Alpha – Chapter 13

Idle days

Lisa

Language wasn’t always useful between Michael and me. The way we moved against each other said enough – the way we trembled, our breathing mingling, our bodies fitting together like two pieces of an intricate puzzle we hadn’t even known we were missing. I loved the kind of silence that fell on us afterwards, lulling us both to sleep like it was the most normal thing in the world.

The morning after, the first thing I noticed was the stillness. Not the kind that felt empty, but the kind that hummed, soft and alive.

Dawn seeped through the curtains, pale gold melting into the sheets. The ceiling fan turned lazily above us, pushing warm air that smelled of salt and skin and sex.

After our late-night snack, we had gone back to bed. And now he was still asleep beside me, one arm bent under the pillow, hair falling over his face. The stubble on his jaw was rough, and I found it somehow intoxicating.

There was a small crease between his brows, as if even in sleep he couldn’t stop listening. I wanted to smooth it away with my fingertip, but I didn’t. The moment felt too perfect and too fragile. So I just lay there, counting the slow rise and fall of his chest, trying to memorize the quiet. To store it within me like a beautiful memory to carry me forward when the world would come crashing down on us again. I knew it had to happen at some point, but at least for now, I could push that thought away.

It shouldn’t have felt new. We’d shared nights before… nights made of heat, sighs and moans, the kind of closeness that erased thought. But this was different. There was no edge, no panic, just the heavy warmth of sleep and the illusion that the world outside had stopped spinning.

I turned onto my side and watched the light crawl across Michael’s shoulder. He looked younger like that, unguarded. A ridiculous thought crossed my mind: what would it take to keep this stillness?

The answer was swift and brutal. You can’t. Because names ruin things. Labels make them real, and real never lasts.

Real was my mother sitting at the breakfast table, pretending not to read the tabloids with her coffee. Real was me, feeling out of place wherever I went. Real was Danny asking where I’d been when we both knew he didn’t really care. Real meant explanations, expectations, the slow erosion of everything good, or everything truthful. What Michael and I had now was wordless, and I wanted to keep it that way.

When he finally stirred, the light had sharpened. He blinked, squinted toward me, and smiled in that slow, half-awake way that still caught me off guard.

“Morning,” he murmured, his voice husky.

“Morning,” I echoed, pretending the word didn’t taste too intimate.

He reached for me, fingertips grazing my thigh before he pulled back, unsure. I leaned in first, kissed him once briefly, and slipped out of bed before it could become something else.

“I’ll make coffee,” I said.

In the kitchen, everything felt almost exaggerated. The clatter of cups, the hiss of the espresso machine, the ocean whispering just beyond the open door. He came in a few minutes later, jeans on but still unbuttoned, shirtless, eyes still soft from sleep. I kept my back to him, because if I turned around I’d forget how to act like a respectable person.

“You don’t have to,” he said.

“Oh, I know.” I smiled and glanced over my shoulder. “But you already cooked last night. And I like the illusion of domesticity. Makes me feel almost normal.”

He laughed under his breath, the sound low and easy, nothing like the rehearsed laughter I’d heard a thousand times before on TV, the one that came with cameras, lights and questions. Before meeting him at the Essence, I’d only ever known that version of him – the entertainer, the genius, the artist. The flawless creature built for the world: polished, careful, god-like, almost untouchable.

This one was different. Softer around the edges, a little messy, very much human. He wasn’t thinking about the angle of his smile or the way his voice landed. He wasn’t performing.

And maybe that was why I couldn’t look away.

He was impossible to ignore when he was like that, when the performer was gone and all that was left was the man who forgot to hide behind perfection, who could spill coffee on the counter and laugh about it, who could look at me like he cared and mean it.

Barefoot, unguarded and still half-asleep, Michael was staring at me with eyes that didn’t belong to the stage. They were dark, smoldering in that quiet way that remembered too much. The heat of that first night, the sounds I made when he’d pulled me closer, the way his body had tensed right before mine did.

The memory hit me like a spark under the skin. Not an image so much as a pulse.

I kept my back to him, pretending to adjust the mug in my hand, but I could feel it: the air thickening, his gaze still on me.

“What are you thinking?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Nothing.”

Except it wasn’t true. His body gave him away: the slow breath, the subtle shift closer, the heat radiating between us.

