★★★★★

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒆𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒅 the photographer notices you both standing together—your stomach drops.

Not because you’re doing anything wrong, but because it looks wrong.

Michael leaning casually against the hallway wall too close to you. Your notebook clutched tightly against your chest. The way his entire attention stays fixed on your face despite people constantly moving around him.

“Oh—sorry,” the photographer says quickly while adjusting his camera strap. “Private interview?”

Your heart nearly stops. Before you can even answer, Michael smoothly smiles.“Somethin’ like that.”

Idiot.

Your eyes widen instantly toward him. The photographer nods casually, completely unsuspecting thankfully. “Got it. Sorry for interrupting.” Then he walks away. You exhale so hard your chest hurts. Michael, meanwhile, looks entirely too calm. “You cannot say things like that,” you hiss quietly.

His eyebrows lift innocently. “What? He asked.”

“You’re unbelievable.” A soft laugh leaves him. And somehow that only makes your nerves worse. Because the photographer may not have noticed—but if Michael keeps looking at you like this, eventually somebody will.

You take a quick step backward immediately.“This is exactly what I mean,” you whisper urgently. “People are gonna start noticing.” Michael’s expression softens slightly after that.

Realizing.. But even then, his eyes still drift toward your mouth for half a second too long.

“We weren’t doing anything,” he murmurs softly.“That’s the problem.” Your voice comes out breathless now. “It already looks like we are.”

Silence. The hallway suddenly feels too close. Michael studies your face carefully before speaking quieter: “You scared of headlines or scared of me?”

That lands directly in your chest. You hate that question. Because you don’t fully know the answer yourself anymore. You glance away quickly first.

Big mistake.

Michael notices immediately, Of course he does. His voice lowers softly. “There she go.” Your pulse jumps. “No.” You shake your head quickly. “Nope. I’m leaving.”

“Mhm.” He says in disbelief. “I mean it.” But you already sound nervous instead of convincing. Michael watches you step backward again, eyes filled with something dangerously close to affection. And that somehow panics you more than flirting would’ve.

“Good evening, Michael.”

You turn quickly before he can answer and walk down the hallway too fast, heels clicking sharply against the floor while your heart pounds embarrassingly hard. You can still feel him watching you leave.

That’s the worst part.. You don’t look back.

But somehow—you know he’s smiling.

— . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

The next letter arrives two days later slipped beneath your apartment door.

No envelope again. Just folded cream paper. You already know better than to open it immediately.

You still do anyway.

This time the handwriting looks messier somehow.

Less careful.. Like he wrote it late.

—

You walked away from me so fast backstage I almost laughed. You get nervous real easy for somebody who’s supposed to be interviewing celebrities. And before you get irritated—yes, I noticed your hands shaking. You should know somethin’. When that photographer walked up, I almost told him the truth.

Your stomach flips. You keep reading immediately.

—

Not the whole truth. Just the part where I keep thinking about you after interviews end.

The part where I know exactly which heels are yours by sound now.The part where I still look for you first every time I walk into a room.That part. You looked scared when you left. I didn’t like that. I know this situation unfair to you. Probably selfish too. But every time I try stop writing these letters, I end up thinking about your face during conferences and then I start another one. So now this your fault somehow.

A small unwilling smile pulls at your mouth.

Insane man.

Then your eyes catch the final lines near the bottom. And immediately your breath catches.

—

You never answer me back. Maybe talking easier. If you want to yell at me properly instead of pretending you don’t feel this too—here.

And beneath it—a phone number. His personal line.

Your heart pounds so hard it physically hurts now. At the very bottom, squeezed smaller

beneath everything else:

Call me after midnight. That’s when I miss you worst.

— M

But you didn’t call.. Because now it’s becoming a habit. And habits are dangerous.

Especially ones involving Michael Jackson writing you secret letters like some lovesick poet while you pretend your entire career isn’t balancing on a cliff edge.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

Four days later. You see another letter tucked into your bag, You pick it up slowly. Your name is written across the front again in his handwriting.

Your chest aches before you even open it.

