#304

MONICA GELLER & CHANDLER BING ❤️

🔸️ Would or Wouldn't ❓️ 🤔

1972 AMC Gremlin X 304 V8

　 Michael Jackson x Hooke! Reader

Everybody else wanted a night.

Michael wanted a future.

Wc: 3.4k

Warnings :18+( MDI- minors do not interact) , Mature Themes, Dark Romance, Emotional Dependency, Obsession, Possessive Behavior, Jealousy, Stalking, Kidnapping, Manipulation, Psychological Manipulation, Forced Domesticity, Forced Housewife Dynamics, Isolation, Emotional Abuse, Psychological Warfare, Trauma References, Mentions of Sex Work, Drug Use, Unhealthy Relationship Dynamics, Codependency, Loss of Autonomy, Angst, Heartbreak, Soft!Dark Michael, X Female Reader. Dead Doves don’t eat.

Tag list 🏷️ : @dayyysinterlude, @simply-lovley44 @yourfavoritesunflower, @jojo-son @chocotragedy @hee-hees .

"Your perfume is different tonight."

The observation came softly, almost absently, as Michael traced the edge of his wineglass with a fingertip. The penthouse suite was dim, lit only by the flicker of the city skyline through floor to ceiling windows. You hesitated mid step, the strap of your dress slipping slightly off your shoulder.

"It’s cheaper," you admitted, shrugging. "Ran out of the other one." You didn’t mention that the last client had spilled his drink on your last good bottle, or that the replacement cost half a night’s pay. Some truths were too mundane for a place like this where the ice in the glasses never melted and the carpets swallowed sound whole.

Michael’s fingers stilled. Without a word, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a small velvet box. "I don’t like cheap things," he murmured, pushing it across the table toward you. Inside was a vial of perfume so expensive the name alone could’ve paid your rent for a month. You stared at it, your throat tightening.

Your fingers hovered over the velvet box, the weight of its contents pressing against your ribs before you even touched it. The scent of bergamot and something darker amber, maybe drifted up as you lifted the stopper. “This is too much,” you whispered, but the words dissolved in the hush of the room, swallowed by the hum of the air conditioning and the distant wail of a siren thirty floors below.

Michael watched you with an intensity that made your skin prickle. “Nothing’s too much for you.” His voice was velvet wrapped steel, smooth but unyielding. “You deserve pretty things.” A pause. A slow sip of wine. “You deserve better .” The last word hung between you, sharp as the crystal glass in his hand.

You laughed, brittle. “Better’s expensive.”

Michael’s fingers curled around his wineglass, the crystal catching the low light like a threat. "You think this is about money?" His voice was a whisper, but it cut through the room sharper than any blade. Outside, the city pulsed neon signs bleeding into the dark, taxis weaving like drunk fireflies. You could feel the distance between the penthouse and the streets below, the chasm between his world and yours.

You swallowed, gripping the velvet box tighter. "Isn’t it?"

He set the glass down with deliberate care, the sound like a gun cocking. "No." The word was final. "It’s about what you let yourself believe you’re worth." His eyes flickered over you, possessive and hungry. "And you keep selling yourself short."

The air between you thickened. You laughed again, but it cracked halfway. "Philosophy’s a luxury, Michael. I don’t get paid to think."

The penthouse air smelled of expensive leather and the faintest hint of the bergamot from the perfume box still clutched in your hands. Michael hadn’t moved, his gaze tracing the way your fingers trembled around the velvet. He was dressed in black always black the silk shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal the sharp line of his collarbone, the sleeves rolled to his forearms where delicate veins mapped stories of restraint. You, in contrast, wore the dress he’d sent last week deep red, the kind that clung in ways you weren’t used to, the fabric whispering against your thighs whenever you shifted.

“Philosophy’s a luxury,” you repeated, softer now, as if testing the weight of the words. The city beyond the windows pulsed with light, but the room felt suspended, like the two of you were caught in amber.

Michael tilted his head, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. “And what do you get paid for?” he asked, voice low, deliberate.

You knew the script the coy laugh, the practiced touch, the way to curve your body into an offering. But your tongue felt heavy. “You know what I get paid for.”

