough to house an entire family.

But the most terrifying part wasn't the size of the house; it was the people.

As you passed through the grand foyer, you saw servants. Lots of them. A maid in a crisp white apron was meticulously dusting a grandfather clock; a butler stood near the formal dining room entrance; two footmen were carrying a heavy trunk down a distant hall.

Your heart leaped into your throat. People. Real people.

You opened your mouth, a desperate impulse to scream, to yell for help, rising up in your chest. But before a single sound could leave your throat, Michael’s grip on your waist tightened just enough to be a warning. He didn't look down at you, but his jaw clenched. The servants didn't even look up. As Michael carried you past them, they simply bowed their heads, completely ignoring the fact that their master was carrying a disheveled, traumatized woman through the halls. They were entirely conditioned to mind their business. The realization hit you like a physical blow: nobody in this house was going to save you. They belonged to him.

Michael carried you up a massive, winding grand staircase, his breathing perfectly steady, as if you weighed nothing at all. He turned down a long hallway where the walls were lined with expensive oil paintings, finally stopping in front of a pair of towering double doors at the very end of the hall.

He pushed one open with his shoulder and stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him.

The bedroom was exactly how he had described it, but seeing it in the light made it feel even more like a beautiful cage. Though the massive windows lined the far wall, letting in streams of bright afternoon sunlight, offering a beautiful view of the sprawling green gardens below, was what really caught your attention. You looked at them almost hungrily, but you could see the iron latches built into the frames. They were locked tight from the inside. No key, no escape.

Michael walked over to the bed and slowly, gently lowered you onto the mattress.

The softness of the featherbed felt incredible against your aching back, a big difference to the wooden chair you’d been trapped in for hours. You practically sank into the layers of cotton, your legs trembling slightly as the tension finally began to drain from your muscles.

Michael didn't immediately move away. He stayed kneeling on the edge of the mattress, his face close to yours as his eyes searched your face. He reached out, his long, slender fingers gently brushing a stray curl away from your forehead, his touch warm and terrifyingly tender.

"There now," he murmured. "When you use your words, and when you're good for me, I will give you the world, my sweet girl. You're safe up here. You're home."

You swallowed the dryness in your throat, forcing your expression to soften, making your eyes look as tired and small as possible.

"Michael..." you whispered, your voice cracking slightly from the rawness. "Can you...can you please back up? Just get out of my face for a little bit. Please."

For a fraction of a second, his fingers stilled against your cheek. Your heart did a violent flip against your ribs, wondering if you’d pushed too hard, if the "please" hadn't been enough to mask the rejection. But then, Michael’s lips curved into a tiny, indulgent smile. He took it lightly, letting out a soft, amused huff through his nose as he lifted his hands in a gesture of mock surrender.

"All right, all right," he murmured, his voice laced with that gentle shit. He slid off the edge of the high mattress, stepping back a few paces until there was a comfortable distance between you. He smoothed down the front of his dark vest, looking at you like an indulgent guardian dealing with a tired child. "I can give you some space. You've had a very long, trying night, my love. I understand."

You let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding, your shoulders sinking further into the plush velvet pillows of the canopy bed. Your eyes immediately darted past his hip, tracking the layout of the room again. The fire popped in the hearth, throwing warm orange light across the room, but the size of the space just made you feel smaller.

Michael crossed his arms, leaning his hip casually against one of the bedposts. He studied you, his eyes never truly losing that sharp, calculating look even when his posture was relaxed.

"Now that you're comfortable," he began. "Is there anything else you need? Anything at all to make you feel more at home up here?"

You looked up at him, the bitter truth slipping to the tip of your tongue before you could stop it. "I want to leave."

Michael didn't get angry. He just tilted his head, a faint, almost pitying smile touching the corners of his lips. He let out a soft sigh, shook his head gently, and tapped his long fingers against the wooden post. "Well...other than that, sweet girl. You know we've already discussed that. This is your home now. Think of something realistic."

You clenched your jaw inside your mouth, hiding your fury behind a blank face. You knew better than to argue about your freedom right now. You needed to focus on the immediate necessities; getting clean, getting out of this dress, and finding a way to feel human again.

"I want to take a shower," you said, making sure to keep your voice steady, and perfectly polite so he wouldn't find an excuse to check your attitude. "And I need some clean clothes. Please."

The word please felt like sandpaper on your tongue, but it worked like magic on him. Michael’s smile widened, his eyes crinkling at the corners with genuine delight. Hearing you ask him nicely, using your words exactly the way he wanted, was clearly feeding into the sick, domestic fantasy he had built up in his head.

"A bath," he corrected gently, pointing toward a heavy, arched door on the left side of the bedroom that you hadn't noticed before. "There is a beautiful clawfoot tub in the adjoining washroom. The water is drawn from the local springs and heated daily. And as for clothes..." he pressed his tongue against his cheek before he walked over to a massive, beautifully carved wardrobe that stood against the far wall. He pulled the heavy double doors open, revealing rows upon rows of silk, velvet, and fine cotton dresses, all tailored in rich, deep colors. Your stomach dropped as you stared at the full wardrobe.

"I had these brought in weeks ago," Michael murmured, his fingers lovingly brushing against the sleeve of a soft cotton day dress. "I chose the fabrics myself. I knew they would look absolutely exquisite against your beautiful skin."

He pulled the dress from the wardrobe, along with a set of fresh undergarments, and draped them carefully over his arm. He walked back over to the bed, setting the clean clothes down at the very foot of the mattress, far enough away that he wouldn't be invading your space again.

"I will have the maids bring up fresh linens and ensure the water is perfectly warm for you," Michael said, his voice dropping into a low promise as he backed toward the bedroom doors. He paused at the exit, his hand resting on the brass handle, giving you one last, long look. "Take your time, my love. Wash away the stress of yesterday. I’ll be waiting right outside when you're done."

You merely nodded. The moment the door clicked shut behind him, the tension left your shoulders, and you finally allowed yourself to breathe.

Michael leaned his back against the double doors of the bedchamber, the soft click of the brass lock signaling that you were safely enclosed within your new room. He let out a slow, measured breath, the tension finally draining from his own shoulders.

He stood there for a long moment, listening to the faint, hesitant rustle of the mattress springs inside as you finally shifted your aching body. A wave of relief washed over him. You were upstairs. You were in a bed. You had used your words, you had eaten his food, and you had looked at him with those beautiful eyes without screaming.

A passing housemaid, carrying a stack of fresh fabrics, froze a few paces down the hallway, her head immediately bowing.

