#raye

Everyone had accepted one simple truth: Michael Jackson and Y/N were going to get married.

Nobody questioned ‘if’ anymore. They only questioned the ‘when’.

Which, unfortunately for Michael, had become the most frequently asked question in entertainment journalism.

They had been together for nearly four years now.

She was the industry’s newest darling—a powerhouse vocalist whose soul, jazz and pop influences had made her one of the fastest-rising artists at the time. Every awards season belonged to her just as much as it belonged to him.

Together, they were impossible to ignore.

Magazine covers.

Award shows.

Movie premieres.

Charity galas.

Somehow they always ended up photographed laughing in corners, stealing little glances when they thought cameras weren’t paying attention.

And every interview somehow eventually became the same conversation.

“So…” The interviewer smiled knowingly. “When’s the wedding?”

Y/N always laughed. “Don’t look at me!” She shook her head and held out her hands. “It’s not me you should be asking that!”

The audience laughed.

Michael laughed.

The interviewer laughed.

Then the camera inevitably cut to Michael.

He’d smile innocently. “What?”

“What do you mean, ‘what’?” she’d tease. “They’re asking you!”

He’d simply shrug. “I don’t know what everyone’s talking about.”

“Oh, you know exactly what they’re talking about.”

“I really don’t.”

“You’re such a bad liar!”

Another interview. Another city. Another red carpet.

“So,” another reporter grinned, “have you started planning the wedding?”

Y/N sighed dramatically. “Well, I’ve started.”

Michael blinked beside her. “You have?”

“Yes, I have.” She nodded throughly. “I’ve picked flowers.”

Michael tilted his head at her. “You have?”

She nodded once again. “I’ve picked music.”

“…You have?”

“Oh, honey, I’ve even picked the cake.” She stated in a very serious tone.

Michael laughed. “Of course you have.” He said, pulling her closer with the arm he had around her shoulder and placing a kiss on her temple.

The clip aired everywhere.

Fans adored them.

The jokes became a running thing.

Whenever Michael left for another leg of his tour, Y/N would wave him goodbye dramatically.

“Come back with a ring!”

He’d point at her. “No promises.” She threw hands every time.

Months passed. Another tour. Another album. Another awards season.

And still…

No proposal in sight.

But what nobody knew—not the press, not the fans, not even Y/N—was that tucked safely inside the back drawer of Michael’s dresser sat a navy velvet ring box.

Inside rested the most beautiful marquise-cut diamond he’d ever seen.

He’d spent nearly six months searching for it.

Six long months of sneaking around in jewelry stores.

Six long, exhausting months of yearning to drop on one knee and call the woman he loved his fiancée and eventually wife already.

But Michael simply refused to rush something he’d dreamed about his entire life.

He wanted the moment perfect. She deserved nothing but perfection.

Y/N, meanwhile, was getting very impatient.

Not genuinely, thought. Comically impatient.

On one specific afternoon she stormed into the studio chewing on some gun and carrying righteous indignation.

Her producer looked up from the piano. He grimaced. “Should I be worried?”

“Yes.” She answered, dropping onto a chair near the piano.

He sighed, turning on the bench to face her. “What happened?”

“My boyfriend is testing me.” She pressed the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes harshly.

“…Michael?”

“Michael.” She affirmed in a low voice while nodding.

“He do something?”

“Absolutely not.”

“…Okay?” The producer frowned. That man was getting confused.

Y/N groaned and dropped her head dramatically. “He won’t propose.”

Silence.

He pondered for a few seconds before nodding. “Yeah, that’s actually fair.”

“Thank you!” She threw herself dramatically onto the chair one more time. “I’ve been so, so patient.”

He snorted at her, getting up from the bench and placing his hands on his waist. “Darling, you’ve been making jokes about it on national television.”

“Exactly.” She pointed a sharp finger at him.

“So what’s your plan?”

Y/N sat up slowly, a mischievous smile slowly spreading across her face.

“I am about to write the most direct song of my entire tiny career.”

Her producer immediately started laughing. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes.”

Three hours later she walked into the vocal booth.

The band watched through the glass.

The backing vocalists waited beside their microphones.

She adjusted her headphones. Smiled and cleared her throat.

Then announced: “Okay, this one goes out to my wonderful boyfriend,” A beat. “who apparently needs some instruction.”

Her producer snorted, shaking his head at her. This girl was impossible.

When the recording was finished, the producer slowly removed his headphone. “You’re going to send Michael Jackson into cardiac arrest.” He noted.

“Oh, I know.”

“You’ve publicly declared war.”

“Well, you know what they say,” She said through the microphone while shrugging slightly.

The producer shrugged and frowned. “Uh, I actually have no idea what ‘they say’” He paused. “Please, enlighten me.”

Y/N smirked. “All’s fair in love and poetry.”

⋆⭒˚.⋆

She kept the song secret for a few weeks.

Even from Michael. Well, especially from Michael.