The silence stretched, comfortable for a just a split second, then charged like the pause before a note turns into music.

To break it, I handed him a cup.

“Stop staring. And please, don’t start writing love songs about me.”

His eyes remained on me through the steam, faintly amused.

“I’m afraid it might be a little too late for that, Lise.”

I almost dropped the cup. There was no irony in his tone, just an easy certainty that felt dangerous. My pulse stumbled. I hid it with a smirk, rolled my eyes and took a sip of coffee.

“Tragic. Guess I’ll have to start charging royalties, then.”

He laughed again, and the sound dissolved the tension before it could settle. But inside, something shifted. Happiness – small, sudden, maybe undeserved – pressed against my ribs until it hurt.

We drank in silence after that, side by side at the counter, watching sunlight scatter over the ocean. His arm brushed mine once, light and accidental, or maybe not accidental at all. For a moment, I let myself believe in this version of us: vulnerable and open, unbothered, untouched by everything waiting outside.

Then I set the cup down, careful not to look at him again. The more perfect the quiet, the louder the crash when it ended.

“I’m going to take a shower,” I said finally. I looked up then, not afraid to meet his eyes. “You coming?”

This, I knew I could control.

He didn’t say yes. He didn’t need to say anything. He stared at me, the steam from the coffee curling between us, and he set his cup down with a deliberate slowness that made my skin prickle.

I turned toward the bathroom, feeling the weight of his gaze on my back, each step pulling the air tighter. The door was already ajar, the tile floor cool under my feet as I stepped inside, the sound of the ocean fading into the hum of anticipation.

I didn’t look back but I heard him follow, the soft pad of his footsteps syncing with the quickening rhythm of my heart. The shower hissed to life under my fingers, water cascading hot and insistent, steam blooming in the air. I slipped out of my clothes – well, his shirt – letting it pool at my feet, the cool air kissing my skin before the heat enveloped me.

And then he was there, behind me, his presence a shadow that turned solid as his hands found my waist, pulling me under the spray with him.

The water sluiced over us, warm rivers tracing paths down our bodies, mingling with the heat building between us. His skin against mine was slick, every inch of him pressing closer. I leaned back into him, feeling the hard line of his arousal nestle against my lower back.

“Feel that?” he whispered, his breath hot on my skin. “That’s what you do to me. Every damn time.”

His lips found the curve of my neck, grazing softly at first, then with more intent, his breath slow and steady as his hands explored up my sides, over the swell of my belly, tender now, alive with the quiet miracle we’d created. He lingered there, palms splaying wide, the touch igniting a deep ache that blurred the line between emotion and sensation. Then higher, cupping the fullness of my breasts with a reverence that made me gasp, each brush of his thumbs over my nipples sending sparks straight to my core.

I arched into him, my hands reaching back to tangle in his wet hair, guiding him as the water drummed against us. He whispered something I couldn’t make out against my ear, the sound raw as his hand trailed lower, teasing the sensitive skin of my thighs before dipping between them, finding me ready. The pregnancy had made everything more intense, my body more responsive, every nerve alight.

He turned me, gently but firmly, our eyes locking under the cascade, water beading on his eyelashes. His mouth claimed mine in a kiss that tasted of coffee and longing, deep and unhurried, our tongues dancing in a rhythm that mirrored the slow grind of our bodies. I pressed against him, feeling every contour, my hands sliding down his chest and over the ridges of muscle, lower still until I found him, holding him, stroking him with a deliberate slowness that made him moan into my mouth. He thrust rhytmically into my grip, and I nearly lost it there and then.

The steam wrapped around us.

His fingers delved deeper, touching me exactly the way I craved, building the tension until my legs trembled. I broke the kiss to gasp, my body arching as release crested, waves of pleasure rippling through me, leaving me boneless against him.

Michael held me through it, his own desire evident in the tension of his muscles, and as the aftershocks faded, I pulled him closer and turned my back to him once more, guiding him inside me with a sigh. The union was slow and profound, water mingling with our heat as he filled me completely, each thrust measured, reverent, drawing out gasps that mingled with the shower’s rhythm. My hands braced against the tiles, the cool surface grounding me as he moved, his arms wrapping around me protectively, one hand resting on my belly.

I loved feeling him come. I loved when he allowed himself to be so vulnerable.