"Madison," Michael called out. "The young lady requires a warm bath. Ensure the pipes are clear and the water is heated to a comfortable temperature. Fetch the jasmine oils from the pantry. When she is finished, leave her be. No one is to disturb her but me."

"Yes, Mr. Jackson," the maid murmured.

"If she attempts to speak to you," Michael added, his voice remaining impossibly sweet, "you will nod, complete your work, and exit. Should I find out that you engaged in unnecessary conversation...well. I'm sure I don't need to remind you of the generous salary I pay your family."

"No, sir. Not a word, sir," the girl whispered, her face pale as she curtsied and hurried off toward the servants' stairs.

With his orders given, Michael turned and walked down the grand corridor, his shoes clicking against the polished floor. He bypassed the grand staircase and headed straight for his private study at the eastern wing of the mansion. He unlocked the door, stepped inside, and locked it securely behind him, needing the absolute solace of the room to finally sort through the chaotic rhythm of his own heart.

He walked over to his grand desk, pouring two fingers of whiskey into a crystal glass. His hand trembled slightly as he lifted the glass to his lips.

He took a slow, burning swallow, staring out the window, rubbing a long hand over his face.

He hadn't meant for it to get out of hand like this. He truly hadn't. In his mind, he was a gentleman; a man of high status, refinement, and immense gentleness. He had never envisioned himself dragging the woman he worshipped down into a dark, candlelit cellar, chaining her wrists to a wooden chair, or jamming a linen gag into her mouth until she choked on her own cries. The memory of your frantic, muffled whimpers from the night before flashed in his mind, making his chest tighten with a sharp pang of genuine remorse. He had hated hurting you. He had hated the terror in your eyes.

But you had left him with absolutely no choice. You were going to ruin everything. You were going to destroy the beautiful future he had meticulously built for the two of you.

He leaned back and sat down in his chair, his eyes tracking the flickering flames of the small hearth in his study, and let his mind drift back to where it all began. Months ago. Before the chains. Before everything.

It had started off as a little crush. Or, at least, that’s what he tried to tell himself initially.

You were new to town. You stood in the doorway holding a worn satchel, a little bit lost, wiping a stray bead of sweat from your forehead. Your skin practically glowed against the soft afternoon light filtering through the stained glass windows. You were wearing a simple, modest dress, but the way you carried yourself instantly rooted him to his chair.

In Michael’s mind, it was love at first sight. He liked to tell himself that the universe had finally taken pity on his lonely, wealthy existence and delivered his breath of life straight to his doorstep.

You had come looking for a job. You explained, with a voice so sweet it made his pulse stutter, that you had just arrived in the city, that you were literate, good with numbers, and needed employment to secure a small room in the French Quarter.

He didn't even care about your qualifications. He would have handed you the keys to the entire estate that very second just to ensure you returned the next morning. He hired you on the spot as his assistant cataloguer.

During those first few months, Michael was the very picture of sweetness and devotion. He found every excuse to abandon his business ledgers just to sit in the library with you. He would stand on the rolling ladders, pulling down heavy, leather bound texts, his soft voice filling the quiet air as he explained the history of the pages. He brought you little gifts; imported chocolates from France, rare teas, fine charcoal pencils for your cataloging notes. He loved the way your face would light up, the way your voice would lose its guarded edge whenever you thanked him.

The turning point had come during a late autumn evening, right at closing time.

You were reaching up to place a heavy encyclopedia back onto a high shelf, your stretching frame caught in the amber glow of the oil lamps. Michael had stepped up behind you, his hand gently covering yours on the spine of the book to help you slide it into place. You mumbled a thank you but when you turned around, you were trapped between his chest and the shelves. He remembered the way your breath caught in your throat. The way you said his name.

"Mr. Jackson..." you had whispered.

"Michael," he corrected softly, his eyes searching yours. "Call me Michael."

He had looked down at your lips, his heart hammering, before leaning down and pressing his mouth to yours.

It wasn't a demanding kiss; it was incredibly gentle, reverent, and slow only because it was supposed to be a gentle taste, a tentative brush of his mouth against yours. And to his surprise, you had kissed him back and it was filled with months of suppressed longing. The shock of the pleasure had caused an involuntary, soft moan to escape the back of your throat; a sound so sweet, so intoxicating, that it had sent a jolt of possession straight through Michael's veins. He handled you like glass, pulling you closer, his hands sliding up to frame your pretty face as his lips moved down to taste the soft, warm skin of your neck. He wanted to hear that sound again. He wanted to make you make that sound for the rest of his life.

But the moment his lips brushed your pulse point, you had stiffened a bit, your hands pushing gently but firmly against his chest.

Michael had pulled back instantly, his eyes wide, almost identical to a deer, a rush of panic flooding his chest. "I...I apologize," he had whispered, his voice trembling slightly as he adjusted his collar. "Have I misread the signs? Please, forgive me if I have crossed a boundary."

"No, no..." You had swallowed hard, looking at the floor as you tried to smooth down your dress. "It’s...it’s not you, Mr. Jackson. I’m sorry. I just...I recently got out of a relationship. A very bad one. Back north. I just...simply don't want to...I came to new orleans to start over. I apologize for leading you on..."

Michael had immediately melted, taking your hands in his and pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles. "There is absolutely nothing for you to apologize about," he had murmured, his voice a soothing tone. "You did not lead me on. I pushed too fast, and I am deeply sorry for causing you distress."

He smiled, a sweet, reassuring smile that made him look like an absolute angel. "We will go at your pace, sweet girl. Always at your pace. I am just grateful to have you near me."

But words had haunted him. A very bad one.

Behind his gentle smile, a protective instinct had taken root.

It was as though something had awoken inside Michael. He couldn't sleep. The mere thought of someone causing you pain, of someone making you look so broken and feel so fearful, made his blood run cold with fury. He needed to know who did it. He needed to know everything.

The opportunity arose a few weeks later, you had trusted him enough to invite him over to your small apartment in the city for tea. It was supposed to be a friendly visit, but while you were in the kitchen preparing the kettle, Michael sat in your small parlor. His eyes wandered over your meager belongings; the small vase of dried flowers, your hand stitched curtains, your books. Then, his eyes fell upon a small, locked wooden jewelry box sitting on your vanity in the bedroom.

He stood up, glided silently into your bedroom, looking around a bit, patting his pockets before he found a small random paperclip to pick the lock.

He simply needed to know who had dared to dim your light.