That can’t be good.

You sit at your kitchen table unfolding the paper. The letter smells faintly like his cologne this time. That almost ruins you instantly.

Then you start reading.

—

I tried not writing this one. Didn’t work.

Every time I decide leave you alone, somethin’ reminds me of you and suddenly I’m thinkin’ about your face again. Today it was a reporter askin’ me a question too fast. You always slow down before important questions. Like you care about the answer. Ain’t nobody ever done that for me before.

Your stomach twists softly.

You keep reading.

—

I saw your article this morning.You wrote about everybody except yourself like always. But I noticed the line where you called me “difficult to understand.”

That made me laugh. You understand me fine. Probably more than you should.

Your fingers tighten around the paper. Because yes. That’s exactly the problem. Michael keeps seeing things he shouldn’t.

—

You looked pretty in blue again yesterday.That color becoming a real issue for me. And before you get annoyed yes, I know I’m flirtin’. I’m trying make you smile.

The corner of your mouth lifts against your will.

fuck.

You hate this. You hate how easy he gets into your chest. Then the next lines hit harder.

—

Sometimes after conferences I sit in my hotel room thinkin’ about callin’ you. I usually don’t. Mostly because I know if I hear your voice too long I’m gonna say somethin’ reckless. And I think maybe I already crossed enough lines with you.

Your heartbeat starts speeding up now.The rain outside grows louder.

You continue reading anyway.

—

You know what scares me? I think about you during songs now. That probably bad. Real bad actually. Yesterday during rehearsal somebody asked why I kept smiling during baby be mine and I almost told them it’s because I remembered the way you looked at me backstage. You got this habit of lookin’ at me like I’m just a person. I don’t think you understand what that does to me.

Your throat tightens painfully. Because suddenly this doesn’t feel playful anymore.

It feels real. Too real. You stare at the paper for a long second before forcing yourself lower.

The last paragraph is written messier than the rest.

Like maybe he hesitated while writing it.

—

I know you’re gonna tell me stop eventually. You should. This whole thing unfair to you. And maybe I’m selfish because every time I imagine you really walkin’ away for good, I end up writin’ another letter instead. But I need you know somethin’ before you do.

I haven’t looked forward to seeing anybody this much in years. And I think I’m getting in trouble over you. Real trouble.

The room goes completely silent around you.

Only rain against the windows now. You lower the paper slowly into your lap.

Your chest hurts so much now.

Because somewhere between secret letters and backstage conversations and the way Michael always looks for you first—this stopped feeling harmless. And worse?

You don’t think you want it to stop anymore. That realization terrifies you immediately.

You stand from the kitchen table too quickly, pacing once through your apartment while the letter stays clutched tightly in your hand.

No. No, this is bad. Very bad.

You’re supposed to end this. Tomorrow maybe. At the next conference.

You’ll tell him no more letters.

No more lingering conversations.

No more looking at you like that in crowded rooms.

You’ll do it.You have to.

Because if you don’t—your career will implode. People will talk.

And somewhere in the middle of all that mess… you think you might actually be falling in love with him.

The thought hits so hard you stop walking entirely. Outside, thunder rumbles softly over the city.

Then—another slip of paper falls from inside the folded letter onto your kitchen floor.

Your stomach drops. Slowly, you bend down and pick it up. Smaller handwriting this time.

One sentence only.

—

Wear blue tomorrow if you still want me writing you.

— M

© 𝙢𝙞𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙚𝙡𝙨𝙢𝙚𝙡𝙤𝙙𝙞𝙚

September, 1990, Los Angeles

It’s tuesday when another gift arrives. I saunter into the kitchen, hair held back by a silk sleep mask, its matching pink robe fluttering in the breeze that wafts in through the open windows. 

“What’s this?” I ask. My housekeeper sets a small rectangular box down beside yet another collection of gifted flowers. Tall, flourishing orchids in shades of purple and white, each with deep green luscious leaves and exposed roots peaking out amongst the beds of moss. Another member of my staff mists then, creating this dramatic scene as they dominate my kitchen, petals vibrant, elegant. Demanding attention. 

“Another gift from Michael,” Susan says, giving me a discreet look through her dark lashes, intrigued to see my reaction. “This box, too. I’m not sure what it is.”

I don’t react, instead I simply glance over the flowers resting on my kitchen island, all in a very expensive looking glass vases. I wander by them, tearing my eyes away, and head for the coffee machine. “Is breakfast ready?” I ask, pouring myself a cup in a wide, shallow mug. 

“In the conservatory,” Susan only says, not giving anything away either. I’m sure Hugh asked her to keep an eye on this. Michael was giving all the signs of an… eager man. I’d had to deal with a few of those in recent years. And each had ended up with a sharply worded letter from my laywers, or a restraining order.

I pad through to the big glass sunroom in my fluffy slippers, eyes falling upon the wrought iron table decorated with gorgeous arrays of fruit, fresh boiled eggs, and buttery toast. I perch on a plush cushioned seat and help myself to the small buffet, then sip my coffee as I pick at my food slowly, looking over my advanced copy of next months playboy magazine. 

I smirk once I see it. I was right. The cover chosen is the one of Michael between my legs, with only his hands on show, braced on the counter, that white tape around his fingertips. I’m making eye contact with the camera, biting into a big dark chocolate cookie, eyelashes long, lips plump and red. It’s sexy, daring, but tasteful. A wonderfully taken photograph. 

And it really does look like he’s eating me out. 

I giggle softly, opening the magazine and reading the actual story, eyes casually scanning the words as I pick at grapes. Whoever had edited this had added in so many random details. I’d known there was an actual, fully trained journalist on set last week obvsering and taking notes, but there are so many things they’ve pointed out that I’m not sure happened.

Like for example, mentioning that Michael’s eyes tracked my mouth whenever I talked after he’d removed his shades. Or that he’d bite his lip whenever I made a suggestive, jokey comment, ducking his head bashfully, but then leaning closer. And that, despite his gentlemanly manners and reserved demeanour, his eyes were glued to my ass whenever I turned away from him.

None of these things I’d noticed. Which is probably why i’m not the journalist, of course, yet I did still wonder if this was played up for the readers. A little hat tip to those that consume this magazine religiously, to say, look: he is a man, just like you. 

I turn the page, drinking in the pictures of us. Some behind the scenes of the actual shoot, taken from a distance. Us framed by cameras and big studio lights, stood behind the counter in the summer houses’ kitchen. Michael’s head turned towards me, shades on, whilst I chat to the camera ahead of me. 

I’d heard rumours that he’d wanted to adjust his image. To mature and shift away from the way the media had been painting him as this asexual being in capable of desire, of, I suppose, regular human emotions. Wants, or needs. 

I tilt my head, looking at one of the enlarged photos of us on the A4 glossy page, of me svcking my finger and holding his gaze, lips pouted around my fingertip. 

His pupils are completely swollen. But more suprisingly, so are mine. Visibly. 

Under all the lights and the fact it was broad daylight, our pupils should’ve been pin pricks. 

I sigh, putting the magazine down and pushing it to one side. It is undeniable that Michael is a handsome man. I just hope he doesn’t think that me finding him attractive is a reason to be relentless.

 I finish breakfast and return to the main kitchen area, eyeing the space for any sign of Susan. But she’s gone, and that means I can open the discreet box in peace. Inside it is another box, deep red velvet, tied together with a silky black ribbon. My brows quirk. I pull the ribbon, open the box. And inside, is a necklace laid on a bed of red satin. I don’t know the designer, but from the looks of the box and the weight of the necklace, I can tell this is… quite expensive. 

I lift the delicate piece from it’s resting place. It’s a golden orchid flower, adorned with a singular fresh water pearl, hanging from underneath the petals like a tear drop. 

 I stare at it for a long moment, then glance to the flowers. 

I hunt for the card and locate it a few seconds later.

‘Purple for the icon the world wants. White for the woman behind all that. I hope they’ll keep you company until I can. — Michael.’

I read the note twice, drinking in his handwriting. My gaze then flickers to the flowers, glancing betwen the purple orchids, then the white ones. I except to feel that tension rise at any moment, but the discomfort never comes. I glance at his note again.

‘I hope they’ll keep you company until I can.’

I linger in the kitchen, staring at his note for a couple minutes. I’m not sure how to feel. Of course it is common knowledge between those in the industry that there are two sides to most people. The private persona, and the public one. Though as my gaze flickers between the two stunning orchid colours again, I feel exposed. Like he’s learnt a secret of mine, or by passed a wall and seen something he shouldn’t have. Though how I have no idea. 

I thump his card down, stepping over to the nearest orchid, about to reach for it and dump it into the trash, vase and all, but I stop myself. 

‘white for the woman behind all that.’

My attention slides back to the necklace, and it’s only then that I see a little information card, just poking out of the origina l box. I swipe it up seconds later. 

“The Orchid (Orchidaceae) 

Unlike common Flora, the orchid does not bloom for the passing crowd. It is a symbol of timeless, architectural elegance and rare, singular beauty that refuses to be easily duplicated. 

The Form: Delicate in appearence, yet fiercely resilient, it thrives in isolation, guarding its bloom until conditions are safe. 

The Pearl: Born of quiet patience beneath the surface, representing an inner purity and rare worth that cannot be manufactured or rushed. 

The Meaning: A tribute to beauty that is intricate, lasting and deeply private. It is not meant to be plucked for momentary display, but appreciated for a lifetime.”

I exhale hard, then put it to one side. Michael is definately eager, but for the first time I don’t feel threatened. What I actually feel a little more confusing. So instead of acknowledging it, I don’t. I leave the gifts on the kitchen island, and head upstairs to get ready for my day…

The next evening, I’m set to attend a private charity gala in New York. I fly in that morning, and am immediately swamped by paparazzi at arrivals. I keep my big shades on and my head down, remaining in line behind my security guys as they walk me through the airport to the awaiting car to take me to my hotel.

The moment I arrive i’m thrown into beauty treatments. Eyebrows, lashes, face masks. Manicures, pedicures, and a wax. By the time the early evening spreads over the city, i’m already in hair and make up. Eyes dark, lips glossy and red, my ink black hair is blown into a big, bouncy style, and left to trail down my back in long layers and waves. 

I’m dressed into a slinky black dress that’s almost sheer and sparkles slightly in the light. It pools around my feet after I slip on elegant black heels, sliding on gold jewellery to finish. I glance at myself in the floor length mirror in the living room area of the penthouse suite, eyes resting on my orchid necklace.

A secret smile drifts across my mouth before I drop it, turning around to face my photographer so snaps a few pictures to document my outfit for the archives. 

The charity gala started about an hour ago, so by the time I arrive, i’m fashionably late. 

It’s being held in one of the finest hotels in the city, and even though it’s a private event, paparazzi still linger outside. Though I am never unprepared to see them, so it doesn’t bother me. 

I step out the car after my driver opens the door, and the flashes are immediate. “Gabrielle! Over here!” each voice tries to shout my attention a different way, but I lower my gaze and glide up the carpet, short fur coat draped over my shoulders since it’s cold tonight.

I pause at the base of the steps to the hotel entrance and glance at the sea of photographers over my shoulder, dress pooling behind me like a small puddle of starlight. 

The flashes are frantic the moment I make eye contact with the cameras. I don’t smile, and hold my pose for about five seconds before I continue my ascent and enter the hotel foyer, shouts from the paps muffling the moment the doors close behind me. 

I’m shown into the event after my fur coat is taken from me to hang up. Eyes track me as I move through the big groups of finely dressed people, holding up the front of my dress slightly. I make it to the bar, ordering myself a manhatten. 

Silky, smooth jazz music fills the air from the live band. The lights are all orange and low, spread evenly around the big hall that’s decorated in warm hues of dark wood and deep red. I’ve been to about a thousand of these things, and although the invitation states its a charity gala, the only charitable thing people do is write big cheques at the beginning of the evening for their annual tax break, and spend the rest of the night getting drunk.

I usually duck out after an hour, preffering to return to the hotel and spend the night in the spa. 

“Here you go, Miss Almasi,” the bartender says, staring hard as he slides my drink to me. I feel his eyes peel my dress off me as I thank him with a smile, taking a sip of the rich amber cocktail. 

I wander, eventually finding Hugh and his wife. They introduce me to everyone they’re with, and I pretend not to notice the different types of stares boring holes into my skin. Hugh just smiles, pleased, since this is the exact reason he took me under his wing. I draw attention whether I want to or not, and its made him a hell of a lot of money.

I make small talk for a bit, nursing my one drink the whole time, posing for pictures whenever the photographer returns. 

I’m quietly listening to the conversations around me, still sipping my drink that’s almost finished, when the back of my neck tingles. My head turns slightly, and I feel those tingles of awareness slide down my back. I don’t turn around fully, but as that sensation spreads over my body, making goosebumps prickle over my arms— I know whoever it was just scanning me from head to toe is approaching. 

Hugh looks over first, standing next to his wife to my left. He looks behind me, expression freezing slightly. Though it’s only for a split second. His wife then looks, then so do the other two couples stood in front of me. 

I take the last sip of my drink, then pluck the bourbon soaked cherry off the wooden pick with my teeth just as a figure easing into my peripheral vision to my right.

I smell him first, and involuntarily inhale deeply. That rich, woody-amber scent envelopes me, and my eyelashes flutter. 

“Mr Hefner, I wanted to introduce myself. I’m—“ 

“Michael Jackson, I know, I’m a very big fan,” Hugh says, extending his hand. He’s so close to me already that when he extends his hand, his other arm brushes mine. I don’t move away, and only watch as his big hand swallows up Hugh’s. “Pleasure to finally meet you. I’m surprised we haven't crossed paths before.”

“I didn’t get out much before, sir.” His soft spoken tone glides over me. 

“Sir,” Hugh chuckles, “Please call me Hugh, i’m not that old.”

I make a face. 

“Behave, you.” He warns me playfully and Kim and I chuckle. Michael then shakes Kim’s hand, then the others crowd closer to introduce themselves personally to him, eager to rub elbows it seems. When the final hand shake and small talk ends, I feel his eyes shift to me.

“Gabrielle,” he says carefully, tone low and soft. 

I look at him finally.

“Michael,” I greet, taking him in briefly. He’s in a gorgeous tux, with a velvet bow-tie. Though the blazer has some gold detailing around the sleeves and collar, he’s blending in pretty well with all the other dark suits, except Hugh, whose jacket is red velvet. His dark curls are mostly pulled back, but some strands frame his face. There are no shades, so as I meet his gaze, I feel the full impact of his stare instantly.

“You look beautiful tonight,” He says quietly, smiling a little. 

“Thank you,” I say, just as his gaze dips and snags on the orchid necklace resting hust above the line of my cleavage. He meets my eyes again, a pleased glint in his eyes. 

“May I get you a drink?” he asks, gaze fixing me where I stand. I stare into his eyes, considering saying no just because of the way he’s looking at me, and yet when I open my mouth, all that comes out is:

“Sure,”

He steps back, arm open, motioning towards the bar as he smiles, waiting expectantly. My body follows the silent command and I move towards the bar with him following. Eyes track us both as we step through the crowd, pausing by the chic long bar where there’s a space for me to slide into a stool. Michael sidles in to stand beside me, leaning his arms on the hardwood counter. 

“What would you like?”

“Another manhatten,” I say, watching him through my lashes as he signals to the bartender. He orders for me, getting himself an old fashioned. 

“So how have you been?” he asks, finally turning his attention back to me, standing up straighter.  His eyes flick down to he necklace again, and he can’t hide the slight smirk fast enough. 

“Fine,” I reply, smoothing my hand through my hair and flicking over the shorter front strands to one side. “and yourself?” 

“Good,” he nods, glancing at my mouth. He licks his lips, then swallows. “I see you got my gift.”

“Yes,” I say on a sigh, glancing down at the necklace, “Thank you. It was very thoughtful,” I add, touching it delicately. I look to his face again, but he’s watching my hand. Unable to stop himself from looking over my body, my dress. Oddly, I don’t mind. 

When his eyes meet mine again, my face warms, the intensity in those dark eyes perhaps might make a weaker woman shy. “I don’t usually see you at things like this,” I say softly, holding his gaze.

“I don’t usually come to events like this.”

Our drinks are placed in front of us, and I catch a glimpse of the bartender giving Michael daggers before he turns away, though Michael doesn’t notice.

“Why not? Don’t like charity?” I tease gently, reaching for my drink and taking a sip. The rich aromatic combination of spirits slides down my throat, and warms my stomach. 

Michael chuckles, showing teeth after he takes a sip of his drink also. “Nothing like that,” he smiles, “I love doing charity work. But these kind of things aren’t my style.”

“Glitz and glamour are not your thing?” I ask, smiling a little. 

“More like the small talk and staring,” he replies, gaze flicking to my lips as I take another sip. “I can see about ten guys death staring me right now.”

I pause, then take a discreet look over my shoulder, yet I don’t see what he sees. “I think it’s all in your head,” I muse, touching my hair again. I glance at my nails, at the glossy red that matches the colour of my lips.

He smirks, “maybe.” He sips his drink, then licks his lips quickly, leaning on the counter sideways, resting an elbow on the surface. “Perhaps I’m just feeling territorial.”

I flick my eyes up to stare into his abruptly. He holds my gaze, smiling calmly. “So the glitz and glamour is more your thing when it comes to charity work?”

I don’t blink as I stare at him for a few seconds longer. But he just tilts his head, waiting for an answer. “I don’t like to deny myself the finer things. If I can give back in some way at the same time, then… two birds, one stone.” 

“I read that article the new york times did on your unconventional philanthropy work a few months ago.” 

“Did you?” I say calmly.

“I did,” he nods, “you raised a lot of money for women’s shelters. You should be praised.”

“They didn’t praise me,” I murmur.

“People who make history rarely are most of the time,” he replies. I glance from his left eye to his right, disliking the way those words sink into my skin. “Did it bother you?” he wonders. 

“No,” I reply honestly, “I didn’t see any of them raise half a million dollars from selling their panties.”

He grins, biting his bottom lip briefly before he says, “I don’t think anyone would buy theirs.” 

I fight a little smile, “No, perhaps not.”

He glances over me, the glow graze of his attention making my body heat. I clear my throat quietly, glancing away from him, and out to the crowd. I catch a few glances, but move my gaze on before I can read too much into them. 

“Have you made your donation yet?” Michael asks. I glance back to him. 

“Not yet,” I say softly. I ease off the bar stool, step away, then look at him over my shoulder. “Care to join?” I ask, looking at him through my lashes. His gaze intensifies, pupils swelling even further. 

“It would be my pleasure.” 

I smile slyly, then lead the way, holding up part of my dress with my free hand, whilst the other holds my drink. Michael trails behind me, gaze trained on my hips. I can feel wherever his eyes go, skin tingling with every inch covered. 

We make it to the donations table, where there are a few others writing cheques. I catch glimpses of their donanations, to their chosen charities. I scan the list, trying to find anything that is specifically to do with women’s welfare, and only find one. I hum quietly, and feel Michael’s eyes on me as he pulls his cheque book out of an inner pocket in his blazer. 

“none to your liking?”

“There is,” is all I say, holding my tongue. Now is not the time to voice my opinion. 

I pull out my cheque book from my little clutch purse that’s been hanging off my wrist all evening and steal a pen off the table, writing a check for two hundred and fifty thousand. 

I post it in the collections box for my chosen charity, then side glance Michael as he writes one for half a million, folds it up… then posts it into the women’s charity I chose, also. 

My stomach does a strange little flip. Considering I’d heard his main focus for his philanthropic work was solely children’s charities… seeing him deviate, even if it was for my benefit, was flattering. 

I meet his eyes. I’m not sure what my gaze is saying but he just smiles, gaze darkening, looking from my mouth to my eyes only once. “I’d still like to take you out,” he says. “Perhaps whilst we’re both in the city we could… get together.”

I release a soft, surprised laugh. He’a so eager. 

“… maybe.” I murmur with a small smirk as I lift my drink to my mouth and take a long sip. “My schedule is so full, I don’t know.”

Just before Michael is about to respond, the photographer appears. His camera is already lifted to his eye, pointed right at us. Michael tucks his hands behind his back, hiding his drink, and smiles casually. We’re stood close enough togther that if he inched forward half a step, his chest would brush my shoulder. 

I give the camera a small smile, head tilted so my hair cascades off my shoulder, with one leg tucked behind the other, accentuating my curves.

“Perfect,” the photographer compliments, “Just one more.” He takes another just after Michael shifts beside me, arm bumping my shoulder gently. I’d glanced at him, and the camera flashed. Capturing that moment. He’d had this big grin on his face as the picture was taken, and instantly I’d known he’d done that on purpose. To make it seem that I was in awe of him or something. 

I wasn’t sure why he did that, but I knew what would happen the moment those pictures make it into the public eye. Irriration curls and my mood sours. The photographer steps away to capture more photos of the event and I find a nearby surface to put my drink down onto.

“Well, it’s actually way past the usual time I stay at these things, so. Goodnight.” I give Michael an empty smile and begin to shift away, holding up the front of my dress so I don’t step on the heavy fabric. 

“You’re leaving?” he asks. 

I pause and look at him, “It’s late, so yes. Goodnight,” I say again, sauntering away before can stop me. I pass Hugh and his wife, Kim, say a quick goodnight. They don’t even try to stop me, since I hadn’t been lying before, I usually only come to these things for an hour or two tops. 

I head into the foyer. My coat is returned to me, and my car is called. Before I even leave the building the flashes from the photographers out on the street practically blind me. I walk outside into the chilly september night, not faltering a step as I make my way down the steps, across the sidewalk and to my car, ignoring all shouts for attention. 

When I get back to the hotel, I run a scolding hot bubble bath and sink into it, but not before I pause in front of the large bathroom mirror naked, make up and hair still done, and the necklace Michael had given me still on. 

I scowl and take it off, leaving it in a heap on the counter before I bathe. 

The next morning I wake to a knock on the penthouse main door. I get up, wrap myself up in a thick robe and answer the door, hair mussed from sleep. My main security guy is there, holding a large parcel in his arms. “Delivery for you.”

“What?” I ask, confused. “I didn’t order anything.”

“Gift, I think.” he says, putting it on the main table. “Personally delivered to the reception.” He opens it immediately to check what it is. “Nothing bad. Go ahead,” he smiles, then steps away, showing himself out of the suite. 

I peak inside and frown immediately. There’s a small bear holding a red heart saying “I’m sorry” in white stitching. “What?” I say again quietly, then reach in for the note. Before I even read it I recognise the hand writing.

‘I apologise if I made you uncomfortable, it was not my intention at all. I’d like to make it up to you in some way, with no funny business. And only if your schedule allows. M.’ 

I sigh slowly. At the bottom of the note is a phone number, with the additional message saying: ‘my hotel’s private line.’

I put the card to one side and pick up the teddy bear out of the box. Immediately I smell him, his cologne, and my body starts humming. I lift the toy to my nose, and wonder if he sprayed the bear on purpose of he’d just held it long enough that his scent had transferred. Whatever his intentions were with this bear… I fear it might just be working. 

end notes:

oh my goshhh you guys, thank you so much for all your kind comments on the last part! <3 I'm so happy you guys are entertained and hyped!!! i am so excited to write this, you have no idea. I find writing tension so much more fun than writing just bare smut low key hahah

anyways, let me know what you thought- comments, likes and reblogs are always appreciated! :)

what do you think will happen in part 3???