Afterward, when the world settled again, I stayed against him, skin damp, breath shallow, the steady weight of his heartbeat against my back. The water still ran over us. Michael turned off the spray and wrapped me in a towel with a gentleness that felt too real, too close. We didn’t speak much, just dried off in the steam-filled quiet, but as I caught his eye in the mirror, I murmured, “We probably shouldn’t make a habit of this.”

He smiled, that sideways grin that always undid me a little.

“Probably not.”

Yet, his hand lingered on my waist and I didn’t pull away, both of us knowing it would happen again. In moments like these, the physical pull was the only thing we could trust, even if our hearts were still figuring out the rest.

Michael

A couple of days had melted away. Unmarked, unhurried, each one folding seamlessly into the next under the island’s relentless warmth.

Lisa and I had carved out a rhythm: lazy mornings in the villa’s cool shade, afternoons wandering the shaded paths or dipping into the pool when the sun climbed too high. There were no ticking clocks, no insistent rings from the outside world, though DiLeo had somehow tracked down the villa’s landline through Bill, his voice crackling over the wire with urgent pleas about delayed sessions back in Los Angeles.

I’d brushed him off politely, promising to call back soon, but the receiver stayed hung up. Rehearsals, demos, business meetings, the endless grind I knew so well – they all felt like relics from another life, and I didn’t know how I was supposed to react to that. My mind, usually a whirlwind of melodies and moves, was anchored here, wrapped up in her. It unnerved me, that quiet in my head, the way the crucial ritual of creation seemed to have taken a backseat. What if this detachment was permanent? What if the fire that had always driven me flickered out in this paradise? Sometimes, I’d hear fragments of melodies when Lisa slept beside me, half-formed things that fizzled before they reached the chorus. I’d hum them under my breath, trying to capture what love sounded like when it wasn’t on a record. But the words wouldn’t come. Maybe that was the price of peace. Or maybe peace was just another kind of silence.

That day, she and I had spent the late afternoon exploring the villa’s hidden coves, her hand in mine as we navigated the lush trails under the canopy of palms, the air thick with jasmine and salt. She’d pause now and then, pressing my palm to her belly with a soft smile.

“Feel that hum?”

And I’d nod, marveling at the subtle life stirring there. Maybe this, too, was about creation after all.

As the sun dipped lower, painting the sky in bruised purples and golds, we made our way to the beach. The heat had eased, the light softening into something forgiving, and I felt at ease shedding my shirt, the patches of my skin, pale and uneven from the vitiligo, no longer a shadow in my mind. With Lisa, it didn’t matter: she’d seen me, all of me, without flinching, her fingers tracing those maps like they were art instead of flaws. It was a freedom I hadn’t known I craved.

The sea at dusk was a mirror of molten colors, calm and inviting, the waves lapping gently as we waded in. She dove under first, surfacing with a laugh that echoed across the water, her hair slicked back, eyes sparkling in the fading light. I didn’t think I’d ever seen her so carefree. Or so beautiful.

“Come on, slowpoke,” she teased, splashing me with a grin that lit something deep in my chest.

I followed, the water cool against my skin, and caught her in the shallows, pulling her close.

Our kisses started playful – salty and breathless – but deepened quickly, the pull between us igniting like it always did. It was a shared lunacy neither of us wanted to stop. How were we supposed to handle all this, if not by partaking in the madness?

Her body pressed against mine, responsive in ways that drove me wild, the pregnancy heightening every sensation: her breathing quicker, her skin flushing under my hands. We made love there in the surf, slow and unhurried, my swimming trunks slightly pulled down, her legs wrapped around me as the waves rocked us, her moans lost in the twilight hush. It was raw and reveling, our chemistry a force we surrendered to, no holding back, our shared secret adding a layer of wonder, like every touch was a celebration of what we’d managed to create by pure accident.

We emerged dripping, collapsing onto the beach towel we’d spread under the palms’ shade, the sand still warm from the day.

Lisa lay beside me, propped on one elbow, her bikini clinging like a second skin to her gorgeous body, fingers tracing lazy circles on my chest. She was so beautiful. I watched her with that quiet adoration that had become constant – the way the dusk light played across her features, softening the edges she usually guarded so fiercely. She alternated sweetness and irony, that rhythm of hers keeping the air light even as the intimacy wrapped tighter around us.

“You’re staring again,” she said, her tone dipping into playfulness. “I can see those wheels turning. Plotting your escape back to the studio, already?”