Inside, beneath a few silver trinkets, he found a stack of old letters tied with a frayed blue ribbon. He opened them quickly, his eyes scanning the aggressive, cruel handwriting.

Thomas Dunkonu.

Michael had stared at the name, a sneer curling his lips. Thomas Dunkonu? What a ridiculously, dumb name.

As Michael read through the letters, his blood turned to pure ice. Thomas hadn't just broken your heart– he had abused you. The letters contained horrific threats, cruel insults, and vile references to the physical bruises he had left on your beautiful skin before you managed to escape him in the dead of night.

Michael stood in your bedroom, holding those letters, his body trembling with a sudden rage. A dark, terrifying switch flipped deep inside his psyche. How dare this dirt born pig lay a hand on his angel? How dare any man touch the woman destined to be Michael’s queen?

He put the letters back, closed the box, and walked back out to the parlor just as you walked in with the tea tray. He smiled warmly at you, took his cup, and drank his tea, chatting pleasantly about the weather.

Two days later, Michael took a private train to New York.

He didn't hire anyone. Michael made sure he was the one to do it alone.

He tracked Thomas Dunkonu down to a filthy, low end tavern near the docks. He watched the man for three days, learning his routine, watching him drink himself into a stupor every single night, listening to him brag to his foul friends about the women he had broken.

On the third night, it was raining. Thomas staggered out of the back door of the tavern, reeking of cheap liquor, humming a tune as he stumbled down a pitch black alleyway.

A tall figure stepped out from the shadows, blocking his path.

"Get out the way," Thomas growled, slurring his words, reaching for something in his coat.

Michael stepped into the light of a gas lamp. He was dressed to impress, even if he was going to kill a man. In his hand, he held a heavy, iron headed cane.

Before Thomas could even raise his blade, Michael moved and the head of the cane struck Thomas directly in the knee. The sound of bone shattering echoed loudly in the alley, drowned out only by Thomas’s blood curdling scream as he collapsed onto the muddy cobblestones, clutching his shattered leg.

"Shut up," Michael whispered, his voice dangerously calm, almost clinical. “Why must you yell?”

He stepped forward, bringing the cane down onto Thomas’s hand, the hand that had hit you, the hand that had bruised your skin. Thomas let out a choked, wet gurgle of pain, and tears and rain mixing on his filthy face.

Michael leaned down, grabbing Thomas by his greasy collar, dragging his heavy body deeper into the dark, abandoned warehouse at the end of the alley. He threw him onto the dirt floor, locking the heavy sliding doors behind them.

For the next two hours, Michael took his time.

He pulled up a wooden crate, sat down, and slowly destroyed the man who had hurt you. He used a sharp, thin doctor's scalpel he’d brought, cutting into Thomas’s skin like he was a surgeon, asking him endless questions about you.

"Did you touch her cheek with this hand?" Michael would ask softly, his dark eyes wide and unblinking in the lantern light, before driving a needle under Thomas’s fingernails. "Did you speak to her with these lips?"

Thomas wept, and he begged, and he whimpered, vomiting onto the dirt floor, pleading for mercy from a man who possessed absolutely none.

"She is an angel," Michael whispered, kneeling over the dying man, his face inches from Thomas’s swollen, bloody features. "And you are a rat. You never deserved to breathe the same air as her."

Michael finished it by pressing his leather gloved hands over Thomas’s mouth and nose, watching the light slowly fade from the man’s terrified eyes, holding him tight until his body went entirely limp. He disposed of the body in the dark, churning waters of the Hudson River, packing his bags and catching the early morning train back to Louisiana.

He felt no remorse. He felt only a profound satisfaction. He had cleansed your past.

But it didn't stop with Thomas.

Once Michael had smelt the blood of a man who crossed you, his obsession mutated into something completely unhinged. The world became a landmine of potential threats to your purity.

There was the young fruit vendor at the French Market who made a flirtatious comment about your smile when you bought peaches, he disappeared three days later, his body found floating in the bayou miles away.

There was the wealthy cotton merchant who tried to press his hand against your waist when you were delivering a stack of books to his carriage; Michael ensured his carriage suffered a "tragic accident" on the steep road outside town, breaking the man's neck.

Even a local woman, a bitter socialite who had whispered a racist slur under her breath when you walked past her on the sidewalk, found her home burning to the ground in the middle of the night.

Michael became a silent, invisible grim reaper hovering over your life, slaughtering anyone who dared to look at you or wrong you, or hurt you, or disrespect you. In his mind, he was your guardian angel. He was keeping you pure, and keeping you safe, and unblemished by a cruel world.

But then...you found out.

It was a terrible, tragic coincidence. You had gone to Michael’s private desk in the library to fetch a ledger, and you stumbled upon a hidden compartment. Inside, Michael had kept trophies– Thomas’s pocket watch, the fruit vendor's silver ring, a newspaper clipping detailing the cotton merchant's death, along with pages and pages of journal entries where Michael detailed every single murder, every single stalker like detail of your daily life.

You had read it with horror dawning on your face. You realized the sweet, gentle Mr. Jackson was a mass murdering, obsessive monster.

Panicked, crying, and terrified for your life, you had grabbed the evidence, intending to run straight to the constable's office in town to report him. You ran out the back door of the library into the pouring rain.

Michael had seen you from his upper window.

He didn’t panic. He simply walked down the stairs, taking a secret path, intercepting you in the dark, muddy garden behind the estate.

"Where are you going, my love?" he had asked, stepping out of the dark trees, his voice dripping with that terrifying, sweet calm.

"Get away from me!" you had screamed, sobbing, holding the newspaper clipping against your chest. "You're a monster! You killed them! You killed Thomas! I'm going to the police! I'm going to tell everyone what you are!"

Michael had looked at you with a expression of deep, profound sadness.

"I did it for you," he whispered. "I did it all to protect you."

He shifted the moment you tried to slip past him. His hand shot out, iron grip fingers wrapping hard around your arm to yank you back, all of the evidence slipping from your fingers to scatter across the slick, rain soaked earth. You fought him, your nails tearing deep across his cheek, a sharp shriek tearing from your throat. The sudden violent struggle unbalanced both of you. You stumbled hard into him.

Down you went together into the mud, your limbs tangled, your kicks and thrashes eager as you tried to pin him beneath the weight of the fall. He cursed, his knee pinning your hip into the wet grass while he shoved you back down, your head slamming against the ground. Breathing hard, his face stinging from the bloody welt on his cheek, his free hand plunged into his deep coat pocket, fingers closing around a soaked cotton rag and the small, pungent vial he kept ready for emergencies.