Michael’s fingers twitched against his glass, the quiet clink of crystal the only sound between you for a long moment. Then, slowly, he stood the movement predatory in its grace and closed the distance between you in three measured steps. His hand lifted, not to touch you, but to pluck the perfume box from your grip. “No,” he murmured, uncapping it with a deft twist. “You get paid to forget.” His thumb brushed the inside of your wrist, leaving a cool trail of bergamot and amber. “But I don’t want you to forget tonight.”

The scent curled between you, heavy and intoxicating. You should’ve stepped back, should’ve laughed it off, should’ve done anything but stand there heart pounding as his gaze pinned you in place. “Michael,” you started, but his name died in your throat when he dipped his head, lips grazing the shell of your ear.

“Tell me,” he breathed, “what’s the first thing you remember about me?”

You did laugh then, shaky. “You tipped me in hundred dollar bills. Folded them into origami cranes.”

Michael’s laugh was a quiet, dangerous thing against your ear warm breath and the faintest hint of expensive whiskey. His fingers curled around yours, the velvet box still cradled between your palms, his touch feather-light but unshakable. “And what did you do with them?” he murmured, his thumb tracing circles on your wrist now, slow, hypnotic.

You swallowed, the memory flashing the crisp bills folded into delicate wings, left on the nightstand like some twisted modern art. “Spent them,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

His lips curved against your temple, not quite a kiss. “On what?”

“Food. Rent.” A pause. “A knife.”

The admission hung between you a knife and Michael went very, very still. His fingers tightened imperceptibly around yours, his breath warm against your temple where his lips still hovered. Outside, the city lights blurred into streaks of gold and red, but inside, the air had gone thick with something unspoken.

“For protection?” Michael asked, his voice deceptively light, but you could feel the tension coiled beneath it, like a snake poised to strike.

You nodded, your throat dry. “Old habits.”

His thumb stilled on your wrist. Then, slowly, he pulled back just enough to look at you really look at you his dark eyes scanning your face like he was memorizing every flicker of fear, every shadow of hesitation. The red dress felt suddenly too tight, the fabric clinging to your skin like a second layer of panic.

The silence stretched between you, taut as a wire, until Michael exhaled a slow, deliberate sound and let his fingers trail up your arm, over the thin strap of the red dress he’d bought you. His touch was featherlight, but it burned. “Old habits,” he repeated, his voice a murmur against the hollow of your throat. “But you’re not there anymore, are you?”

You shivered, though the penthouse was warm. The dress, silk lined and tailored to your measurements, suddenly felt like a second skin, too intimate, too his. Outside, the city sprawled, indifferent, but in this room, time had warped, narrowed to the space between his body and yours. His black silk shirt brushed your bare shoulder, the fabric cool against your feverish skin.

“I—” you started, but Michael’s fingers pressed gently to your lips, silencing you.

“Let me guess,” he said, tilting his head, the dim light catching the sharp angle of his jaw. “You tell yourself you don’t need saving. That you’re fine. That this—” His hand swept down, indicating the dress, the perfume, the penthouse, your pimp , “—

is just another transaction.” His thumb traced your bottom lip, slow, possessive. “But you’re lying.”

The scent of bergamot clung to your skin like a brand as Michael’s fingers traced the line of your collarbone, slow, deliberate. “Tell me,” he murmured, his breath warm against your ear, “who taught you to lie so well?” His other hand slid down your arm, fingers twining with yours, the velvet box long forgotten on the table. The penthouse hummed around you the whisper of the air conditioning, the distant chime of the elevator descending floors below but all you could hear was the rush of blood in your ears.

His thumb pressed into your pulse point, as if counting each frantic beat. “You don’t have to lie to me,” he said, voice softer now, almost tender. The red dress his dress

felt like a noose tightening with every breath. “I already know the truth.” His lips brushed your temple, featherlight. “You hate this. The pretending. The performing ” His grip tightened, just barely. “But you don’t have to pretend with me.”

You swallowed, your throat dry. “Michael—”

“Shh.” His finger pressed against your lips again, silencing you. The city beyond the windows was a blur of neon and shadow, but his eyes dark, endless held you captive. “Let me take care of you,” he murmured, his voice honey thick, slipping under your skin like a drug. “No more cheap perfume. No more knives. No more him .” The last word was a razor’s edge, though his smile never wavered.