I smiled, reaching up to tuck a wet strand behind her ear.

“Nah. No escapes here. Though if I really wrote a song about this… about you… it’d probably have to go platinum just from the royalties you’d demand.”

She laughed, the sound bright and genuine, but there was that edge I had learned to recognize so well. Defensive, like she was poking at the bubble to see if it’d pop.

“See? That’s why I said don’t start. Next thing you know, it’ll be all over the radio, and I’ll have to explain to everyone why the King of Pop’s got a thing for buttered noodles and midnight swims.”

It was her defense: sweetness laced with sarcasm, as if she feared being fully open meant being torn to shreds. I chuckled in return, because what else could I do? Underneath, it tugged at me. She feigned carelessness, like this was all casual, a fling in paradise, but I’d catch the flickers: her gaze drifting to the darkening sea, as if calculating how long before reality crashed in. It mirrored my own unease. The silenced landline in the villa, the managers’ voices echoing in my head like distant thunder. This neglect of work, of the drive that had shaped me, scared me. What if she was right? What if this idyll faded, leaving me hollow?

We fell quiet, the sea’s rhythm filling the space. At some point, Lisa lowered her shield and shifted closer, her head on my shoulder, one leg draped over mine in that effortless way that made my heart stutter. My hand found the small of her back, tracing slow circles, feeling the warmth of her skin.

As it usually happened, it started innocently – nothing but a lazy caress – but then the chemistry simmered, always there, crazy and undeniable. Her fingers trailed down my abdomen, teasing the waistband of my swim trunks, and I felt myself stir, the heat building despite the breeze off the water.

“You know,” she murmured, her voice low and playful, “we could just stay like this. No songs, no tours. Just… this.” A long pause. “Don’t get me wrong, I know we can’t. And I know you have stuff to do. Important stuff. But it’s nice to dream sometimes. It’s nice to pretend all is perfect.”

I smiled, but didn’t answer right away, my hand slipping lower to cup her hip instead. It was much safer that way. Lisa lifted her head, eyes meeting mine with that mix of sweetness and challenge. Before I could speak, she kissed me. Deep, unhurried, her body pressing against mine in a way that erased any thought of words.

Once again, we couldn’t stop. And just like before, we didn’t undress fully. We just shifted the fabric of her bikini bottom aside, my trunks tugged down enough for access, the urgency making it all the more intense. She guided me inside her with a soft gasp, her movements deliberate and sensual, riding me slowly as the sand shifted beneath us. Her hands on my shoulders, eyes locked on mine, pleasure building in waves that left us both trembling, her breathing mingling with the sea’s sigh, the friction of fabric against skin heightening every sensation. We couldn’t get enough, reveling in the raw need.

When release came, it was shared and profound – her trembling above me, her body pulsing around me in waves that pulled my own climax from me, a groan lost in her neck.

Afterward, we lay side by side, the night air cooling our skin, stars pricking the velvet sky. She nestled against me, her hand in mine over her belly. The sea was still calm, a perfect mirror, but a sudden breeze stirred the palms, a larger wave rolling in with unexpected force, its crash echoing as spray misted the air.

“Lisa…” I turned to her. “I could stay here forever. I truly could.”

She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “No, Mike. You couldn’t. You’d get bored in a week. But it’s sweet that you said it.”

I laughed quietly, pulling her closer to mask the twinge. The wall was back, not made of cruelty but fear. Hers, echoing mine.

Lisa

The next morning dawned with the same deceptive calm: golden light filtering through the villa’s curtains, turning the room into a haze of warmth. The sea outside was a flat, endless blue, its gentle rhythm seeping into everything.

I woke slowly, my body heavy with that delicious ache from last night’s entanglement on the beach. We both knew it wasn’t just sex anymore; it was a compulsion, a language we’d perfected in our isolated paradise. In this place, we reveled in it like addicts chasing the high.

I rolled over, expecting to find him still asleep, but the bed was empty, the sheets cool where he’d been. A faint clatter from the kitchen told me where he was: probably attempting breakfast again. I smiled to myself and stretched languidly, feeling the subtle changes in my body: the tenderness in my breasts, the faint pull in my hips, that low hum in my belly.