You wrench your head away, twisting violently through the mud, managing to break his grip for one fraction of a second. You scrambled up on all fours, slipping in the wet dirt, lunging toward the trees. He launching himself through the air to tackle your shoulders right before you reached…freedom.

As you twisted around to scream again, he slammed his weight against you and put the rag over your mouth and nose. The sweet, suffocating reek of chloroform hit the back of your throat before you could draw breath to yell. You bucked and pounded your fists against his chest, but the heavy, sweet chemical poured into your senses, dissolving the strength from your limbs until the frantic thrashing slowed to a dull shudder, and the wet grass blurred out of view.

He had carried you down to the dark room in his basement, chained you to that wooden chair, and sat beside you in the dark for hours, weeping as he kissed your forehead, begging you to wake up so he could explain to you why you had to stay with him forever.

Now, in the quiet study, Michael snapped out of his memory. God, how long has it been?

He finished the last drop of whiskey in his glass, setting the glass down on his desk.

He walked over to the mirror hanging near the door, smoothing down his hair, fixing his collar, making sure he looked like the handsome, gentle gentleman you had once trusted. A soft smile returned to his face.

She's taking her bath now, he thought, his heart fluttering with excitement.

He unlocked the doors of his study and glided back down the hallway toward the master suite. He stopped outside the doors, listening intently. He could hear the soft, rhythmic splashing of warm water coming from the washroom inside.

Michael smiled, leaning his head against the wood, closing his eyes.

"Take all the time you need, my sweet girl,"

The air inside the recording studio at Hayvenhurst was thick with the scent of cheap cologne, stale coffee, and the humid, heavy California heat of July 1976. 

Outside, the world was shifting beneath the Jackson family’s feet. The ink on the Epic Records contract was dry, the news had hit the trades, and the split was final: Joseph had moved the boys to CBS, rebranding them as The Jacksons, and left Motown in the dust. 

Inside, however, the silence was deafening. 

You sat on the edge of the crushed-velvet sofa in the corner of the control room, a legal pad balanced on your knees. As the family’s head creative coordinator—and the person Berry Gordy himself had quietly relied on to keep the peace between the West Coast office and Detroit for the last three years—you were supposed to be packing up files. You were supposed to be preparing for the move to Epic’s Westwood offices. 

Instead, you were watching Jermaine. 

He stood on the other side of the double-paned glass, framed by the glow of the studio lamps. At his age, Jermaine had a way of wearing his ambition like a tailored suit. He adjusted the collar of his silk button-down—unbuttoned past the sternum, revealing a heavy gold chain—and ran a hand over his carefully maintained Afro. He looked smooth. He looked composed.

But you knew better. 

You knew the way his jaw tightened when Michael’s name was mentioned in connection to the new lead vocals. You knew how his posture went rigid whenever Joseph walked into the room barking orders about the upcoming TV variety show.

Jermaine wasn’t leaving for Epic. He was staying at Motown. 

The public narrative was already being spun by Motown's PR team: loyalty to the label that built him. The family narrative was far worse: traitor. But neither story was the truth. Jermaine was single, fiercely competitive, and deeply terrified of becoming a backing musician to his younger brother’s skyrocketing genius. He wanted his own kingdom, even if it was built on the burning bridge his brothers had left behind.

The heavy studio door clicked open, and Jermaine stepped through, letting the glass door swing shut behind him. The faint hum of an unspooled two-inch tape echoed in the silence. 

“You still here, Sista?” his voice was low, smooth as velvet, carrying that distinct, soft-spoken Indiana cadence that all the Jackson boys retained, no matter how much California polish they put on.

“Somebody’s gotta catalog these tapes before the movers come tomorrow, Jermaine,” you said softly, not looking up from your legal pad. “Joseph wants every master reel accounted for.”

Jermaine let out a short, humorless breath. He walked over to the soundboard, resting his palms on the polished wood edge, staring at the faders. “Joseph wants,” he echoed quietly. "That’s always how it goes, ain't it? What Joseph wants. What Mike wants. What the family needs."

He turned his head to look at you. His dark eyes were heavy, hooded with a mixture of exhaustion and something sharper—something bitter that had been curdling in his chest for months.

"And what about what you want?" he asked, stepping closer. The faint scent of musk and clove drifted off his suede jacket. "You packin' your bags for Epic, too? Following the rest of 'em like a good little soldier?"

You finally looked up, meeting his gaze. "I work for the music, Jermaine. Right now, the music is split down the middle. I’m just trying to keep the house from falling apart while everybody’s busy picking sides."

"You always do that," he said, taking another step until he was standing directly over your seated frame. The shadow of his tall, lean build blocked out the warm studio light. "Playin' the neutral party. Reassuring Katherine. Fixin' Mike's schedules. Smoothin' things over with Berry. Everybody leans on you, don't they? Sista fixes it. Sista understands."

He leaned down, placing one hand on the armrest of the sofa, bringing his face level with yours. Up close, his expression wasn't the charming, dimpled smile he gave the cameras on Soul Train. It was dark. Calculating.

“Must get tiring,” he whispered, his eyes scanning your face, lingering on your lips before pulling back to meet your eyes. “Holdin’ everybody else's weight while nobody looks out for you.”

“I can handle my own weight, Jermaine,” you said, keeping your voice steady, though your pulse spiked against your ribs.

“We’ll see,” he said softly, a soft, dangerous smile curving his lips. “We’ll see how long you can keep the balance when the ground starts shakin’.”

By late August, the tension in the family had turned suffocating. 

The rest of the brothers were spending twelve hours a day at Sigma Sound in Philadelphia with Gamble and Huff, crafting their new disco-pop sound for Epic. Jermaine remained in Los Angeles, locked away in Motown’s Hitsville West Studios, working furiously on his solo self-titled album.

Because of your unique contract, you were caught in the crossfire. You spent mornings dealing with Epic’s lawyers in Century City and evenings at the Hayvenhurst estate, helping Katherine handle the logistics of the younger kids’ schooling and private travel.

To the family, you were an anchor. To Jermaine, you were a ghost haunting his perimeter.

You were sitting on the sun porch at Hayvenhurst, surrounded by stacks of fan mail and itinerary sheets, when Michael walked in. At seventeen, Michael was a whirlwind of soft spoken nervous energy, wearing an oversized striped polo and corduroy trousers. 

"Sista?" Michael asked, sitting on the wicker bench across from you, clutching a small cassette recorder to his chest. "Did... did you get the flight confirmation for Philly? Joseph said we gotta leave Tuesday, but I don't wanna go if the vocal tracks aren't prepped."