Which made the invitation to perform at a major Award show ceremony all the more dangerous.

Nobody knew what she planned.

Not the audience.

Not the press.

Certainly not the man sitting front row in a black tuxedo who believed he was simply there to support his girlfriend.

The auditorium lights dimmed. A spotlight illuminated center stage. The curtain lifted and the audience erupted.

Y/N stood beneath a vintage microphone wearing a floor-length crimson gown that glittered beneath every light in the room.

The silhouette hugged her perfectly before flowing elegantly to the floor.

Her hair curled softly beneath her jaw.

She looked like she’d stepped straight out of a 1950s Hollywood film.

Behind her waited an entire live band.

Piano.

Double bass.

Drums.

A brass section.

And three women in matching satin gowns standing behind vintage microphones.

Michael smiled immediately at the sight. But something about this entire setup made him a bit nervous, what he couldn’t place a finger on it.

“You know, she didn’t let me hear this one yet,” Michael commented casually to the man sitting beside him. It was Y/N’s producer, who didn’t take his eyes off the stage.

“Oh, trust me, I know.” He answered with a scoff.

Michael frowned a little at that response. “She just keeps saying it’s ‘special.’”

The man scratched the back of his neck and clicked his tongue. “It is.”

“You’ve heard it?” Michael asked, turning towards him.

“Unfortunately.”

Michael laughed. “Unfortunately?”

“Yeah, yeah,” The producer finally looked at him. “You’ll see.”

Then the lights dimmed.

The pianist played the opening chord.

Y/N wrapped one elegant hand around the microphone.

Smiled sweetly.

“Oh, baby…” She sang, her voice floating through the room like velvet. Warm. Playful. Dangerously theatrical. Then she tilted her head, a mischievous grin appeared on her red lips. “Where the hell is my husband?”

The audience exploded.

People gasped and screamed before she’d even finished the sentence.

Michael covered half his face with one hand.

“Oh my God…” He murmured under his breath.

The cameras immediately found him. Worst possible thing ever for Michael.

Because Michael Jackson looked like he was trying to decide if he should laugh, cry or faint.

Y/N caught him looking. Smirked. Then continued.

God, how he loved her.

Michael slowly turned to her producer with widened eyes.

The producer was doing his absolute best to not look back at him.

Michael shook his head in disbelief, a smile starting to appear on his face. “You knew about this?”

“Mhm.”

“And you let her do this?”

The man shook his head with a tiny smile, but after a few seconds the nods turned into a negative head shaking, the smile vanishing from his face as he stared at a very amused Michael Jackson. He gulped.

“Michael, I value my life.” He kept glancing between Y/N and Michael. “Do you know how stubborn your girlfriend is?”

Michael grinned and nodded knowingly.

“Your wife can be very persuasive—No, not wife—I mean, I—girlfrie—wife to be—I mean—“ Michel roared with laughter at the poor man. “I’ll just…” He sealed his lips shut and turned towards the stage once again with cheeks as red as Y/N’s gown.

Michael stared at him for a few more seconds before sighing with content and turning his eyes to his girlfriend on stage.

The backing vocalists answered every phrase behind her like a mischievous Greek chorus.

“Woo-hoo…” She wandered slowly across the stage. Shielding her eyes dramatically as though searching the audience. “What is taking him so long…” She scanned the balcony, the orchestra and the celebrity tables. “…to find me?” She pointed at herself.

By the second verse the audience had completely surrendered to her.

“I’m doing lonely acrobatics…”

She dramatically reached behind herself pretending to unzip the back of the gown.

Then threw one hand dramatically into the air. “This where your wife is!”

Without missing a beat she pointed directly toward the front row. Toward Michael.

Every head in the theater turned.

Michael slowly leaned back in his chair.

He couldn’t stop smiling.

When the bridge of the song came through entire room somehow got louder.

“I would like a ring…” She lifted her left hand beneath the spotlight. Completely bare, no ring in sight.

She admired the nonexistent engagement ring as though it were worth millions. Turning her wrist elegantly, smiling proudly at absolutely nothing. “I would like a diamond ring…”

She extended the imaginary diamond toward the audience.

“I would like a biiiiig…” Her hands spread dramatically apart. “…and shiny diamond…” She suddenly gasped and shielded her eyes.

“Oh!”She stumbled backward theatrically. “It’s blinding.” She said, a little comment in between the verses.

Then the choreography began.

All four women lifted their left hands simultaneously.

Waving their empty ring fingers around the theater, turning their wrists and admiring invisible diamonds from every angle.

One backing vocalist pretended to faint over Y/N’s imaginary engagement ring.

Another applauded.

The third dramatically shielded her own eyes from the ‘sparkle.’

The theater roared.

Michael had both hands over his mouth now, shoulders shaking with laughter. He wasn’t even trying to be discreet about it.

Y/N looked directly at him and grinned wider.

She was loving every second of this.

The music softened, brass disappearing and drums fading away, until only the piano remained.

Y/N glanced toward the ceiling.

Then slowly lifted one finger upward. “…Grandma?” She nodded to herself, pointing upwards once again. “Oh, there she is.” She smiled with satisfaction.

Then, through the speakers, a female elderly voice echoed through the speakers.

“Your husband is coming.”

The audience yelled at the iconic line.

Michael looked at the producer in disbelief, his cheeks starting to hurt from smiling and blushing. “She even got grams involved?” He couldn’t believe it!

The producer nodded once like it was obvious.

“Oh, yeah, the whole family’s is out to get you.” He said bluntly. Michael laughed loudly once again.

Then, Y/N clutched her chest dramatically.

She laughed into the microphone at herself before stepping away from it completely.

And instead of returning to center stage she wondered towards the very edge of it.

Toward the front row.

Toward Michael.

Every camera followed.

Every screen in the theater showed only them now.

She stopped directly in front of him.

Only a few feet separated them.

Michael looked up at her with the expression of a man realizing he was absolutely not surviving this performance.

Then—to everyone’s surprise—Y/N gracefully lowered herself onto the edge of the stage, onto her stomach and resting on her elbows. Her chin settled into her hands. High heeled feet kicked lazily behind her in the air. Completely girlish. Completely shameless. Like she was lying on her bedroom floor gossiping with her best friend instead of performing in front of Hollywood.

The crowd completely lost whatever composure they still had left.

Michael threw his head back laughing before looking back at her with the most loving and tender eyes known to mankind.

“Oh, my love…” He mumbled through smiles.

She smiled innocently at him and batted her eyelashes. Then pointed directly at him.

“Where…” She tilted her head, singing in a paused voice. “…is my husband?” She smiled so sweetly it was almost criminal.

The cameras immediately cut to Michael.

He bit his lip, a big, big smile on his face.

The audience screamed louder.

He shook his head lightly before looking around the theater innocently. Then—that teasing, teasing man—pointed towards himself. “Me?”

The audacity of this man! Y/N only raised a sharp brow in response.

The building practically shook.

People were already standing.

Cheering.

Screaming.

Whistling.

Y/N laughed so hard she had to pull the microphone away from her mouth.

She leaned forward just enough to tap the tip of Michael’s chin with one finger before gracefully pushing herself back to her feet.

She smoothed down the shimmering red gown as though she hadn’t just publicly confronted the biggest pop star on Earth just because she could.

Then she turned and walked back toward center stage with the effortless elegance of an Old Hollywood leading lady.

The band exploded back to life.

The brass returned.

The backing vocalists joined her one last time.

She held the final note effortlessly.

The lights cut.

Blackout.

Then, half a second later, the standing ovation hit.

It was deafening.

Michael stood immediately. Still laughing. Applauding louder and harder than anyone in the room.

She caught his eye from across the stage.

Blew him a kiss.

He caught it.

Pressed it dramatically against his heart.

Then mouthed “You’re unbelievable.”

She simply winked. Not sorry. Not even a little bit.

The ovation continued.

And then, something nobody noticed. Not the cameras. Not the audience. Not even Y/N.

As the applause kept going Michael quietly slipped one hand inside his tuxedo jacket.

His fingertips brushed against the small navy velvet box resting inside of his inner pocket.

He smiled and looked down at the object. Then his eyes traveled back to woman taking her final bow beneath a shower of applause.

She thought she’d just cornered him.

She thought she’d declared war.

She thought she’d just spent four minutes publicly bullying her boyfriend into proposing.

Little did she know the ring she’d spent the entire performance pretending to wear already existed.

And was less than two feet away from her.

Michael closed his hand around the little velvet box for a second longer than necessary before slipping it carefully back into his pocket.

Beside him, Y/N’s producer happened to glance down at that exact moment, his eyes catching the corner of the small box. He blinked once. Twice. Mouth opened and closed. Then looked slowly back at Michael. Actual relief crossed his face.

“Oh, thank goodness, man!” He ran a hand through his hair.

Michael didn’t say anything, just smiled and bit his bottom lip. He simply looked back toward the stage, where Y/N was taking another bow beneath the thunderous applause, still wearing that triumphant smile she wore whenever she thought she had won a battle.

The producer followed his gaze.

A slow grin spread across his face.

“Well,” he murmured. “Guess she wasn’t singing to the void after all.”

Michael laughed quietly to himself.

“No,” he admitted, unable to take his eyes off her. “She wasn’t.”

The applause kept echoing through the theater.

Y/N waved one last time before disappearing behind the curtain, completely unaware of Michael’s plans.

Michael smiled to himself. ‘Okay,’ he thought. ‘I think I’ve made my future wife wait long enough.’

“She is never going to let you live this performance down, you know that, right?” the producer asked rhetorically.

Michael’s smile only grew. “Oh, I know.” He patted the pocket of his jacket almost absentmindedly.

“I can’t wait.”

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・.・。.・゜✭ .

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