The nausea was gone, but the pregnancy still amplified everything: the cravings, the way my skin seemed to tingle at the slightest touch. It made the physical pull with Michael even crazier, as if my body were conspiring with his, drawing us together in ways that felt both primal and profound. Back in L.A., I’d fought it, kept him at arm’s length with sarcasm and distance, but here? With no eyes on us, no expectations, it was freedom. Terrifying, exhilarating freedom.

I slipped out of bed, out of habit pulling on one of his shirts – oversized and soft, carrying his scent – and padded to the kitchen. There he was, crumpled and focused, wearing sweatpants and a plain t-shirt. I noticed he had finally shaved and immediately missed the scratchy feeling of his cheeks and chin touching my skin.

He was at the counter, slicing mangoes with careful precision, the juice dripping down his fingers. The landline sat silent on the wall, a relic we’d both ignored, though I’d noticed the calls increasing – persistent rings he’d wave off with a tense smile. Work, always work and demands, lurking like a shadow. But for now, he looked up and grinned, that boyish curve of his lips that always disarmed me.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” he said, offering me a slice of mango on the knife’s edge.

I took it, our fingers brushing, and bit in, the sweetness exploding on my tongue.

“Morning. You let me sleep in. Generous of you.”

He shrugged, wiping his hands on a towel. “Figured you needed it. After last night…” His eyes had that familiar heat as they lingered on me.

I felt it too, the pull, already simmering. It had evolved so much since our first chaotic night – well, a one-night-stand, in fact – when we’d been strangers crashing together in a frenzy of need. Back then, it was escape and a way to drown out the noise of our lives. Then came the rest of the world, crashing in like an elephant in a jewelry store. And of course, this baby neither Michael nor I had actively tried to have. Inevitably, that had shifted everything, and I wasn’t even sure it was for the best yet.

Discovering it had cracked me open, forcing me to face vulnerabilities I’d buried deep. And now, with Michael, it wasn’t just physical anymore; it was layered with this unspoken tenderness, a shared secret that made every touch feel like a promise we hadn’t voiced. We’d fought it at first – me running, him somehow chasing just like you would expect from a nice guy like him – but here, in this villa, we’d finally surrendered. The chemistry was insane, a fire we fed without guilt.

I stepped closer, popping another mango slice into my mouth, letting the juice trail down my chin. His gaze followed it, and before I could wipe it away, he leaned in, kissing it clean, slow and deliberate, turning the simple act into something electric. My hands found his waist, pulling him against me, and just like that, what had become our morning routine ignited once again.

We didn’t rush; that was the luxury of this place. His lips moved to my neck, hands sliding under the shirt to trace my curves, lingering on the swell of my belly with that reverent touch that always made my breath hitch. We ended up against the counter, his fingers dipping lower, finding me ready as always.

“God, Lisa,” he murmured against my skin, voice thick. “What are you doing to me? I can’t get enough of you.”

I laughed breathlessly, arching into him. “Feeling’s mutual.”

We made love there in the kitchen, languid at first – him lifting me onto the counter, our movements syncing like the waves outside. But as the heat built, something shifted; a subtle urgency crept in, as if we both sensed the fragility of this peace. My nails dug into his back, urging him deeper, faster, the pleasure bordering on pain – and bordering on desperate. Release hit me like a wave, crashing through with an intensity that left me trembling, him following with a groan muffled against my shoulder. We clung together after, breaths ragged, the counter cool under me as the sea’s whisper filtered in through the open door.

He stepped out to the veranda afterward, almost disappearing into the sunlight catching in the mist. I watched him through the glass door: how still he stood, staring out at the water as if listening for something beyond it. For a second, I thought he looked sad, concerned and most of all lonely, like a man rehearsing his goodbye without realizing it.

That mix of quiet sadness and desire set the tone for the day – what I didn’t know would be our last untainted one. We spent the hours in that idyllic haze, but with an undercurrent I couldn’t shake. After breakfast – more fruit, coffee shared on the veranda – we wandered the garden paths, his arm around my waist, talking about nothing and everything. He opened up about his childhood in ways he hadn’t before – the early days when he was still just a little child, the relentless drive that had shaped him, how this villa felt like the first real breath he’d taken in years.

“I don’t think I ever just stopped like this. I don’t think I knew how to,” he admitted, his voice soft as we sat under a shaded palm. “It’s scary, but good. You make it good.”

I leaned against him, my head on his shoulder, feeling that hum in my belly sync with his heartbeat. “Yeah, well, don’t get too used to it. Your empire’s probably falling apart without you.”

He smiled, but there was truth in it and we both knew it. The calls had been more frequent, though he ignored them. Mostly. I pretended not to notice, focusing on the moment: his hand on my knee, the way he’d look at me with that adoration that made me feel seen, stripped bare in the best way.

Afternoon brought more heat, literal and otherwise. We retreated to the pool for shade, swimming laps side by side, me challenging him with my usual competitive streak.

“Bet I can beat you to the other end,” I’d say, and he’d let me, just to watch me triumph. I knew his game.

Emerging dripping, we’d collapse on the loungers, towels forgotten as hands wandered. The pull ignited again, insatiable, like we were making up for lost time. On the pool’s edge, fabrics tugged aside just enough, me straddling him, my hands on his chest to steady myself, movements slow but building to that frantic edge.

“We really can’t keep our hands off each other, can we…” I gasped, and he laughed, breathless.

“Why would we want to?”

Release came and it was intense, shared, leaving us floating in the afterglow, the water lapping around us.

As dusk approached, the air cooled, and we migrated to the beach for our ritual walk. The light had turned everything ethereal, the sea a canvas of pinks and blues. We didn’t speak much. We just held hands, feet sinking into the sand, the waves nipping at our ankles. But I felt it: a subtle shift, like the air had thickened, charged with something unspoken. As if we both sensed the surface of our fake little planet cracking, the idyll teetering on the edge of rupture.

Dinner was simple, but the conversation turned deeper, Michael admitting how this break scared him, how work had always been his shield.

“You’ve changed that,” he said, eyes on mine. “You made me want more.”

I felt the warmth, but the fear too, that this evolution, from strangers to this entangled mess, was too fragile.

“More is alluring, I know. Tempting. But it’s also dangerous,” I replied, half-joking, but meaning it.

The evening heated up from there. Back inside, a kiss in the kitchen turned urgent, hands roaming with that desperate edge. We made love on the couch this time, fabrics shifted hastily – my sundress hiked up, his pants tugged down just enough – the need too fierce for patience. It was intense and almost frantic, my nails raking his back as he thrust deeper, our moans mingling with the sea’s roar.

“Shit… fuck…” he moaned, and I arched, release hitting like a storm, pulling him with me in waves that left us both shattered, clinging as if to hold the moment.

We lay there after, our breathing slowing, his head on my chest, hand on my belly – his silent way to tell me he was there, not just for me, but for our baby too. The peace felt tenuous.

Then the landline shattered it.

A sharp, shrill ring from the hallway, jarring and insistent. And for the first time, at an ungodly hour.

Michael froze beneath me. I felt it before I saw it: his breath catching, the subtle tightening of his arms around me, the stillness that always came just before he pulled away. He knew whoever called this late had to tell him something important. Something he could not ignore. And I knew the call was for him. The air between us was heavy with heat and salt, our skin still slick from the sea and the sex, the faint hum of the ceiling fan pretending the world hadn’t found us yet. Bullshit – it had.

The phone rang again. Louder. Meaner.

He exhaled through his nose, a soft curse under his breath.

“Don’t,” I whispered.

But he was already sitting up, pulling his sweatpants higher, raking a hand through his hair.

The ring cut through the villa like a blade. It didn’t belong here, in this place that had no clocks or headlines. It was the sound of everything we’d been hiding from.

By the time I followed, he was already in the study, the thin light from the desk lamp spilling over his shoulders. I stopped at the doorway, barefoot.

“Yeah,” he said into the receiver, voice low and guarded. The single syllable hit like a closing door.

A pause. Then Bill’s voice, tinny, urgent yet eerily calm, flooding the quiet.

I couldn’t catch everything, but the pieces that broke through were enough:

“Joseph went public.”

“They’re running with it.”

“Every network, Mike… CNN, ABC, Hard Copy, CBS… all of them.”

Michael didn’t speak. He just stood there, one hand pressed flat to the desk, the other white-knuckled around the receiver.

Bill’s voice crackled, faster now.

“‘He’s seeing someone very special,’ that’s what he said. Smiling. Like it’s good PR. The press doesn’t need names, they already know. They’re looping footage from her apartment, her block. From the airport.”

“Presley and Jackson. It’s everywhere.”

My stomach dropped. That instinctive, physical lurch before the mind can catch up.

I pictured the headlines already being printed, the talk-show hosts grinning through gossip, my mother seeing it first thing over her morning tea.

Michael’s breath hitched. It was not a sigh – it was something deeper. The sound of a man folding in on himself. Yet, when he spoke, his voice sounded collected. It was a talent he had mastered a long time ago.

“Okay. Thanks, Bill… Thanks for letting me know.”

He didn’t slam the phone down. He replaced it gently. The receiver clicked, and the silence that followed was almost louder than the call.

He stayed there, unmoving, his back still turned to me.

I took one hesitant step into the room.

“Michael…”

Still he didn’t turn. His shoulders rose and fell once, rigid.

“Did you hear?”

“Yeah…”

He stayed silent for what felt like forever.

“He used you,” he eventually said, voice flat. “To frame me as his success story. Again.”

I didn’t answer. There was nothing to soften that truth.

“He talks about love like it’s leverage,” he went on, quieter now, the anger leaking out until only exhaustion remained. “Like it’s proof he didn’t screw up raising me.”

He finally turned, slowly, like it hurt. His eyes met mine and I saw it all layered there: the fury, the shame, the child still trying to please a man who would never see him. It was grief, pure and unfiltered.

I followed his gaze toward the desk, where the small TV sat dark and silent. Without a word, he reached for the remote and switched it on.

The screen flared to life, washing the room in cold blue light. Bill was right: it was everywhere.

Joseph’s face filled the TV, calm, rehearsed and smiling for the cameras.

“He’s seeing someone very special, and we couldn’t be happier.”

The anchor’s voice followed, smooth and detached.

“Rumors of a romance between Michael Jackson and Lisa Marie Presley have been confirmed by the singer’s father, Joseph Jackson, in a statement earlier today…”

Then came the montage: clips of Michael being swallowed by a crowd, me at an airport, a blurred tabloid shot that made me look like a deer caught in the headlights. Our names ran together across the bottom of the screen like a single brand: PRESLEY + JACKSON: MUSIC ROYALTY IN LOVE OR PUBLICITY STUNT?

The sound seemed to hollow the room. Michael stood still, jaw tight, hands curling at his sides.

“He had no right to do this,” he said finally, barely above a whisper.

I saw him blink repeatedly, the invisible smoke of being blindsided clouding his vision. I crossed the space between us before I could think and pressed my hand to his chest. His heartbeat was a drum beneath my palm, wild and uneven.

He looked down at me, eyes glassy but dry. “It was supposed to be just ours.”

I nodded, because he was right and because I didn’t know what else to do. Outside, the waves began to pound harder against the rocks. The first real wind in days rattled the shutters.

He reached for me – not rough, not desperate, just seeking anchor – and I stepped into him. His arms closed around me, holding tight enough to hurt. I felt his breath break against my hair.

“I am sorry. So sorry.”

“It’s okay. We’ll figure it out,” I whispered.

“Will we?” The words came out small, almost lost. It was the first sign of insecurity he had ever shown me, and it terrified me.

The silence after that question wasn’t real silence; it was pressure. I could hear the refrigerator hum in the distance, the slow churn of the ceiling fan, the static in the air from the TV still playing in the background. Michael looked enormous and fragile at once, all that power folded in on itself. For the first time since I’d known him, I realized how heavy it must be to carry a world that was never really his.

Neither of us moved. The phone started ringing again somewhere in the house, but the sound barely reached us. All that existed was his heartbeat under my hand and the taste of salt in the air.

Michael’s private persona could contain fury, hidden in the tensing of his jaw and his clipped responses, and his body language and eyes certainly showed the vulnerability beneath. For the umpteenth time in his life, he was a man clashing with the shadows of his family and his life. Unexpectedly, something moved in me: it was a tenderness, raw and new, cutting through the fear. I pulled him to me, our embrace fierce, but the bubble had burst.

The dream was over, reality had crashed in. It had been inevitable. Deep down, he and I knew we never stood a chance. My mother would be next, flying in, no doubt, to “fix” things. For now we held on, but the peace was gone, leaving only the echo of what we’d built in this fragile paradise.

Outside, the wind rose, lifting the curtains in slow, ghostly waves. He held me tighter, as if that alone could keep the world from finding us again. Yet it already had.