"I got 'em right here, Mike," you smiled, reaching into your folder and handing him a neatly typed schedule. "Everything’s locked in. I spoke to Kenny Gamble personally. You’re good."

Michael breathed a visible sigh of relief, his face breaking into that brilliant, innocent smile. “Thank you. I swear, I don’t know what we’d do without you. Joseph would have us all crazy.” He leaned over and gave you a quick, affectionate hug around the shoulders. 

From the archway, lending into the main house, a heavy shadow fell across the sunlit floor. 

Jermaine was leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed over a dark red turtleneck. He had been standing there long enough to watch the entire exchange. His expression was completely blank, but his eyes were burning with a dark, territorial heat. 

“Mike,” Jermaine said smoothly, his voice cutting through the quiet porch. “Joseph’s lookin’ for you in the office. Said something about the wardrobe fitting.” 

“Oh! Okay, thanks, Maine,” Michael said quickly, jumping up. He gave you one last nod. “See you later, Sista!”

As soon as Michael’s footsteps faded down the hallway, the air on the porch shifted. Jermaine didn't move from the doorway. He just stood there, watching you put the papers back into your briefcase.

"You sure give him a lot of your time," Jermaine said, his tone casual, but laced with poison.

"He’s seventeen and under a lot of pressure, Jermaine," you replied smoothly, keeping your back to him.

"And I'm twenty-one, pushin' a solo record at a label where my own brothers call me a scab, and my father won't even look me in the eye when he passes through the kitchen," Jermaine said, his voice dropping an octave as he walked toward you. "Where’s my special itinerary? Where’s my comfort?"

You turned around, matching his glare. "You isolated yourself, Jermaine. You chose to stay at Motown. Don't take that out on Michael, and don't take it out on me."

Jermaine stopped inches away from you. He reached out, his long fingers catching a stray lock of your hair, tucking it deliberately behind your ear. His touch was warm, but his knuckles grazed the side of your neck with a slow, possessive pressure. 

“I didn’t isolate myself,” he murmured, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. “I just refused to play second fiddle anymore. But you… you’re still playin’ the family saint. Rubbin’ Mike’s back. Calm’n Joseph down. Smilin’ for everybody.”

His hand shifted to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling into your curls, holding you in place. His eyes darkened, searching your face with an intense, unyielding scrutiny.

“It drives me crazy,” he breathed, his face dropping close to yours, his breath hot against your skin. “Watching you give everyone else your sweetness, while I get the cold shoulder. You think you’re so smart, Sista. You think you got everybody fooled.”

“Let go of me, Jermaine,” you whispered, your heart hammering against your chest, 

“Make me,” he smirked, his dimple flashing briefly—not out of warmth, but out of absolute, arrogant challenge. “Go on. Call Joseph. Call Mike. Tell ‘em Jermaine’s bothering you. See what happens to this fragile little peace you’re working so hard to protect.”

The secret didn’t belong to you. It belonged to the family—or rather, to Joseph. 

It was a cold Tuesday night in early September when you found the ledger. You had been working late in the estate’s private office, filing tax documentation for the ‘75 European tour, when you pulled open a locked drawer in the heavy mahogany desk to retrieve a spare receipt book.

Behind the receipts sat a thick, leather-bound notebook.

Curiosity—and professional diligence—got the better of you. You opened it. Inside were the detailed records of offshore holding accounts, unauthorized cash withdrawals from the boys’ trust funds spanning three years, and a series of forged signatures under Katherine’s and Berry Gordy’s names, moving hundreds of thousands of dollars into private accounts before the Epic transition.

If this leaked—if CBS found out, or if Berry Gordy pressed charges—it wouldn't just ruin Joseph. It would trigger a massive legal war, freeze the brothers' assets, and destroy the Epic deal before their first single even hit the airwaves. It would rip the family apart at the seams.

Your hands were shaking as you slammed the drawer shut, clutching the ledger to your chest.

“Inconvenient timing, ain’t it?”

You gasped, spinning around. 

Jermaine was sitting in the high-backed leather armchair in the dark corner of the office, shadows draped over his long legs. He held a glass of scotch in one hand, the ice rattling softly as he swirled it. He hadn’t turned on the lamp. He had been sitting in the dark, waiting.

“Jermaine—” your voice cracked. “How long have you been sitting there?”

“Long enough to watch you discover Joseph's little magic trick," he said smoothly. He set the glass down on the side table and stood up, strolling toward you with effortless, predator-like grace. "He's been sloughin' off the boys' earnings for years. Berry knew, of course. That's part of why Joseph pulled 'em out of Motown—Berry was starting to audit the books."

"Does... does anyone else know?" you whispered, your mind racing. "Michael? Marlon? Katherine?"

"Hell no," Jermaine scoffed quietly. "Mike would break down. Joseph would kill anybody who mentioned it. And Mother... well, Mother prays, but she knows what kind of man she married."

He stopped right in front of you, looking down at the ledger clutched in your trembling hands. 

“You’re in a real tight spot, Sista,” Jermaine said softly, his tone dripping with fake sympathy. “As the family’s trusted manager, if this comes out during the CBS transition and you kept quiet, you go down as an accomplice. Wire fraud. Embezzlement. They’ll ruin you. You’ll never work in this industry again.”

“I just found it tonight!” you said fiercely, pulling the book closer. “I can take this to a lawyer—”

“And destroy my brothers?” he interrupted, his voice dropping to a sharp, icy whisper. “Destroy their new contract? Put my mother through a public scandal?”

He stepped closer, pressing you back until your spine hit the edge of the mahogany desk. He reached out, taking the leather ledger from your hands. You tried to hold onto it, but his grip was iron. He tossed the notebook casually onto the desk behind him.

"You ain't takin' this anywhere," he said.

"You're protecting him?" you spat, anger masking the terror in your chest. "After everything he's done to you?"

"I ain't protecting him," Jermaine murmured, stepping into your personal space until his chest was touching yours. He reached out, his long fingers cupping your chin, forcing you to look up into his dark, gleaming eyes. "I'm protecting my leverage."

He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

"I keep quiet. I keep Joseph from finding out you were digging through his desk. I keep CBS from ruining your reputation," Jermaine whispered, his hand sliding down your neck, his fingers resting firmly over your fluttering pulse. "And in return... you belong to me."

The terms of the arrangement were never written down, but they were absolute. 