The scent of unsureness lingered in the air, thick and cloying, as Michael’s fingers traced the line of your jaw. His touch was featherlight, but it burned a brand in slow motion. The penthouse was silent save for the hum of the air conditioning, the distant wail of sirens thirty floors below nothing more than white noise. You stood there, trapped between his body and the floor to ceiling windows, the city lights casting fractured reflections across his face. His silk shirt black, always black brushed against your bare arm, the fabric cool against your feverish skin. The red dress he’d bought you clung like a second skin, the straps digging into your shoulders as if marking you.

“You don’t have to go back,” Michael murmured, his voice a velvet purr. His thumb brushed over your bottom lip, possessive. “Not tonight. Not ever.” The words slithered into your ears, coiled around your spine. “Wouldn’t you like that? To wake up somewhere soft? Somewhere safe?” His hand slid down to your wrist, fingers encircling the delicate bones there

You swallowed, the weight of his offer pressing against your ribs like a fist. “I can’t just leave,” you whispered, but the protest sounded hollow even to your own ears.

Michael smiled, slow and knowing. “Why not?”

The penthouse lights dimmed further as Michael’s fingers tightened around your wrist, his thumb pressing into the delicate blue veins beneath your skin. Outside, Los Angeles glittered like a spilled jewelry box, but the reflection in his dark eyes was sharper hungrier. "Why not?" he repeated, tilting his head as if genuinely curious. His black silk shirt whispered against your bare arm as he stepped closer, the scent of his cologne something expensive and smoky mixing with the bergamot still clinging to your skin. You could see the exact moment his gaze dropped to the red dress’s plunging neckline, the way his pupils dilated just slightly.

"You know why," you breathed, but your voice cracked halfway.

Michael’s laugh was a low, private thing. "No, I don’t." His free hand lifted, tracing the strap of the dress with a fingertip. "Tell me. Is it the money? The freedom?" The last word dripped with irony. His thumb brushed the hollow of your throat, and you shivered.

The unspoken name of your pimp Marcus hung between you like a knife. You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. Michael’s smile turned knowing. "Thought so." His fingers slid up to cradle your jaw, tipping your face toward his. "Let me ask you something," he murmured, his breath warm against your lips. "When was the last time you slept through the night? Really slept? Without checking the locks. Without the knife under your pillow."

The question lingered in the air like a held breath when was the last time you slept?and you realized, with a slow, creeping dread, that you couldn’t remember. The penthouse walls seemed to press closer, the city lights beyond the windows blurring into streaks of gold and red, like smeared paint. Michael’s fingers were still cradling your jaw, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth with

The next few days went on like business usually does, stripper by day and a whore at night , yoube dealt with all kinds of men before ,ones who try to get rough and others who get too attached, Michael was neither and both all at the same time . You tried to keep your distance but he always had a way of pulling you back in , like a spider luring a fly into its web with silk promises and expensive gifts ,you hated how easily he made you fold under his touch .

Tonight was no different , you had just finished a private dance for some businessman , his hands were rough and his breath smelled of whiskey ,but it was nothing you couldn’t handle . You slipped out of the VIP room ,your skin still hot from the contact , your corset digging into your ribs uncomfortably . The club was loud and the neon lights flickered overhead , casting everything in a pinkish hue .

You were heading towards the dressing room when you felt a hand on your elbow , you turned expecting to see Marcus , your pimp ,but instead it was Michael . His dark eyes bore into yours , his expression unreadable as usual . He was dressed in his usual black , a tailored suit this time ,his hair slicked back ,his cologne a mix of sandalwood and something darker , more expensive .

"You look tired ," he said softly ,his thumb rubbing circles on your bare arm .

"You look dull like " Michael murmured, his thumb tracing the curve of your elbow where the corset had left angry red marks. The club’s neon lights flickered overhead, staining his sharp cheekbones in alternating shades of pink and violet. His suit charcoal, tailored to his lean frame seemed to absorb the chaos around you both, as if he existed in a pocket of stillness amidst the thrumming bass and laughter.

You swallowed, forcing a smile. "Long night."

His fingers tightened imperceptibly. "You shouldn’t be here."

"Where else would I be?" The words slipped out before you could stop them, bitter and raw.

The neon lights of the club pulsed like a dying heartbeat as Michael’s fingers slid from your elbow to your wrist, his grip deceptively gentle. His cufflinks onyx, you noticed glimmered under the strobes, catching the light like a predator’s eyes in the dark. “You’re coming with me,” he said, not a request but a statement, his voice smooth as the silk lining of his suit jacket.

You laughed, the sound brittle. “I’ve got clients, Michael.”

His thumb pressed into your pulse point. “Not anymore.”

The backstage hallway was narrow, the walls sticky with spilled liquor and the ghosts of too many whispered deals. Michael guided you through it with a hand at the small of your back, his touch proprietary. The dressing room door swung open with a creak, revealing your makeup-streaked vanity and the wilted roses from last week’s admirer. Michael’s nose wrinkled at the scent cheap perfumes and desperation.

The roses were dead just like everything else in that dressing room. You stared at them, their petals curled and brown at the edges, while Michael’s fingers traced idle patterns along your spine through the thin fabric of your corset. His touch was light, almost absent, but it burned.

"You don’t have to do this," he said again, softer now, his breath warm against the shell of your ear.

You laughed, but it came out hollow. "We’ve been over this, Michael."

“True”.

The roses weren’t the only dead things in that dressing room. You realized it when Michael’s hands always so careful, always so calculated settled on your shoulders, turning you away from the wilted bouquet. His reflection loomed behind yours in the vanity mirror, a shadow dressed in black silk and quiet hunger. "You’re right," he said, voice smooth as the lies he fed you between glasses of expensive wine. "We have been over this." His fingers tightened, just barely. "But you keep choosing wrong."

The corset dug deeper into your ribs as you inhaled sharply. Outside, the club pulsed with bass and laughter, but in here, the air had gone thick with something unspeakable. Michael’s thumb traced the notch of your spine, slow, deliberate. "Let me ask you something," he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear. "When was the last time you made a choice that wasn’t about survival?"

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

His smile in the mirror was knife sharp. "Thought so."

A drink was already in your hand before you realized Michael had moved something amber and expensive swirling in crystal cut glass, condensation beading along the rim. "Drink," he murmured, fingers brushing yours as he guided it to your lips. His touch was warm. The glass was cold. The first sip burned honey sweet down your throat, the taste of peaches and something darker, something you couldn’t name.

"You’re shaking," Michael observed, his voice low, velvet wrapped steel. His thumb traced the curve of your jaw as you took another sip, then another, the liquid warmth spreading through your chest like a slow blooming bruise. The club’s neon lights blurred at the edges of your vision, the bass fading into a dull throb. His reflection in the vanity mirror wavered black silk suit, dark eyes, a smile that didn’t reach his pupils. "That’s it," he coaxed, fingers tightening around yours as the glass tipped further. "Just let go."

The last thing you remembered was the scent of sandalwood, his palm cradling the back of your head as the world tipped sideways.

———

Cold. The first sensation was cold marble against your cheek, the whisper of silk sheets beneath your fingers. Your eyelids fluttered open to a ceiling you didn’t recognize, high and vaulted, draped in shadows. Panic spiked, but your limbs were leaden, your tongue thick with the aftertaste of peaches and something medicinal. A fireplace crackled somewhere to your left, casting amber light over a room too large to be real.

"Good morning," came Michael’s voice, smooth as the stem of the crystal glass he twirled between his fingers. He sat at the foot of an ornate bed his bed, you realized dressed in a tailored black robe, his hair tousled as if he’d been waiting for hours. "Or should I say good evening? You slept through the day."

You tried to sit up, but the room spun. "Where—?"

"Home," he interrupted, setting the glass down with a soft clink . "Our home."

The word our slithered under your skin. The room was decadent cream silk sheets, gilded mirrors, a fireplace roaring despite the California heat. Your corset was gone, replaced by a white lace chemise you didn’t recognize, the fabric whispering against your thighs as you shifted. "Michael," you breathed, voice raw. "What did you—?"

"Rescue you?" His smile was a blade. "Yes."

The drink. The club. The way his fingers had tightened around yours as the world dissolved. You lunged for the edge of the bed, but his hand caught your wrist, thumb pressing into your pulse. "Easy," he murmured. "No knives here. No locks to check. “ His grip gentled, fingers interlacing with yours. "Just me."

Your throat burned. "You drugged me."

Michael tilted his head the same way he'd done when you'd first met, when he'd folded hundred-dollar bills into origami cranes. "I set you free." His free hand traced the lace at your collarbone, proprietary. "You were drowning in cheap liquor and cheaper men. I gave you an escape route."

The fireplace cast long shadows across his face as he reached for something on the nightstand a dark velvet box, darker than the one that had held the perfume. It clicked open in his palm. The ring inside was an obscenity of diamonds, sharp enough to draw blood. "Marry me," he said, as if proposing a business transaction. "Not for the papers. For the protection." His thumb brushed your knuckle. "My name is armor. My lawyers are sharks. My security team handles... messy things." A pause. "Like Marcus."

Your breath hitched. He'd known. Known About The locked doors. The way your pimp's hands left bruises where clients wouldn't see.

Michael's smile softened. He lifted the ring, letting the firelight fracture through the stones. "Say yes, and you'll never ever and I mean ever have to sleep with another degenerate again ." The diamond grazed your bottom lip. "Say no..." He shrugged, elegant. "Well. You already said yes when you drank my champagne."

Ice flooded your veins. The peaches. The haze. The way the club lights had smeared like wet paint. You lunged backward, but silk sheets tangled around your legs. "You—"

"Saved you," he corrected, catching your wrist. His grip was warm. The ring was cold. “I gave you oxygen." The diamond slid onto your finger with terrifying ease. " Now, Breathe."

—————————————————————

The wedding was quiet. Private. A judge with hollow cheeks and a suit that smelled of mothballs pronounced you man and wife while Michael’s thumb traced slow circles over your knuckles. His smile never reached his eyes. You wore white not lace this time, but silk, the dress whispering against your thighs like a secret. No guests. No bouquet. Just the weight of the diamond band snug around your finger and the way Michael’s grip tightened when you hesitated before saying I do.

The penthouse became your world. High ceilings. Windows that stretched from floor to sky, showing Los Angeles as a glittering diorama far below. Michael’s staff moved like ghosts a chef who left meals under silver cloches, maids who freshened the rooms while you slept, security men with earpieces who never spoke but always seemed to be watching. Your old clothes disappeared. Your phone was replaced with a new one, contacts pre loaded: Michael. Security. Doctor.

The hair pin you usually kept taped under the dressing room vanity? Gone. You asked about it once. Michael smiled, poured you a glass of wine, and changed the subject.

The newspapers called it a whirlwind romance. Reclusive King of Pop Weds Mystery Woman!Tabloids speculated was it a Vegas elopement? A secret pregnancy? Michael’s PR team fed them just enough to keep the story sweet. No one mentioned the club. No one asked about the bruises Marcus used to leave. You tried to bring it up once, over breakfast, but Michael’s publicist a woman with ice blonde hair and a smile like a razor leaned in and said, Darling, we took care of that. The way she said took care of made you drop the subject.

Months blurred. Michael left for tour rehearsals, and the penthouse became a gilded cage. His security team escorted you to spas, boutiques, charity galas where women in couture eyed your wrist the one with the delicate scar from where Marcus had broken it and asked how you and Michael really met. You learned to smile and say, Through mutual friends. Learned to let Michael’s stylist pick your dresses, his nutritionist plan your meals, his trainer measure your waist every Sunday. Learned to ignore the way his fingers lingered a beat too long when he adjusted the pearls at your throat.

The first time you met his family, you wore pearls.

Michael had chosen them three strands of Mikimoto, cool against your collarbone, the clasp secured with his own hands. His fingers lingered at the nape of your neck a beat too long, his breath warm against your ear as he whispered, “Don’t fidget."The Beverly Hills mansion loomed ahead, all white stone and manicured hedges, the kind of place you’d seen in magazines but never dreamed of entering.

Katherine Jackson took your hand with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “So you’re the one," she said, her grip firm, her gaze sharper. The family photos on the grand piano showed a younger Michael grinning, bright eyed flanked by brothers whose hands now hovered near your waist a little too casually. Janet watched you from across the room, her martini glass tilting as she murmured something to La Toya that made them both laugh.

“They’ll love you,"Michael had promised in the car, his thumb stroking your knee. “Just be yourself." But when Rebbie asked where you’d gone to college and you hesitated, Michael answered for you. “She studied art history," smooth as the lie was practiced. The pearls felt suddenly heavy.

The tour started in Tokyo. You stood center stage during soundcheck, your shadow stretching enormous against the stadium screens as Michael adjusted your stance with hands that knew every angle of your body. "Softer," he murmured, tilting your chin up. “ They need to believe you belong here." His dancers moved around you like a well oiled machine, their smiles never reaching their eyes when they nodded at you Mrs. Jackson.

———————————————————————

Backstage at Madison Square Garden, Prince slid into your dressing room uninvited, his smirk hidden behind dark glasses. “ Heard you used to dance,"* he said, fingering the feather boa draped over your vanity. “Just not this kind."Before you could respond, Michael was there a hand on your shoulder, his grip just shy of painful. “Baby," he said, sweet as poison, “time for wardrobe." Prince’s laugh followed you down the hall.

The media called you his “ muse."Your Instagram curated by his team showed carefully staged moments: Michael feeding you strawberries in Paris, your hand draped over his at the Grammys, sunrise yoga in Bali where his palms spanned your waist for the cameras. The comments gushed (couple goals!) while your old phone the one Marcus had programmed with his number sat in a locked drawer somewhere in the house.

It was the nights in unfamiliar hotel rooms that undid you. Michael would return from meet and greets smelling of strangers’ perfume, his lips brushing your forehead as he unknotted his tie. “You looked beautiful tonight,"he’d say, watching you undress in the vanity mirror. “But stand straighter tomorrow."The first time you cried silent, facedown in a Zurich pillow he sighed and gathered you against his chest. *"Shhh,"* he murmured, stroking your hair. “You wanted this."

By Berlin, you stopped correcting reporters who asked about your “art history degree."

By Seoul, you let his stylist tweeze your brows into submission. The breaking point came in Rio, when a paparazzo shouted “How does it feel to be rescued?"and Michael’s hand proprietary on your spine dug in just enough to leave bruises. That night, as he traced the marks with his tongue, you realized , you’d stopped checking for exits.

—————————————————————-

The family reunion at Hayvenhurst was a minefield. Janet’s eyes sharp as the stilettos you’d been forbidden from wearing tracked your every sip of champagne. “So," she said, leaning in, “Michael says you love cooking."You froze, the lie thick in your throat. You’d never boiled an egg before the penthouse’s chef started your "lessons."

“She makes a perfect coq au vin,"Michael interjected, his fingers tightening around yours. The diamond band bit into your skin. Later, in the guest bathroom, you stared at your reflection pearls perfect, lipstick untouched, hair smoothed into submission and almost didn’t recognize yourself.

The tour finale in LA was broadcast live. You stood center stage in white lace (his choice), smiling (his cue) as fireworks painted the sky. When Michael dropped to one knee "for old times’ sake"the crowd roared. The second ring he slid onto your finger was heavier than the first. Backstage, as assistants scrambled with champagne, you caught a glimpse of your old self in a dressing room mirror, a broken down woman , ready to fight. The reflection winked out when Michael stepped into frame, his palm warm against your throat.

“Perfect," he murmured, adjusting your earring. His cufflinks onyx, like the first night gleamed under the lights. “Just like we practiced."*

The screams of fifty thousand fans still echoed in your skull as Michael guided you into the limousine, his fingers pressing just above your pulse point a silent warning. Champagne chilled your palm in its flute, bubbles rising like trapped whispers. You watched them burst against the crystal rim while Michael's publicist rattled off tomorrow’s agenda from the front seat: “Breakfast with Vogue at eight, charity luncheon noon sharp, no garlic, remember what happened in Milan—"

The divider slid up with a quiet hiss, sealing you both in a velvet-lined silence. Michael exhaled, rolling his shoulders as if shedding the weight of the performance. His reflection in the tinted window was blurred at the edges, the city lights streaking across his profile like liquid gold.

"You were stunning tonight," he said, thumb brushing the hollow beneath your eye where the makeup artist had dabbed concealer. "But you hesitated during the bow."

A shiver traced your spine. You had hesitated just a fraction of a second, when the pyrotechnics boomed and your muscles locked, instinct screaming run.

The limousine’s engine hummed beneath you, a steady vibration against the soles of your shoes shoes Michael had bought, in a size he’d memorized after watching you limp through a charity gala in heels too small. You pressed your forehead to the cool window, watching Los Angeles blur into streaks of light. "I want to go home," you murmured, not realizing you’d spoken aloud until Michael’s fingers stilled on your wrist.

"*This is your home," he said softly, but the words had edges. His thumb traced the blue veins beneath your skin a map of all the places you’d bled before him. "Or do you miss that cockroach infested studio with the broken lock? The one where your mother pawned your schoolbooks for crack money?"

You flinched. He’d never said it so bluntly before.

Michael sighed, lifting your hand to press a kiss to your knuckles the diamond ring cold against his lips. "Or maybe you miss Marcus," he mused, dark eyes flicking up to gauge your reaction. "Did he ever kiss you like this?" His mouth moved to your inner wrist, tongue swiping over the scar there the one from the handcuffs Marcus had used when clients paid extra. "Did he ever feed you?"

The limo hit a pothole, jostling the champagne flute from your grip. It shattered against the floor, shards skittering like the ice in your veins. Michael didn’t blink. "You weighed ninety seven pounds when I found you," he continued, fingers walking up your arm like a spider. "Your ribs showed through that red dress. Your hair was falling out from stress." He tilted your chin toward the window where billboards of his tour flashed by your face now among them, airbrushed and gleaming. "Tell me, darling. Which part of that is worth going back to?"

Your breath fogged the glass. Somewhere out there, your old neighborhood festered the bodega with its bulletproof glass, the stairwell where you’d hidden from Marcus’s debt collectors, the mattress stained with other men’s sweat. Michael’s reflection loomed behind yours, his palm settling warm at the base of your throat. "You cried yourself to sleep every night," he whispered. "Now you sleep on Egyptian cotton. With me."

The divider slid down slightly as the driver announced the arrival at the hotel. Michael’s hand tightened imperceptibly. "Last chance," he murmured. "Should I tell him to turn around? Take you to some bus station with twenty dollars and the clothes on your back?" His lips grazed your temple. "Or do you want the penthouse? The chef? The doctor who fixed that tooth Marcus knocked loose?"

Your fingers trembled in his. The silence stretched, taut as the strings of his bed’s canopy the one he’d had custom made because you’d once mentioned loving fairy tales as a child. Outside, paparazzi flashes popped like distant fireworks.

Michael sighed, pressing his forehead to yours. "You don’t miss home," he corrected gently. "You miss the idea of having one." His thumb traced the hollow under your eye where the foundation had cracked. "Your mother sold your winter coat for a fix. Your father left before you could walk. The only birthday card you ever got was from a social worker." He kissed the space between your eyebrows the spot you’d told him used to ache from crying. "I built you a home. Brick by brick. Pearl by pearl."

The limo door opened, flooding the cabin with camera flashes and shouted questions. Michael shielded you with his body, his suit jacket smelling of sandalwood and the vetiver cologne he’d commissioned after learning it was your favorite. "Watch your step," he murmured, guiding you onto the red carpet his territory, his world. The diamond band caught the light as he laced your fingers together, squeezing just enough to remind you. This is real. This is yours.

Elevator doors slid shut on the chaos. Michael pressed you against the mirrored wall, his breath warm as he nuzzled the spot behind your ear that always made you shiver. "Tell me what you need," he coaxed, fingers skating down your ribs counting each one like a bead on an abacus. "More art classes? That pianist you liked from the Met? A puppy?" His teeth grazed your earlobe. "Name it. It’s yours."