escapism
synopsis: two years after he broke your heart and married someone else, you finally break your silence. you shatter his world on live television. now, in a private vip booth you make him crawl and beg for an encore.
themes: HIStory era! michael x famous singer! reader, ex boyfriend, angsty michael, he hides his feelings for someone else, breaks your heart, 1995 vma’s, make your come back, michael begs.
note: this is inspired by escapism by raye!! listen along as you read!!
The cameras adored you before you even admitted you were together. To the media, you weren’t just a couple; you were a cultural phenomenon. Every magazine printed the exact same bold headline across glossy covers: The King and Queen of Pop. The impossible couple. The unstoppable couple. The forever couple.
That reality felt largest on the nights you shared the stage. Stepping off the platform after a grueling two-hour set, sweat still glistening under the stadium lights, your chest heaving after another flawless performance. Before your manager could even hand you a towel, Michael materialized from the shadows backstage.
“You were incredible,” he whispered, his voice a breathless rush as he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest.
“You say that every night,” you teased, leaning back into his warmth.
“‘Cause it’s true every night, spread the word.” He kissed your temple, his eyelashes brushing your skin as the blinding pop of paparazzi flashes caught the silhouette of the embrace through the heavy velvet curtains. The next morning, the world woke up to the same image plastered across every major newspaper: KING AND QUEEN OF POP RULE THE WORLD.
Those public triumphs were born in the quiet spaces no one else saw. A year prior, Michael had been sitting cross-legged on the hardwood floor of the Neverland library, helping you scratch out lyrics on a crumpled legal pad while Bubbles wandered through the room, occasionally swipe-grabbing pens off the coffee table.
“No,” Michael had laughed, a high, musical sound that filled the room. “No, no, hold on. That line needs to hit harder. Don’t cheat yourself. It’s too soft for what you’re trying to say.”
“You think everything needs to hit harder,” you grumbled, chewing on the cap of your pen. “Sometimes a whisper works, Michael.”
“Because you’re capable of a roar!” he said, his playful demeanor instantly shifting into something intensely serious. He leaned forward, his dark eyes locking onto yours with absolute sincerity. “I mean it. I believe you’re the greatest artist of our generation. You have to show them that.”
Your cheeks flushed, a warm heat spreading down your neck. He smiled, that soft, dimpled expression that belonged only to you, far away from the stage lights. “And one day,” he murmured, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear, “they’ll realize I wasn’t exaggerating. Just wait.”
The world seemed to agree, turning every public appearance into an interrogation about your future. By the time the 1992 MTV Awards rolled around, the red carpet was a chaotic sea of screaming fans and blinding white flashes. Hand in hand, you and Michael moved through the press line like royalty until a bold interviewer thrust a microphone toward him.
“Michael, the rumors are flying! Do you think wedding bells are next for the King and Queen?”
Michael laughed shyly, burying his face slightly in your shoulder to hide his burning cheeks. “Oh, gosh… I don’t really discuss my private life, you know that..”
The interviewer pushed, sensing a headline. “But she’s the one? Come on, Michael, give us something.”
Michael stopped walking. He looked over at you, the chaotic roar of the red carpet seemingly fading into background noise. His eyes softened into something so deeply tender it made the breath catch in your throat. “I think she’s… very special. More than special.”
The world exploded, and with that explosion came the vicious teeth of the industry. Yet, he defended you constantly. He was your fiercest protector, a barrier between you and the gossip. When executives questioned your risky artistic choices, Michael would slam his hand on the boardroom table and tell them, “They don’t understand her. Let her create. She knows exactly what she’s doing.” When gossip columns claimed your sudden success had made you difficult on set, he snapped at reporters, “They’ve never met her. She is the kindest soul in this business.” And when a prominent reporter sleazily suggested that your chart-topping success was merely a byproduct of dating the most famous man on earth, Michael’s polite smile vanished. The air in the room turned to ice.
“No,” Michael said, his voice dropping to a terrifyingly cold, razor-sharp register, staring the reporter down until the man visibly fidgeted. “She’s successful because she’s extraordinary. Don’t ever confuse her brilliance with my presence. She commands the stage all on her own.”
You loved him for that. You worshipped him for it. He always stood between you and the world, until the day the storm inside Neverland grew louder than the noise outside.
It started on a night when the rain was battering violently against the panoramic windows of the sunroom. “You cancelled another dinner,” you said, your voice trembling with a toxic mix of exhaustion and hurt. “That’s the third time this week, Michael. We live in the same house and I have to schedule a meeting to see you.”
Michael was pacing, his boots clicking sharply against the floor. He looked frayed, his curls damp with sweat, his leather jacket thrown carelessly over a chair. “I was recording! I told you, the tracks aren't blending well, the mixing is all wrong. I’m running out of time, I have people breathing down my neck!”
“I was recording too! We share a studio calendar, Michael, I know when you left the booth. You were gone by four.”
“You don’t understand the pressure I’m under!” he suddenly shouted, his voice cracking, pitching high into that raw, strained register he only used when he was completely unraveling. He spun around to face you, eyes wide and frantic. “The labels, the press, the tour prep, everyone wants a piece of me! Everyone is draining me! I don’t need this from you too!”
You laughed, a bitter, hollow sound that cut through the room. “Oh, don't give me that. Don't play the martyr with me. Don't make me out to be the villain just because I want my boyfriend back.”
Michael stopped pacing. He took a deep breath, rubbing his temples aggressively, his fingers burying into his hair. “I’m exhausted,” he pleaded, his voice dropping to a broken whisper. “I am so, so exhausted. Please, just let it rest tonight.”
“So am I,” you whispered, the anger giving way to a devastating grief. “It means you’re disappearing. You’re right here, and you’re entirely gone.”
The silence that followed was suffocating. Michael looked down at his hands, his voice barely audible. “I’m trying. I swear I’m trying.”
“No,” you snapped, the truth ripping out of you. “No, you’re pretending.”
The distance only grew, mutating into a toxic paranoia over the weeks that followed. The breaking point arrived in the main house when a phone began ringing on the antique side table. Michael, who had been sitting on the sofa, practically leaped across the room to grab it. The moment he saw the caller ID, his body went completely rigid. He didn't answer it there; he turned on his heel toward the hallway.
“Who keeps calling?” you demanded, standing up.
Michael froze at the threshold of the room. He didn't turn around. “What? It’s nobody. Just the office.”
“Every time that phone rings, you leave the room. You look like you’ve seen a ghost, and then you vanish into the office for an hour. Who is it? Is it a woman?”
His jaw tightened so hard you could see the muscle flexing in his cheek as he finally turned to face you. His eyes were dark, guarded, reflecting a side of him he usually kept reserved for his enemies. “It’s business. Don't do this. I said it’s business, leave it alone.”
“Bullshit, Michael! Don't lie to me!” You folded your arms, your heart hammering against your ribs. The suspicion that had been rotting in your gut for weeks finally formed into a name you had seen pop up in the logs. “Is it Lisa? Is she the one calling you at midnight?”
Michael’s face changed. It was subtle slight widening of his eyes, a momentary parting of his lips, a sudden drainage of color from his face. But then he recovered, his expression hardening into defensive anger. “No! No, it’s not! Why are you doing this? You’re making up stories in your head!”
“You don’t trust me,” Michael groaned later that same night, throwing his hands in the air as he paced the length of the bedroom.
He was sweating now, the nerves rolling off him in waves. He looked cornered, defensive, like a man desperately trying to protect a secret that was already bleeding through his fingers. “You’ve become so suspicious of everything I do! I can’t even have a private conversation without you treating me like a criminal!”
“Should I trust you?” you yelled back, tears finally stinging your eyes. “You’ve become a stranger to me, Michael! You look at me like I’m an obligation, like you're just waiting for me to leave the room!”
“You make everything into a crisis!” he yelled, his voice cracking violently. He gripped the edge of a dresser, his knuckles turning white. “You’re projecting your own insecurities onto me! I can’t even breathe in my own house without you analysing it! There is nothing going on! I told you, she’s just a friend, we are talking about a project!”
“Because there IS something!” you screamed, your voice breaking.
“There isn’t! I swear to you, there isn't!” Michael roared back, his chest heaving, his face contorted in a mask of defensive fury.
“Then look me in the eyes,” you challenged, stepping directly into his space, forcing him to face you. Your voice dropped to a deadly, trembling whisper. “Look me in the eyes right now and tell me there’s absolutely nothing between you and Lisa Marie Presley. Tell me you don't feel anything for her.”
Michael opened his mouth to speak. To repeat the denial. To yell at you again.
But he couldn’t.
He looked at you, and the lie died in his throat. He choked on it. His gaze broke, his eyes darting frantically to the floor, his breathing shallow and ragged. That hesitation, that agonizing, five-second silence, shattered something inside you that could never be pieced back together.
The quiet that followed that fight was the prelude to the end. One evening, you drove back through the heavy wrought-iron gates of Neverland after a grueling fourteen-hour session at the recording studio. You walked into the main lounge and stopped. Michael was sitting entirely alone on the edge of the large sofa. The television wasn’t on. There was no music playing. He looked smaller than usual, his head bowed, his hands clasped so tightly between his knees.
He looked up when the door clicked shut. “Oh… hi. You’re back.”
“…Hi?” The air in the room was thick with impending doom.
He stood up slowly, his movements stiff, almost robotic. “Can… can we sit down for a minute? Please?”
You frowned, dropping your keys onto the side table. “What the heck is going on, Michael? Just tell me.”
He gestured to the sofa, his eyes swimming with a desperate, agonising anxiety. He looked physically ill. You sat down, the silence stretching for a minute. Two minutes.
“…Michael?” you whispered, a cold dread pooling in your chest.
He stared intently at the pattern of the carpet. “I’ve been thinking a lot… about us. About everything.” Your stomach dropped into a bottomless pit. “I…” Another agonizing pause. Michael swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. “…you know you’re my best friend. You’re the closest person to me.”
“No.”
He blinked, finally cutting his eyes to you. “What?”
“Don’t start with that,” you said, your voice deadpan, completely hollow. “Don’t do the 'best friend' speech. If you're going to break my heart, just do it.”
Silence. Michael’s lower lip began to tremble, a deep, painful angst taking over his features. He looked like he was suffocating under the weight of his own words. “I’ll always care about you. No matter what happens, I will.”
Your breathing quickened, panicking. “No. Stop it.”
“I just…”
“No!”
“I don’t know how to say this,” he choked out, a single tear finally escaping and tracking down his pale cheek.
“Then don’t say it.”
He closed his eyes, took a ragged breath, and finally spoke the words very quietly. Very clearly. “I don’t love you anymore.”
Everything stopped. The wind outside. The ticking of the grandfather clock. The very beating of your heart.
“…What?” you whispered.
He kept his eyes glued to the floor, his voice shaking but resolute. “I don’t love you anymore. I’m sorry.”
“What the fuck?”
Michael’s shoulders flinched violently at the profanity, a soft gasp escaping him as he curled further into himself.
“No,” you laughed, a broken, hysterical, confused sound that ripped from your throat. “No… no… why? Michael, look at me! Why?”
Nothing. He just sat there, taking the blows of your words, his head bowed in absolute shame.
“Michael!” you screamed.
Nothing.
“WHY?”
He couldn't answer. Not a single word. He couldn't give you a reason because the reason was a betrayal he didn't have the courage to voice. You stood up so quickly your knees slammed into the coffee table, rattling the crystal coasters. “Oh my God… Oh my God.”
He finally looked up at you. His face was entirely streaked with tears, his eyes red-rimmed and brimming with a profound, heavy misery. He looked broken, but he wasn't changing his mind.
You pointed a shaking finger at him. “It’s her. You lied to me. It’s her, isn’t it?”
Silence.
“It’s her, damn it!”
His lips trembled violently. He looked like he wanted to scream, wanted to beg for forgiveness, but he remained completely paralyzed. “Lisa.”
He looked back down at the carpet. He didn’t deny it this time. He didn’t defend himself. He didn’t even say your name to comfort you.
You let out a ragged laugh that dissolved into a heavy, devastating sob. “I knew it. I knew it all along.”
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice cracking completely, a pathetic, broken sound. “I didn’t mean for it to happen, I swear I didn’t…”
“You let me think I was crazy!” you shrieked, the betrayal burning through your veins. “You made me feel like I was insane! You stood in this room and lied straight to my face!”
“I never wanted to hurt you—” Michael cried out, standing up, reaching a frantic hand out toward you. “Please, you have to understand, I was so confused—”
“You LOVED HER!”
“I…”
“You loved her while you were sleeping in my bed! You loved her while you were looking me in the face!”
He couldn’t answer. He just stood there, tears pouring down his face, his chest heaving under the weight of his own guilt. That silence was your final answer. You grabbed your handbag from the chair. Michael took a frantic step forward. “Please… don't leave like this.”
“No.”
“Can we just—can we please talk tomorrow? When we're both calm?”
“No!” Tears finally spilled freely down your cheeks, hot and blinding. You looked at the man you had built your life around, the man you thought was your forever. “I chose you,” your voice cracked, breaking into pieces. “Every… single… time. No matter what they said about you, I chose you.”
Michael was crying openly now, big, heavy sobs shaking his entire frame. He covered his face with his hands, the picture of absolute, unadulterated angst. “I know,” he wept into his palms. “I know you did.”
“And you couldn’t even look me in the eyes.”
You turned and walked straight to the grand front doors. He didn’t stop you. He didn’t chase you down the driveway. He didn’t fight for you. He just stayed in the center of that massive, empty room, weeping into the silence. The heavy oak door clicked shut behind you. You never returned to Neverland.
The split absolutely broke Hollywood. Every entertainment news show ran 24-hour coverage, and fans chose sides across global forums. The King and Queen of Pop were dead. And then, you simply vanished. No press releases. No promotional singles. You pulled the plug on your public life entirely. For two long years, the music industry was a ghost town, wondering where its Queen had gone, even as Michael moved on publicly, marrying Lisa Marie Presley under a storm of relentless headlines questioning if their fairytale was already over.
The answer came at the Video Music Awards in 1995. Michael sat in the front row of the packed arena, Lisa sitting stiffly beside him. Their smiles for the flashing cameras looked entirely rehearsed, brittle and hollow. Michael looked exhausted, the spark missing from his eyes, his mind clearly a million miles away from the awards ceremony until the presenter walked up to the podium with a knowing smile.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen… a surprise performance.”
The arena lights died instantly. Complete, pitch-black darkness enveloped the venue. Confused murmurs broke out across the thousands of celebrities and fans. Then, a massive, heavy bass beat boomed through the stadium speakers. A slow, deliberate inhale echoed through the microphone, sending a collective chill down the audience's spine. From somewhere hidden deep in the dark stage, a voice purred…
“Sleazin’ and teasin’, I’m sittin’ on him…”
Gasps erupted like wildfire across the arena. Michael’s head snapped toward the stage so fast he nearly strained his neck. His entire body went completely, terrifyingly rigid. His breath caught in his throat. No… it couldn’t be.
The voice continued, oozing with an effortless, dangerous confidence.
“All of my diamonds are drippin’ on him…”
Michael stopped breathing entirely. He knew that voice. He had spent years helping train that voice. He had fallen asleep to that voice. He would know it in the middle of a warzone.
“I met him at the bar, it was twelve or somethin’…”
Lisa looked over at him, her brow furrowing as she noticed his sudden, deathly pallor. “…Michael?” she whispered, reaching for his hand. He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His hand was trembling.
“I ordered two more wines ’cause tonight I want him…”
The audience was screaming now, a deafening, hysterical roar as the realization swept through the crowd. A single, blinding white spotlight burst to life on the center stage.
You stepped forward, flanking a line of synchronized dancers. You looked breathtaking. A skin-tight, floor-length black dress that fit like a second skin, towering heels, your hair cascading over one shoulder in perfect waves. The diamonds dripping from your neck and wrists caught every single flash of the media pit. The arena exploded.
Michael couldn’t move. He sat frozen in his seat, a man watching his past life return to haunt him in full high-definition glory. His dark eyes found yours instantly across the sea of thousands of screaming faces. And across the distance, you found him too. Neither of you looked away. The music suddenly softened, dropping to a sultry, rhythmic pulse. You lifted the microphone to your lips, a faint, dangerous smile touching your face. You stared directly into Michael’s soul, and you sang to him.
“A little context if you care to listen…”
Michael swallowed hard, his throat dry, a look of sheer, agonizing vulnerability passing over his features.
“I find myself in a shit position…”
His jaw tightened, a muscle leaping in his cheek as the lyrics began to register. Next to him, Lisa went entirely stiff.
“The man that I love sat me down last night… and told me that it’s over.”
The crowd collectively gasped, a massive wave of realization washing over the stadium. This wasn’t just a comeback performance. This was a public execution. Your eyes never left his as you delivered the final, devastating blow of the verse, your voice ringing out crystal clear and mocking over the microphone.
“Dumb decision.”
The shift into the chorus was a physical explosion, a seismic shockwave that rattled the steel beams of the arena. The heavy, syncopated bass line dropped like a hammer, the speakers vibrating so violently that the floorboards beneath the front row trembled. You tore your gaze away from Michael, severing the heavy thread of tension between you, and did exactly what you were born to do take absolute, unapologetic ownership of the room.
You strutted down the long catwalk, every step calculated, dangerous, and dripping with an untouchable, lethal confidence. The two years of agonising silence, of hiding away and nursing a shattered spirit, evaporated under the heat of ten thousand stage lights. You were fully, blindingly alive, soaking in the electric thrill of the crowd, riding the high of a woman who had survived the worst of the wreckage and lived to flaunt it.
Your voice cut through the stadium, raw and laced with a venomous, triumphant joy as you belted the melody.
“Just a heartbroke bitch, high heels, six inch, in the back of the night club sippin’ champagne!”
The arena went completely feral. The sound of thousands of people screaming the lyrics back at you was deafening, a wall of noise that fueled the fire in your chest. You danced down the stage, hips swaying with a hypnotic, predatory grace, your movements fluid yet violently sharp as the dancers flanked you in flawless, tight synchronisation. You spun on a dime, catching the main camera’s lens with a wicked, teasing glint in your eyes before delivering the next emotional shrapnel.
“Drunk calls, drunk texts, drunk tears, drunk sex, I was lookin’ for a man who was on the same page!”
Down in the front row, the air left Michael’s lungs. It felt like a physical blow to the sternum. His eyes widened, his chest locking up as the words hit him like a bucket of ice water. He knew exactly what that line was about.
It had happened precisely five weeks after you packed your bags and walked out of the Neverland gates. The initial wall of his defensive anger had finally crumbled, leaving behind a hollow, terrifying reality. Alone in the sprawling master bedroom, suffocated by the quiet and fueled by a rare, desperate fog, Michael had unraveled completely. He had spent that entire night hunched over his phone in the dark, his hands shaking as he sent you a relentless barrage of frantic, pleading texts. Messages typed through a blur of tears, full of embarrassing typos and raw, naked desperation, begging you to just answer him, to come back, to tell him what he needed to do to fix it. You had never replied. You had left him floating in that silence. And now, he was forced to sit in a room full of the most powerful people in his industry, under the glaring scrutiny of rolling television cameras, while you broadcasted his private breakdown to the entire world. His hand gripped the armrest of his chair so tightly the leather groaned.
You didn't give him an ounce of pity. You were already moving, launching into the next complex choreography block, completely mesmerising the venue. You dropped low to the stage floor, the skin-tight black dress catching the moody purple and crimson hues of the stage lights, before rising up with an effortless, gravity-defying power to deliver the melodic, sweeping pre-chorus. You locked eyes with him once again, your voice soaring, thick with a beautiful, devastating irony.
“Cause I don’t wanna feel how I did last night, I don’t wanna feel how I did last night…”
Michael’s chest heaved, his breathing shallow and ragged. He looked utterly paralysed, his gaze pinned to yours like a man facing a firing squad. Every single muscle in his jaw was flexing, a visible pulse jumping in his cheek as he fought with everything in him to keep his face a mask of stoic composure for the broadcast. But the sheer, unadulterated angst in his eyes was blinding. He could feel the heavy, suffocating weight of the room shifting; he could hear the subtle whispers as the people around him began looking between him, Lisa, and the stage, effortlessly putting the pieces of the puzzle together.
Next to him, Lisa pulled her hand away from his entirely, her posture turning to solid stone as she stared straight ahead, refusing to look at him.
You transitioned seamlessly into the next verse, your tone dropping into a conversational, biting rhythm as you moved right to the absolute edge of the stage, towering directly above where his seat was positioned.
“Last night really was the cherry on the cake, been some dark days lately and I’m finding it cripplin’…”
Michael’s breath hitched, a faint, fractured gasp escaping his lips. He leaned forward just a fraction of an inch, his eyes burning with a volatile mixture of heartbreak, guilt, and an intense, suffocating longing. Hearing you publicly acknowledge the dark days was tearing him apart in real time. He looked like he wanted to jump out of his seat, like he wanted to scream, his eyes begging you for a shred of mercy you had no intention of giving.
You gave him a look that was pure, unfiltered heat and malice, leaning over the stage monitor as you delivered the final lines of the verse straight into his face.
“Excuse my state, I’m as high as your hopes that you’ll make it to my bed, get me hot and sizzling!”
The beat exploded again, throwing you right into a massive, high-energy dance break. The choreography was relentless, sharp, and undeniably powerful declaration that you were back, completely unbroken, and dominant in your element. The arena erupted into a roaring sea of cheers, the applause rising like a physical wall of sound as you hit every single beat with flawless, devastating precision.
As the music began to decelerate, winding down into a sparse, echoing rhythm, the dancers melted away into the shadows behind you. A single, dramatic spotlight trapped you in its beam, painting you in stark, sharp contrast against the darkness. The track slowed to a crawl, leaving your voice bare, vulnerable, and completely commanding.
“Lipstick smudged like modern art, I don’t know where the fuck I am or who’s drivin’ in the fuckin’ car…”
Michael watched you through a thick, agonizing blur of unshed tears, completely captivated, utterly unable to look away even if the world depended on it. He looked like a man drowning in plain sight, his throat bobbing heavily as he swallowed down the massive lump forming there. The absolute, raw honesty of the lyrics was stripping away every single ounce of his carefully built public armor.
You took a slow, deliberate step forward, your towering heels clicking sharply against the stage right at the absolute edge of the catwalk, looking straight down into his ruined expression as the song drew to its absolute close.
“Spilling secrets to the stranger in my bed, I remember nothing, so there’s nothing to regret…”
You paused, letting the heavy, breathless silence hang in the air for a fraction of a second, before delivering the final, echoing line:
“…other than this four-four kick drum poundin’ in my head.”
The final electronic beat thudded through the massive speakers and cut out entirely, leaving a vacuum of pure tension. You stood perfectly still, bathed in the blinding white light, your chest rising and falling heavily from the exertion. Down in the front row, Michael was completely breathless, his eyes locked onto yours, his heart hammering against his ribs in a painful, chaotic rhythm. He looked entirely wrecked, utterly exposed, his lips parted slightly as he stared up at you in a state of tragic, hopeless defeat.
You caught his shattered gaze, held it for one final, devastating second, and let a slow, triumphant smirk spread across your lips.
The stage lights slammed into pitch black, and the entire arena went completely, utterly wild.
The suffocating heat of the stadium lights gave way later that night to the exclusive, low-lit velvet luxury of the official VMA after-party. You didn’t run backstage, and you didn't hide. Instead, you glided into the venue like a conquering monarch, peacefully letting the compliments slide off your shoulders as you retreated to your private, heavily guarded VIP booth. The bass from the club speakers thudded softly through the thick curtains, a dull reminder of the storm you had just unleashed on live television.
You stood near the back of the dimly lit booth, looking out through the smoked glass at the crowded dance floor. You swirled a glass of champagne in your hand, watching the bubbles rise, entirely at peace with the chaos you'd left in your wake.
Then, the heavy velvet curtain behind you rustled. The security guard outside didn't make a sound because there was only one person in the world who could bypass your detail with a single look.
The air in the small booth shifted instantly. A familiar, clean scent of expensive cologne and ozone cut through the musk of the club, making the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. You didn't turn around. You kept your back to the room, your fingers tightening just a fraction around the stem of your champagne flute.
Silence stretched.
The intruder didn't storm in. There was no shouting, no dramatic scene. This was someone who fiercely guarded their privacy, who loathed airing dirty laundry in public spaces, keeping their composure tightly coiled.
“That was quite a performance,” a voice murmured from the shadows behind you.
It was low, velvety, and laced with a dangerous, quiet gravity. It was a voice used behind closed doors when wanting absolute control.
A slow, deliberate smirk spread across your lips. You kept your back to him, facing the glass, letting him look at the sharp silhouette of your shoulders. “I learned from the best.”
A heavy pause. You could hear the faint rustle of a jacket as he moved a step closer, though he kept a respectful, agonizing distance. “The lyrics,” the voice said softly, dropping an octave, carrying a raw, jagged edge of hidden angst that couldn't quite be masked. “The text messages. You told the whole world.”
“I told the truth,” you replied smoothly, taking a slow sip of your champagne. “I thought you loved a good story.”
“Not when it's mine,” he countered. He took another step, his shadow falling over yours against the glass. You could feel the heat radiating off his body, thick with two years of buried longing and unspoken regrets. “And certainly not when it's incomplete.”
Your smirk widened slightly, though your heart hammered against your ribs. “Oh? Did I miss a verse?”
“You forgot the part where I never stopped looking for you,” Michael whispered, his voice finally thick, cracking just enough to let the agony bleed through the armor. “You forgot the part where I still wake up in the middle of the night reaching for someone who isn't there.”
The words hung in the dim air of the booth, heavy and toxic with unresolved history. You finally turned around, slowly, deliberately, bringing yourself face-to-face with him.
Michael stood under the dim amber light of the booth his shadowing eyes that were dark, intense, and absolutely swimming with unadulterated heartbreak.
He looked proper, perfectly put together on the outside, but his bottom lip trembled slightly. The sheer, desperate love he had tried to bury under a massive public marriage was burning right on the surface, practically begging you to touch it.
You looked him up and down, your face a mask of beautiful, cruel indifference. You stepped closer, tilting your head up until you were inches from his face, your eyes locking onto his.
“The song is already a hit, Michael,” you whispered, your voice a teasing, lethal purr. You reached out, your manicured finger tracing a slow, agonising line down the silver trim of his jacket, right over his racing heart, before gently tapping the rim of your champagne glass against his button. You leaned in closer, your lips almost brushing his ear as you exhaled, “But don't worry. If you play your cards right tonight... I might let you help me write the encore.”
Before he could capture your hand, before his fingers could close around your waist to keep you from slipping away, you glided past him. Your dress fluttered against his leg like a whisper as you vanished through the velvet curtains and into the flashing lights of the club.
Michael stayed frozen in the dark booth, staring at the empty space you’d left behind, his chest heaving as your perfume lingered in the air, mocking him. The Queen was back. And you were going to make him crawl for it.