In public, nothing changed. You still managed the logistics for the family. You still answered Michael’s anxious calls about radio promos. You still sat at the long dining table at Hayvenhurst for Sunday dinners.

But behind closed doors, Jermaine owned your time, your focus, and your presence. 

He demanded that you relocate your primary workspace from the Century City office to Motown’s West Coast studio—his turf. Whenever he was in the studio recording vocals, you were required to sit in the booth. When he went to meetings with Berry Gordy, you were at his elbow, taking notes. 

It was a golden cage, constructed with terrifying precision.

It was a rain-slicked Thursday night in October. The studio was empty except for the two of you and a second-engineer who Jermaine had dismissed an hour ago. The heavy studio monitors were muted, playing a slow, unreleased instrumental track Jermaine had been working on—a lush, bedroom-R&B groove heavy with bass and electric piano.

You sat at the small mixing desk, your fingers typing out press releases on a portable typewriter.

Jermaine stepped out of the recording booth, stripping off his denim jacket and tossing it onto a chair. He walked over to where you sat, reaching down to abruptly catch the carriage of the typewriter, stopping your hands in mid-air.

"Stop working," he commanded softly.

"Jermaine, I have to finish these releases for the local press—"

"I said stop." He pulled you up from the chair by your wrists. His grip wasn't painful, but it was inescapable.

He pulled you toward the middle of the room, right into the dim pool of light beneath the ceiling lamp. He didn’t say a word. He just wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against his body, swaying slowly to the muted, bass-heavy track echoing from the speakers.

“Jermaine, someone could walk in,” you whispered, your heart hammering against your ribs. The proximity was overwhelming—the heat of his body, the scent of his cologne, the smooth, rhythmic movement of his hips against yours. 

“Nobody’s comin’ in,” he murmured into your hair. “I locked the front door.”

He slid one hand up your back, his fingers tracing the line of your spine through your silk blouse. “You been lookin’ at Mike again today,” he whispered, his voice dark, possessive. “Spent two hours with him in the lounge.”

“We were discussing the tour itinerary!” you protested, holding your breath as his lips traced down your jawline to the sensitive skin of your neck.

“I don’t care,” he breathed against your skin, his lips pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to the hollow of your throat, making a shiver run straight down your spine. “You’re mine now. You signed the deal when you kept the ledger hidden. When you’re in this room, you don’t think about Joseph, you don’t think about Mike, and you don’t think about Epic. You think about me.”

“You coerced me,” you gasped out, trying to push against his chest, but your hands only found the solid, warm wall of his torso.

Jermaine pulled back slightly, looking down at you. His eyes were heavy with a mixture of dark triumph and intense, undisguised desire. He smiled—that slow, dimpled smile that used to seem charming, but now felt like a trap springing shut.

"Maybe I did," he murmured, his hand moving to press against the back of your waist, pulling you closer until there wasn't an inch of space between you. "But you ain't running, are you? You could've walked out. You could've told Joseph. But you stayed."

He tilted your head up, his thumb pressing firmly against your lower lip.

"You stayed right here with me."

By November, the line between coercion and obsession had completely dissolved, leaving a raw, volatile dynamic that terrified you.

You hated his control. You hated the way he watched you across family dinners, sending subtle, silent signals—a slow sip of his drink, a shift in his posture—that reminded you who you had to meet in the studio later that night. You hated that he isolated you from the rest of the inner circle.

But God help you, the magnetic pull of his undivided focus was intoxicating.

Jermaine didn't treat you like a secretary when you were alone. He treated you like a prize he had won after a long, brutal war. He poured his music into you, playing demo after demo, asking for your critique, hanging on your every word with a desperate, intense hunger. In a world where everyone was using everyone else for status and hit records, Jermaine’s obsession with you was absolute.

It was the night before the family’s departure for a major press tour in New York.

You were in the private guest house at Hayvenhurst, packing up promotional materials into large leather trunks. Rain was pouring against the glass windows, blurring the lights of the main house across the lawn.

The door unlocked and opened. Jermaine stepped in, wearing a dark leather trench coat slick with rain. He pulled off his gloves, tossing them onto the table, and locked the door behind him.

"You're not supposed to be out here," you said, your voice trembling slightly as you taped down a cardboard box. "Joseph’s in the main house."

"Joseph’s asleep," he said coolly. He walked across the room, stopping right behind you. The cool scent of fresh rain clung to his leather coat. He reached out, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind, pulling you back against his chest.

"I heard you were talking to Berry today," he murmured, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his warm breath sending goosebumps across your skin. "About your contract extension."

"I have to earn a living, Jermaine," you whispered, leaning back into his warmth despite yourself. "I can't just stay in limbo forever."

“You ain’t in limbo,” he growled softly, turning you around in his arms to face him. His dark eyes were fierce, shadowed with that deep-seated insecurity that drove everything he did. “You’re with me. I’m building my own label presence. I’m gonna be bigger than all of ‘em. Bigger than the Jacksons. Bigger than Motown. And you’re gonna be right next to me.”

“Is that what this is about?” you asked, searching his face, your hand rising instinctively to rest against his cheek. “Proving something to them? Using me to show Joseph and your brothers that you can take whatever you want?”

Jermaine’s jaw tightened. For a second, the arrogant, calculating mask slipped, revealing the raw, wounded pride of a middle child who had spent his entire life fighting to be seen.

“At first?” he admitted, his voice low and dangerously honest. “Yeah. At first, I just wanted to take the one thing in this house that everybody relied on. I wanted to prove I could pull you away from them.” 

He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours, his hands gripping your waist with a fierce, trembling desperation.

"But it ain't about them anymore," he breathed, his lips brushing yours. "It's just you. You're the only thing in this whole damn family that feels real to me now. You're the only one who looks at me—not the lead singer, not the bassist, not Joseph’s son. Just me."

"Jermaine..." you breathed, your resistance crumbling under the sheer weight of his intensity.

“Tell me you hate me,” he whispered, his lips tracing over yours in a slow, agonized tease. “Tell me you want me to let you go.”

You looked into his eyes—dark, possessive, dangerous, and completely consumed by you. You knew it was a trap. You knew he had manipulated you using a secret that could ruin everything. But as his mouth finally came down on yours—intense, hungry, and demanding—you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer.

You didn’t answer him. And as Jermaine pulled you down onto the velvet sofa, drowning in the warm, dark tide of his devotion, you both knew the truth: you were never going to leave.

© 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐥𝐲𝐩𝐲𝐭𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐛𝐱 ; 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒔 𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒗𝒆𝒅. 𝒏𝒐 𝒓𝒆𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒅𝒖𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒊 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒎𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒅.

The late afternoon sun of 1978 hung heavy and golden over Encino, bleeding amber and pale violet through the tall palm trees that lined Hayvenhurst.

Inside the Jackson house, the air was already warm and thick with the unmistakable, rich aroma of simmered chili peppers, toasted cumin, garlic, and melting cheese. It was a Sunday, but it wasn’t the usual Sunday routine where Katherine reigned supreme in the kitchen while the house buzzed around her.

Today, the apron belonged to Jermaine.

He stood by the long tile counter, wearing a high-waisted pair of dark denim jeans, a soft yellow fitted polo shirt with the top few buttons undone, and a beige cotton apron tied neatly around his waist. His pick was tucked neatly into the back pocket of his jeans, his iconic, glossy afro perfectly shaped, catching the golden light pouring through the wide kitchen window.

He was humming soft, low notes—a melodic fragment of an unreleased track—as he carefully layered corn tortillas, shredded chicken, and a rich, dark red sauce into a pair of massive glass baking dishes.

When the heavy wooden front door creaked open, followed by the soft click of your heels against the entryway floor, Jermaine immediately stopped humming. 

“In here, baby,” he called out. His voice was smooth as velvet, carrying that gentle, quiet warmth that always seemed to quiet the rest of the world down a notch.

You walked into the kitchen, taking in the sight. You were wearing a breezy, late-70s wrap dress—patterned in warm earth tones of rust and mustard—with your hair styled in a plush, gorgeous halo of soft curls that framed your face. You held a small tote bag over your shoulder, looking around the fragrant kitchen with a wide, bright smile.

“Look at you,” you teased, leaning against the counter as you watched him lower another dish into the preheated oven. “Cheffing it up for real. Should I be intimidated?”

Jermaine wiped his hands on a kitchen towel and walked around the island toward you. A slow, dimpled smile spread across his smooth face, his dark eyes glowing with pure affection. He didn't hesitate—he reached out, wrapped his large, warm hands around your waist, and pulled you against his chest, tucking you neatly into his frame.

"Intimidated? Nah," he murmured, his voice low as he leaned down to press a warm, lingering kiss to your temple, then your cheek, and finally a soft, tender press against your lips. "Just hungry. You look fine as wine tonight, by the way. That color on you? Out of sight."

You felt the warmth rush to your cheeks, giggling softly as your hands rested against his broad shoulders. "Thank you. I was nervous about coming over today, Jermaine. You sure your family’s ready for me?"

"Are you kidding me?" Jermaine chuckled, his thumbs gently rubbing small circles through the thin fabric at your waist. "Mother’s been asking about you for three weeks straight. Ever since I told her about us going out to the roller rink last month, she’s been on my back. 'When are we meeting her, Jermaine? Bring that lovely girl over.' And you know how the rest of them are. If there's food, they're coming."

He stepped back just enough to grab a small wooden spoon from the counter, dipping it into a small pot of simmering red sauce on the stovetop. He blew on it gently, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a playful, heavy-lidded gaze.

"Here," he said, holding the spoon out to you, placing one hand beneath it to catch any strays. "Taste this. Tell me if the spices are right."

You leaned in, closing your lips over the spoon. The sauce was incredible—smoky, rich, with just enough of a kick to linger on the back of your tongue without burning. Your eyes widened in genuine delight.

"Mmm! Jermaine, wait a minute..." You tapped his arm. "This is incredible! Where did you learn how to make enchiladas like this?"

He puffed out his chest a little, a proud, goofy grin breaking out across his face. "Told you I had skills, didn't I? Everybody thinks I just play the bass, but I got flavor, baby. I’ve been working on this sauce recipe for months. I wanted it to be perfect for you."

"Well, consider me thoroughly impressed, Chef Jackson," you laughed, resting your hands back on his hips.

Jermaine leaned down, catching your chin lightly between his thumb and forefinger, kissing you again—sweeter this time, taking his time, savoring the quiet moment before the house inevitably exploded with energy.

“I’m really glad you’re here,” he whispered against your mouth, his eyes soft and entirely sincere. “I wanted you in my space. With my people.”

Before you could answer, the faint sound of heavy footfalls bounced down the hallway, followed by the energetic beat of someone tapping out a rhythm on the wall frame.

"Man, what is that smell? Jermaine, did you burn the—oh, snap!"

Michael slid around the corner into the kitchen, wearing an oversized striped sweater, flared cords, and a wide, bright grin. He froze for a fraction of a second when he saw you two standing close, then a huge, teasing smirk spread across his face.

"Well, well, well," Michael chimed in, leaning against the doorframe, crossing his arms with a playful shake of his head. "So this is why he’s been in the kitchen since noon. He usually doesn't even wash a dish, and today he's acting like he's running a five-star restaurant!"

Jermaine rolled his eyes, though a small, fond smile stayed on his face. He didn't drop his arm from around your waist, keeping you comfortably tucked against his side. "Ignore him," Jermaine said softly to you, before flashing a sharp look at his younger brother. "Mike, don't you have a record to listen to or something? Go bring Mother down."

"Oh, Mother's coming," Michael laughed, stepping fully into the kitchen and extending a slender, welcoming hand toward you. "Hi, I'm Michael. It's really nice to finally meet you. Jermaine hasn't shut up about you for a month."

"Michael!" Jermaine snapped, his cheeks flushing a faint copper tone, though he couldn't hide his embarrassment.

You laughed, taking Michael’s hand warmly. "It's so great to meet you, Michael. I've heard so much about you."

"Don't let him fool you, he’s a pest," a warm, gentle voice interrupted from the doorway.

Katherine Jackson walked into the kitchen, looking elegant and comforting in a soft blue knitted dress, her hair neatly set. The warmth radiating from her instantly filled the room. Behind her, Joseph walked in slowly, wearing his classic button-down and trousers, looking calm and observant, followed closely by Randy and La Toya, who were already bickering good-naturedly over who was getting the first plate.

"Mother, look at this," Michael pointed at the counter. "He made the enchiladas. And the handmade tacos."

Katherine smiled brightly, walking straight past the food to approach you. She took both of your hands in hers, her hold gentle and motherly. “Welcome to our home, sweetheart. It is so wonderful to finally have you here. Jermaine has been talking about this dinner all week.”

“Thank you so much for having me, Mrs. Jackson,” you said softly, feeling the lingering nerves completely melt away under her kind gaze. “Your home is beautiful.”

“Call me Katherine, child,” she insisted softly, squeezing your hands before looking over at Jermaine with an approving smile. “You look radiant. And it seems my boy actually put some hard work into this kitchen for once.”

“Hey now, I always work hard,” Jermaine protested smoothly, wrapping his arm around your shoulder once more, drawing you close to his side. He looked down at you, his eyes shining with a mix of relief and deep pride. “I just wanted to make sure everything was right for my girl.”

"Alright, alright, less sweet-talking, more eating!" Randy called out from the dining room archway, setting down a stack of cloth napkins. "Jermaine, is the food ready or what? My stomach is sticking to my ribs!"

"Hold your horses, Randy," Jermaine barked back with a grin, though he immediately moved to grab oven mitts.

For the next ten minutes, the kitchen was a whirlwind of rhythmic, joyful movement. Jermaine pulled the bubbling, golden-brown pans of enchiladas out of the oven, the melted cheese sizzling along the edges. He set out bowls of fresh guacamole, warm crispy tortilla shells, diced tomatoes, shredded lettuce, and rich sour cream.

You tried to step in to help carry plates, but Jermaine gently intercepted you every time.

"Uh-uh, baby," he murmured in your ear, taking a heavy ceramic platter out of your hands and replacing it with a light glass of sweet iced tea. "You're the guest of honor today. You sit down. I got you."

The dining table was long, set with simple white china and tall glasses. You were seated right at Jermaine's right hand, with Katherine at the head and Michael sat across from you. The room echoed with the warm, chaotic chorus of a big family—laughter bouncing off the wood-paneled walls, forks clinking against plates, and gentle teasing flying across the table.

"Man, Jermaine," Randy muttered around a mouthful of a freshly made taco, shaking his head in disbelief. "I gotta hand it to you. This is heavy. You put your foot in these tacos!"

"Language at the table, Randy," Katherine corrected gently, though she too was enjoying her plate with a small, pleased smile. "He's right, though. Jermaine, this sauce is lovely."

"Told you," Jermaine said smoothly, resting his elbow on the table and winking at you. "Secret technique. Can't give away the recipe to just anybody."

"Secret recipe, my eye," Michael teased, wiping his mouth with a napkin and grinning at you across the table. "He probably called up the restaurant down on Sunset and asked for instructions! I saw him reading a cookbook yesterday!"

"Man, sit down, Mike!" Jermaine laughed, throwing a balled-up paper napkin playfully across the table at his brother. "You're just mad because you can't cook nothing but cereal!"

The whole table burst into laughter, the energy light, groovy, and entirely natural. You found yourself laughing along, feeling completely integrated into the warmth of the room. Every few minutes, under the cover of the tablecloth, you would feel Jermaine’s long fingers slide into yours, squeezing your hand softly, checking in on you without uttering a single word.

Whenever you looked over at him, he was already looking at you—not at his plate, not at his brothers, but at you. His dark, soulful eyes held a look of quiet fascination, an intoxicating blend of cool 70s suave and deep, genuine affection.

After dinner was cleared away—with Michael and Randy finally being dragged into doing the dishes—the energy in the house settled into a soft, cozy groove. The sun had completely dipped below the horizon, leaving Encino wrapped in a cool, starry California evening.

Jermaine gently took your hand and led you out through the sliding glass doors toward the patio near the back yard. The night air was pleasant, carrying the sweet scent of jasmine blossoms and the faint hum of crickets. Soft ambient light radiated from the pool, rippling in shades of quiet turquoise against the stone patio.

From inside the house, the faint sound of a soul record echoed through the open doors—a slow, smooth track by Minnie Riperton, her dreamy vocals floating out into the night air.

Jermaine led you over to a wide padded lounge chair near the edge of the garden, sitting down and pulling you right along with him so that you were leaning back against his chest, your head resting comfortably on his shoulder. His arms wrapped securely around your waist, resting over your hands.

"You doing alright?" he asked quietly, his chest rising and falling beneath your shoulder. His voice was soft, stripped of the playful bravado he’d used with his brothers earlier.

"I'm more than alright, Jermaine," you murmured, relaxing into his heat, turning your face slightly to look up at his sharp, handsome jawline. "Tonight was wonderful. Your family is so sweet. And the food... honestly, you really blew me away."

He let out a low, smooth laugh that vibrated against your back. "I mean what I say, baby. When I care about somebody, I want to take care of them. I want to feed you good, make you laugh, make sure you feel like a queen every time you're around me."

He unclasped his hands from your waist, his large, warm hand moving up to gently cup the side of your neck, his thumb caressing your cheekbone with incredible tenderness.

"I was a little worried, to be real with you," he admitted softly, his eyes searching yours in the dim patio light. "My world can get kind of loud. Busy. Crazy, even. Bringing you into the middle of all this... I just wanted to make sure it wasn't too much."

You turned around in his lap, facing him fully now, placing your hands on his chest, feeling the steady, calm beat of his heart under the yellow polo.

"It wasn't too much at all, Jermaine," you said earnestly, looking straight into his dark, expressive eyes. "It was beautiful. You made me feel so special tonight. From the moment I walked into that kitchen."

A soft, breathtaking smile slowly lit up his face—the kind of smile he rarely showed the flashing cameras or the loud crowds, reserved entirely for moments like this.

"Yeah?" he whispered, his hands settling warm and heavy on the small of your back, bringing your hips closer to his.

"Yeah," you whispered back.

Jermaine leaned down, his forehead resting gently against yours for a brief, heavy heartbeat. The air between you felt warm, charged with a sweet, romantic tension that belonged entirely to the two of you. When his lips finally met yours, the kiss was slow, deep, and impossibly tender. He kissed you like he had all the time in the world, his thumb lightly stroking your jawline as his lips moved against yours with a practiced, romantic rhythm.

When he finally pulled back, just an inch or two away, his breath brushed softly against your lips.

"Good," he murmured, his voice dripping with smooth charm. "Because this is just the beginning, sweet thang. Next time, it's just gonna be you and me. I'll make you that Italian lasagna I was telling you about."

You giggled, resting your hand against his cheek, leaning up to kiss the corner of his lips. "Is that a promise, Mr. Jackson?"

"That’s a guarantee, baby," Jermaine whispered softly, pulling you back tight against his chest as the cool night breeze swept through the palm trees above, keeping you warm in his arms under the stars.

© 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐥𝐲𝐩𝐲𝐭𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐛𝐱 ; 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒔 𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒗𝒆𝒅. 𝒏𝒐 𝒓𝒆𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒅𝒖𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒊 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒎𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒅.