Hellooo i have a request for a fic/ one shot!
the idea is Dangerous/Invincible era MJ and Younger rockstar!Reader are in a kinda on and off situationship/relationship, and you really want to make it official but michael was seeing another woman and you end up finding out and stop talking to him because naturally your hurt and angry, and this all just so happens to be around the time where you go on tour for your concert, and like 12 shows in different countryās later you perform a song but its a cover of āGive in to meā by MJ but you sing it with anger and hurt still in your heart, BUT unbeknownst to you he is in the crowd for that exact same show and when the concert ends and your backstage, your security tells you that MJ wants to see you, you can decide how she responds :3333
Give in to me || Michael x Reader ||
You were sitting on the bed with your knees pulled in close to your chest. You tried to ignore the hurt about your situation. Kissing you goodbye, he would throw the words āI love youā before leaving. Just accept it like before.
You had attempted yet again to make it official with Michael only for him to tell you he needed more time. You leaned your forehead forward resting on your knees. Yet again you were naked in bed but his side has already gone cold. You tried tucking yourself in ignoring the salt tears that leaked from your eyes and seeped into your mouth.
You pulled the blanket closer to your face breathing in the fleeting scent of him that remained of the fabric. Ever since you met him, you have been trying to be better. How long will you be willing to wait for him? All you've done was wait. Wait. Wait. Wait for him backstage. Wait for him in the car. Wait for him at his door. Wait. How much longer till the timer runs out? How many times did you offer pieces of yourself to him? How many layers did you have to shed to let him know you were serious? You'll just have to wait.
You woke up from your restless sleep the ache echoed in the chambers of your heart still yet you threw the covers off of you and got ready for the day. Staring at the phone wanting desperately to call him to check up on him and ask where he was but if you did you'd be falling back into your old habits of waiting. Always waiting.
You tried to treat the next morning like any other day on the road. You sat at the vanity, nursing a lukewarm coffee, while the hotel television hummed quietly in the background. It was just a routine entertainment news segment, until his face flashed across the screen.
āPop icon Michael Jackson spotted leaving a private gallery in New York late last night, accompanied byā¦ā
The reporterās voice faded into background static as you stared at the footage. He was walking close to a beautiful woman, his hand hovering near the small of her back to guide her past the flashing cameras. Your chest tightened. You tried to force a laugh, telling yourself it was just business, just another public relations obligation. Musicians did it all the time. But a cold, heavy knot formed in the pit of your stomach, a physical sickness that logic couldn't argue away.
By noon, the unease had grown into a full, suffocating nausea. You couldn't just sit and wait this time. You needed him to say it was nothing. You needed to hear his soft, familiar voice tell you that you were overreacting.With trembling fingers, you picked up your phone and dialed his private number. It rang once. Twice. Three times. You held your breath, preparing your opening line, waiting for him to pick up.The line clicked open.
"Hello?" The voice wasn't Michaelās high, gentle cadence. It was a woman's voice, smooth, casual, and entirely comfortable answering his personal phone.
The room seemed to tilt. A wave of intense dizziness washed over you, and the nausea in your stomach violently flared, climbing up your throat. You couldn't breathe, let alone speak. Before the woman could say another word, you dropped the phone against the mattress, severing the call as you stumbled blindly toward the bathroom, the harsh reality finally breaking through.
You didnāt text him back for days. When his invitation finally came, a private dinner away from the prying eyes of the press, you found yourself saying yes before your pride could stop you. You told yourself you needed closure. You told yourself you needed to see his face.
But sitting across from him in the dimly lit corner of the restaurant, the distance between you felt wider than an ocean. Michael was talking softly, his dark eyes searching yours with that familiar, gentle warmth that usually made your defenses crumble. He looked exactly the same, but everything had changed.
The image of him outside the gallery with that woman kept flashing behind your eyelids. The sound of her casual, smooth "Hello" on his phone echoed over the quiet clinking of silverware. "You're barely touching your food," Michael noted, his voice dipping into that quiet, concerned tone he used when he was truly paying attention.
"I'm just not that hungry," you replied. Your voice sounded flat even to your own ears. You kept your hands resting in your lap so he wouldn't see them shaking.
Every time he reached across the white tablecloth to touch your hand, you subtly shifted, picking up your water glass or adjusting your napkin just to avoid his skin. You couldn't bear the thought of his touch feeling the same when everything else felt ruined.
You didn't smile at his jokes. You didn't lean in when he whispered. You were a ghost sitting in your own seat, entirely detached from the restaurant, the food, and him.Michael stopped mid-sentence, the easy smile fading from his lips. He set his fork down, his gaze narrowing as he studied the tense line of your shoulders and the way you refused to meet his eyes. The silence stretched between you, heavy and suffocating."What's wrong?" he asked softly, leaning forward. "You've been completely off the whole night. Talk to me.ā
You swallowed hard, your throat tight and dry. Your fingers tightly gripped the linen napkin in your lap, hiding the way your knuckles turned white. You couldn't just blurt it out. Rockstar or not, looking at him under the soft glow of the restaurant lights made you feel small, exposed, and incredibly fragile."I just..." You paused, forcing your eyes up to meet his, though you couldn't hold his gaze for long. You looked down at your wine glass, watching the dark liquid swirl. "I saw the news the other day. You looked busy. It seems like youāve been spending a lot of time out in public lately. With company."The word company felt heavy and bitter on your tongue. You kept your tone carefully casual, trying to sound like you were just making polite conversation, but the slight tremor in your breath gave you away.
Michael didn't answer right away. The easy, relaxed posture he usually held shifted, his shoulders tensing almost imperceptibly. He leaned back in his chair, his dark eyes tracking the nervous movement of your hands. He knew you well enough to read between the lines. He knew you didn't care about the news; you cared about her. "It was just a gallery opening," Michael said softly, his voice dropping into that quiet, carefully guarded cadence he used when dealing with the press. "You know how the media is. They take one photo of me walking next to someone and turn it into a whole story. It's just... part of the job."He was giving you the standard answer.
The safe answer. But he didn't mention the phone. He didn't mention who answered his private line. He was smoothing it over, treating you like the public instead of the person who shared his bed. The sick feeling in your stomach flared up again, hotter and sharper this time, as you realized he wasn't going to offer up the truth on his own.The polite facade you were trying so hard to maintain completely cracked.
You let out a quiet, humorless breath that was closer to a sigh than a laugh."Right. The media," you murmured, finally looking him dead in the eye. The hesitation was gone, a cold clarity filled you. "But the media didn't answer your private line, Michael."
He froze. The rehearsed, gentle look on his face faltered, his lips parting slightly as the realization hit him."I called you," you continued, your voice dropping to a harsh whisper so the surrounding tables wouldn't hear. "A few days ago. I was having a weak moment, and I just wanted to hear your voice. But I didn't get you. A woman answered your phone. She sounded very comfortable, Michael. Very at home."The silence that followed was suffocating. The ambient noise of the restaurantāthe soft jazz, the low chatter of other dinersāseemed to vanish entirely. Michaelās eyes widened slightly, a flicker of genuine panic crossing his features before he quickly masked it. His hand reached across the table again, more urgent this time, his fingers brushing against your arm as if trying to physically hold you in place before you could slip away."Wait, let me explain," he began, his voice taking on a desperate, pleading edge. "Itās not what you think it is. You have to understand my life, who is around meā"
"I do understand," you interrupted softly, pulling your arm back out of his reach. The nausea from days before was back, but this time, it was accompanied by a strange, hollow sense of finality. "That's the problem. I understand completely.ā
Michael stopped mid-excuse. He looked down at the tablecloth, his chest rising and falling with a heavy sigh. When he looked back up, the warmth in his eyes was gone, replaced by a clinical, defensive distance that felt entirely foreign.
"Baby," he said quietly, his voice calm. "We never said we were exclusive. In my mind...we aren't together like that. We're casual. You knew what this was."
The words hit you like a physical blow to the chest, knocking the air right out of your lungs. Casual. The nights spent wrapped in his arms, the whispered promises, the fleeting "I love you"s he threw over his shoulder before leaving, it was all reduced to a meaningless, low-stakes arrangement in his head. Something inside you snapped, but it didn't make a sound. It was a clean, freezing break. The anger, the hurt, the desperate urge to argue, it all vanished in an instant, replaced by a profound, deadening silence. You just shut down.Your face went completely blank. You didn't cry. You didn't yell. You didn't even look angry. You just stared at him, suddenly seeing a complete stranger sitting across from you.
"Okay," you whispered. The utter lack of emotion in your voice caught him off guard. Michael blinked, his defensive posture faltering as he searched your empty expression, suddenly looking terrified by how quickly you had checked out. "Wait, no, I didn't mean it likeā"
But you weren't listening anymore. You quietly stood up from the table, picked up your jacket, and walked out of the restaurant without looking back, leaving him alone in the booth with the mess he had just made.You didnāt just block his number; you erased his presence from your life. The moment you locked yourself in your car outside the restaurant, you shut off your phone. The next morning, you changed your number entirely, giving the new digits only to your manager, your bandmates, and your security team.
For the next seven days, you became a ghost to him.
Michael didn't take the silence well. Stripped of his calm control, he panicked. Your old phone, which your manager kept switched on to monitor any urgent business, lit up constantly with his name. He called at midnight, at dawn, leaving desperate, soft-spoken voicemails that you refused to listen to.
When the phone calls failed, he showed up.
You were sitting on your living room floor, surrounded by half-packed suitcases and guitar cases, when the heavy thud of knuckles echoed against your front door. You froze, holding your breath. Through the peephole, you saw him standing on your porch, a fedora pulled low, looking frantically around the quiet street.
He knocked again, louder this time. "Please," you heard his muffled voice call out, tight with an anxiety you had never heard from him before. "Just let me explain. I know you're in there. Please look at me."You backed away from the door silently, retreating into the shadows of your hallway. A week ago, you would have thrown the door open. You would have waited on the porch, waited in his arms, waited for him to fix it. But his cold words from the restaurant echoed in your mind: In my mind, we aren't together. We're casual.You sat on the steps of your stairs, resting your chin on your knees, watching the shadow of his silhouette through the frosted glass of the door. He stood there for twenty minutes, shifting his weight, occasionally resting his forehead against the wood.
Two days before your flight to Europe, you were sitting in the quiet corner of a local diner, trying to hide behind oversized sunglasses while staring into a mug of black coffee. The heavy thud of your heart hadn't slowed down since you walked out of the restaurant, but you were trying to mentally prepare for the grueling months on the road.
Then, the television mounted above the diner counter shifted from a commercial to a breaking entertainment bulletin.
āA shocking new development in the world of pop royalty,ā the anchor announced, a bright, sensational smile on her face. āMichael Jackson was spotted last night in Los Angeles, out on what sources confirm is a high-profile romance with none other than Lisa Marie Presley.ā
The screen split to show high-definition paparazzi footage. They were walking side-by-side, dressed in matching black, looking calm and entirely unbothered by the flashing cameras surrounding them.
The diner around you seemed to lose all its oxygen. Your fingers froze around the warm ceramic of your mug.
"In my mind, we're casual," his voice echoed in your head, sharper and more vicious than before.
He hadn't been keeping you hidden to protect his privacy or to escape the media circus. He had kept you hidden because you weren't the Princess of Rock 'n' Roll. He used the word "casual" like an elegant knife, turning your late-night whispers and shared beds into a meaningless waiting game while he stepped out into the bright lights with a music legacy.
A cold, heavy numbness washed over you, instantly killing the last lingering trace of hope you had been holding onto. The girl who used to wait at his door, the girl who cried into his sheets,she didn't exist anymore.
You stood up, threw a twenty-dollar bill onto the table without looking back, and walked out into the crisp afternoon air. You didn't cry. You didn't call him. You went straight back to your apartment, threw your remaining stage gear into your suitcases, and locked the zippers.
Forty-eight hours later, you boarded the flight to Europe. When the wheels lifted off the tarmac, you left the quiet, broken version of yourself somewhere over the Atlantic.
The first stop of the tour became a chaotic, blur of adrenaline and dark energy. Onstage, your new rockstar persona took over completely. You traded your soft edges for heavy leather, smudged black eyeliner, and a brutal, aggressive presence that absolutely captivated the crowds.
The jet lag was a heavy, physical weight by the time you unlocked the door to your hotel suite in London. The room was grand, cold, and entirely unfamiliar. You dropped your leather jacket onto a chair and collapsed onto the edge of the mattress, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the gray British rain slicking the streets below.You had barely been sitting for five minutes when the burner phone your manager had set up for the tour began to vibrate on the nightstand.Only three people had this number. With a furrowed brow, you picked it up and pressed it to your ear. "Yeah?"
"Please don't hang up." The voice was soft, breathless, and instantly recognizable. Michael. The sheer desperation in his tone caught you completely off guard, freezing the air in your lungs."How did you get this number?" you whispered, your voice dangerously level. "I had to ask your management. I practically forced them," he admitted, his voice tight and cracking with an anxiety you had never heard from him before.
"Please, just listen to me for one minute. I know you're angry. I know what you saw on the news, but... it's not what you think. It's complicated, it's all business, it'sā"
"I don't care, Michael," you interrupted, staring blankly at the rain hitting the glass. "You told me what we were. We're casual. You're free to do whatever business you want."
"No, I was wrong," he begged, the words rushing out of him, raw and unpolished. "I said it because I was scared. I was trying to push you away because everything is so loud right now, but it's not working. I can't sleep. I look at my phone and you aren't there. I go home and the house is just... it's empty. Itās not the same without you. Please. Just come back. Let me fly out to see you."
A week ago, those words would have made your heart soar. They were exactly what you had been waiting to hear while sitting naked in his cold bed. But hearing them now, after seeing him smile for the paparazzi with Lisa Marie, they just felt like salt in an open wound.
He wanted you back in the dark, hidden away, while he played his games in the light. "You're right about one thing," you said softly, your grip tightening on the plastic of the phone. "It's not the same. Because I'm not waiting anymore."
Before he could reply, you pressed the end-call button. You didn't just turn the phone off, you took the battery out, tossed the pieces into the bedside drawer, and walked into the bathroom to splash cold water on your face. The tour started tomorrow, and you had a show to prepare for.
A spark flared up in your chest, cutting right through his begging. "If it's just business, Michael, then answer one question," you said, your voice dropping into a dangerously quiet whisper. "Lisa Marie. How long has it been going on?"
The line went dead silent. The sudden absence of his frantic breathing was more telling than any confession. He hesitated, the seconds stretching out like a heavy suffocating fog across the thousands of miles between you. "Michael,"
you pressed, your grip tightening so hard on the phone your knuckles turned white. "How long?"
"A year," he whispered back. His voice sounded small, defeated, stripped of all its pop-star armor. "It's been a year. But it doesn't mean anything, it'sā"
The phone slipped an inch in your hand as the room seemed to spin.
A year. An entire year of him telling you he needed more time.
An entire year of you waiting by his door, waiting backstage, shedding your layers and offering up pieces of your soul while he was already building a life with the Princess of Rock 'n' Roll in the light. You hadn't just been a secret; you had been a backup plan. A convenient comfort hidden away in the dark.
"Goodbye, Michael," you choked out.Before he could utter another word, you slammed the end-call button. A violent wave of nausea hit you, and you dropped the phone on the nightstand like it had burned you. You didn't cry. The pain was too deep for tears, instantly hardening into a heavy, unyielding armor of absolute fury.
You ripped the battery straight out of the phone, threw the pieces across the room, and stared at your reflection in the dark hotel window. The girl who waited was officially gone.
Two nights later, the lights slammed down in London's Wembley Stadium, and twenty thousand voices roared your name into the cool night air. The heavy, distorted bass of your opening track shook the stage beneath your boots. When you stepped out into the spotlight, dressed in a sleek, shredded leather jacket and dark, smudged eyeliner, a wave of pure, kinetic energy hit you like a physical force.You didn't think about him. You didn't think about the phone call, or the year of lies, or Lisa Marie.
You threw yourself into the microphone, your voice carrying a raw, gritty edge that drove the crowd absolutely wild.
For two hours, you weren't the girl waiting by a cold bed. You were a rock 'n' roll force of nature.
During the encore, as the final, crashing chords of your biggest hit echoed through the stadium, the front rows erupted. Suddenly, a shower of red and white roses rained down onto the stage, scattering across the black floorboards at your feet. You paused, breathing heavily, a bead of sweat tracing down your neck. You looked down at the flowers, then up at the sea of screaming fans holding up signs, calling your name, completely captivated by you.
You bent down, picked up a single, thornless red rose, and held it up to the crowd with a fierce, breathless smile. They screamed louder, the sound deafening.In that exact moment, a profound truth settled deep into your chest: you were loved by thousands.
You were worshiped right out in the open, under the brightest lights in the world. You didn't need to hide in the shadows anymore. You didn't need to wait for scraps of affection from a man who treated you like a secret.
As you walked off the stage and into the chaotic, cheering energy of your backstage crew, your manager handed you a cold water bottle, beaming. "You completely destroyed them out there. First show is a massive hit."
"I'm really happy they enjoyed themselves," you said with a newfound confidence. The second stop of the tour was pure, chaotic adrenaline. By the time you hit the stage in Paris, the heavy, dark anger from the breakup had shifted into something else, an untamed desire to just live in the moment.
During the high-energy bridge of your mid-tempo rock anthem, your bassist suddenly grinned, ducking behind the drum riser and pulling out a massive, neon-colored water blaster. Before you could react, a stream of cold water hit you square in the chest.
The stadium gasped, then erupted into deafening cheers.You let out a loud, breathless laugh, instantly signaling your road crew. Within seconds, the stage was flooded with water guns. What followed was a full-scale, chaotic war under the blazing arena lights. You chased your bandmates across the stage, laughing hysterically, completely abandoning the rehearsed choreography.
By the time the final chords rang out, you were absolutely drenched. Your white stage tank top was plastered to your skin, your dark leather pants gleamed under the spotlights, and your soaked hair clung to your face in messy, wild waves. Standing at the edge of the catwalk, dripping wet, breathing heavily with a fierce, triumphant grin, you looked like an absolute rock 'n' roll goddess.
The crowd went completely feral, the flashes of thousands of cameras lighting up the arena like a lightning storm.Within hours, the tour wasn't just a success, it was a global phenomenon. Clips of the water fight flooded the internet, going massively viral overnight.
By the next morning, entertainment news channels worldwide were playing the footage on a loop.āMove over pop royalty,ā one major morning show anchor announced, showing a high-definition freeze-frame of you looking ethereal and powerful in your soaked stage clothes. āThereās a new goddess of rock ruling Europe, and she is completely unstoppable.ā
You watched the segment from your hotel bed, sipping your morning coffee with a quiet, satisfied smile. For the first time in a year, you didn't feel sick to your stomach when looking at the news. You had completely rewritten your own narrative.
Michael might have been the King of Pop, but you were officially the queen of the moment.
And the entire world was watching you shine.
By the third show in Berlin, the venue was packed to absolute capacity, the air thick with the scent of leather, sweat, and anticipation.
The viral success of the Paris water fight had sent ticket demands through the roof. People didn't just want to hear your music anymore; they wanted to see what the "Goddess of Rock" would do next.
You didn't disappoint. During the explosive climax of your heaviest song, the adrenaline in your veins turned into pure, liquid lightning. The guitars were roaring, the drums pounding a tribal beat that vibrated right through the soles of your boots. You locked eyes with the sea of faces in the general admission pit, a churning, ecstatic ocean of hands raised in the air.
Without a single second of hesitation, you unclipped the microphone, dropped the stand, and sprinted down the catwalk.
Your manager gasped from the wings, shouting for security, but it was too late. You launched yourself directly off the edge of the stage, diving headfirst into the open air.
For a terrifying, thrilling fraction of a second, you were weightless. Then, a hundred pairs of hands caught you perfectly. The stadium erupted into a deafening, seismic roar as the crowd lifted you up. You lay back on the sea of outstretched hands, letting them surf you across the front rows like a rock 'n' roll queen carried by her subjects. Looking up at the flashing strobe lights reflecting off the stadium rafters, a wild, breathless laugh escaped your lips. You felt completely safe, completely worshiped, and entirely alive.
When security finally pulled you gently back over the barricade, your hair was wild, your clothes were torn, and you were glowing with an untouchable euphoria.
By midnight, the internet was broken again. The high-definition slow-motion video of your stage dive went instantly viral, trending number one worldwide. The media couldn't get enough of the raw, fearless energy you were bringing to the stage. You were a cultural movement. And thousands of miles away, sitting in his quiet, empty mansion, Michael was watching every single clip on his television, realizing with a sinking heart that the girl he tried to keep in the dark had just become the brightest star in the sky.
After the viral madness of the stage dive, the fourth and fifth shows, in Munich and Amsterdam, settled into a smooth, professional rhythm. There were no spontaneous water gun fights or chaotic leaps into the general admission pit. Instead, you gave the crowds pure, flawless musicianship, completely commanding the arena from the moment the first spotlight hit your face.
You were growing comfortable in this new skin. The heavy leather jackets and smudged eyeliner no longer felt like a costume to hide your broken heart; they felt like armor.
Backstage after the Amsterdam show, the dressing room was a calm, organized space. You sat on the leather sofa, slowly unwrapping the athletic tape from your wrists while your bandmates laughed over a deck of cards across the room. You looked at your reflection in the brightly lit vanity mirror. The dark circles under your eyes from those sleepless nights in New York were completely gone. Your skin was glowing from the heat of the stage, and your posture was straight, confident, and entirely unbothered.
"Merch sales hit another record tonight," your manager noted cheerfully, stepping into the room with a clipboard. "And the reviews for the Amsterdam press are calling your vocals 'worldly!' You're completely dominating the European market."
"Good," you replied, taking a sip of ice water. "Let's keep it that way." You didn't check your phone. You didn't ask if anyone had called. When Michael's face occasionally flashed on the green-room television monitors during routine news recaps, your stomach didn't twist into a painful knot anymore. A cold, steady indifference had taken over. You were a rising titan in the music industry, completely focused on the road ahead. You had five down, seven more to go until the fateful twelfth night.
The sixth through ninth shows, stretching across Milan, Madrid, Rome, and Vienna, became the absolute pinnacle of the entire European leg.
They were the loudest and the best performances of your life. The chemistry between you, your band, and the audiences reached a fever pitch, transforming every arena into a roaring, ecstatic sea of pure rock 'n' roll.
In Madrid, the crowd's chanting was so thunderous that the stadium floor physically vibrated beneath your boots.
You didn't have to force the rockstar persona anymore. It had completely fused with who you were. You commanded the stage with a flawless, untouchable precision, striking heavy guitar chords, locking eyes with fans in the front rows, and letting your vocals soar with a raw, effortless power that left the music critics speechless. Every single night was a masterpiece of lights, sweat, and deafening adoration.
During the encores of those shows, you would stand at the very edge of the catwalk, completely bathed in the blinding white spotlights, soaking in the wall of sound hitting you from the crowd.
They loved you completely, fiercely, and right out in the open.
Standing there, listening to tens of thousands of people screaming your name until their voices went hoarse, you realized you had never felt more powerful. The suffocating memories of waiting by a quiet phone or staring at the cold side of Michaelās bed were entirely obliterated by the beautiful chaos. You were in peak form, delivering the best shows of your career, entirely unaware that the global media coverage of these legendary nights was currently flashing across a television screen in California, making a certain pop icon realize exactly what he had lost.
By the tenth show in Copenhagen, the dazzling illusion of the tour finally cracked, revealing the brutal reality of life on the road. You woke up that afternoon with a pounding, merciless headache that throbbed right behind your eyes, a direct result of weeks of non-stop travel, time zone changes, and pouring every ounce of your soul into the microphone.
You felt completely drained. The high-energy, untouchable singer who had ruled the stage for the past nine nights felt miles away.
Backstage before the show, the dressing room felt suffocatingly loud. Every sound, the hum of the vanity lights, the chatter of the crew, the distant thump of the opening actās bass, sent a sharp spike of pain through your skull. You sat on the sofa with a cold compress pressed to your forehead, staring blankly at the floor. The adrenaline that usually fueled you had completely dried up, leaving behind a cold, heavy fatigue that settled deep into your bones.
"We can cut two songs from the setlist if you need to," your manager suggested gently, crouching down in front of you with a cup of herbal tea and two painkillers. "You look exhausted."
"No," you raspy murmured, pulling the compress away and forcing yourself to stand. Your knees felt weak, and your stomach twisted with a faint wave of nausea. "The crowd paid to see the full show. I'm going out there."
You let the wardrobe stylist zip you into your heavy leather jacket and adjust your microphone pack, but as you stood in the dark wings of the stage waiting for your cue, you felt completely hollow.
The show itself was a battle. The crowd was as loud as ever, but you had to fight for every single note, your body screaming at you to stop. You managed to push through the two-hour set on pure muscle memory and stubborn pride, but the effortless, joyful spark from the previous nights was missing. You didn't smile, you didn't run down the catwalk, and you didn't do any viral stunts. You just sang, your voice carrying a heavy, strained weight that sounded less like a rock anthem and more like a desperate cry for rest.
The moment the final curtain dropped, the heavy leather jacket felt like lead on your shoulders. You practically stumbled off the stage, bypassing the cheering crew entirely, and locked yourself in the quiet darkness of your dressing room, completely spent and dreading the fact that you only had forty-eight hours before you had to do it all over again.
The twelfth show was the breaking point. The tour had rolled into a massive, packed arena, the air thick with tension and the heavy thud of bass. You hadn't slept well, the image of him with that new woman still burning a hole in your mind. You needed an outlet. You needed to scream.
During soundcheck, you had turned to your band with a cold, steady look. āWeāre changing the encore tonight. Weāre doing 'Give In to Me.'ā
They hadn't questioned you. They knew better than to cross you when your exhaustion was this high.
When the stadium lights dimmed to a deep, moody purple for the encore, you gripped the microphone stand. The opening, sultry guitar chords of Michaelās track began to echo through the arena. The crowd immediately recognized the baseline, letting out a confused, ecstatic roar.
When you opened your mouth, the song didn't carry its usual seductive, pleading tone. You changed the feel and core of the song to match you fatigue. Fatigue with the tour. Fatigue with him. You sang it with a gritty edge, your voice cracking with the heavy weight of anger and lingering hurt.
āLove is a feeling, quench my desire...ā You belted the words, pouring all the sickness of the tabloids, the year of lies, and the casual dismissals into the microphone. The crowd went completely feral, feeling the intense, unfiltered emotion vibrating through the speakers.
You were pacing the front of the stage, completely lost in the music, when your eyes accidentally scanned the VIP barricade right at the edge of the catwalk.
Time seemed to stop. Standing right there, just feet away from the stage, was a familiar silhouette. He was wearing a black fedora pulled low, a dark mask covering his face, but those wide, soulful dark eyes staring up at you were unmistakable. Michael.
He was actually here, standing in the middle of your crowd, looking up at you with an expression of pure, breathless shock and heartbreaking regret. He was watching you completely reinvent his pain.
Your chest seized for a fraction of a second, the breath catching in your throat. The urge to break down, to stop singing, to demand answers flashed through you.
But you didn't let the armor crack. Instead, you locked eyes with him for one brutal, freezing second. You let him see the absolute emptiness in your gaze, the complete lack of the girl who used to wait for him.
Then, with a dismissive tilt of your head, you deliberately turned your back on him. You unclipped the microphone from the stand and walked with slow, unbothered steps all the way to the completely opposite side of the stage.
You threw yourself into the final chorus, turning your face toward the roaring fans on the far left, completely freezing him out of his own song. You left him standing there in the shadows of the right wing, isolated and small, forcing him to watch you shine from a distance he could no longer cross.
The final, crashing chords of "Give In to Me" echoed through the arena like a thunderclap, slowly fading into a deafening wall of sound as twenty thousand fans screamed your name. Your chest heaved, sweat dripping down your temple, your heart hammering wildly against your ribs.
You slowly raised the microphone to your lips, your voice raspy but entirely steady.
"Thank you so much," you said into the microphone, your voice ringing clear over the roar of the crowd. "You guys have been absolutely incredible. Thank you for an amazing, short tour. Goodnight!"
With one last look at the sea of flashing lights, you turned around and walked off the stage, entirely refusing to glance back at the spot where Michael was standing.
The moment you stepped into the dark wings of the backstage area, the heavy adrenaline began to drain, leaving your limbs feeling like lead. The contrast was instant, the deafening arena noise muffled into a low, vibrating hum as you walked down the concrete corridor toward your dressing room. Your road crew and bandmates gave you wide berths, high-fiving you gently but staying quiet. They had seen the raw, terrifying energy you just threw out on that stage, and nobody wanted to break the heavy silence surrounding you.
You pushed open the door to your dressing room, the quiet wrapping around you like a blanket. You threw your soaked leather jacket onto a chair and collapsed onto the sofa, pulling your knees tightly in close to your chest, the exact same way you had sat on your bed weeks ago.
But everything was different now.
The sick feeling in your stomach was gone, replaced by a cold, solid weight of finality. You had sung his pain right back at him, turned your back on him in front of thousands, and walked away on your own terms.
A quiet knock rattled the wood of your dressing room door.
Your manager peeked his head inside, his face incredibly pale, his eyes darting nervously to the hallway behind him. "Hey... someone is out here. Heās demanding to see you. Security is holding him, but... you know who it is. What do you want to do?ā
You didnāt even hesitate. You looked at your manager, your face a mask of absolute, unyielding indifference.
"Tell security to keep holding him," you said softly, standing up from the sofa. You didn't grab your heavy stage jacket. You didn't pack up your makeup. You just grabbed your purse and your keys from the vanity table. "And don't tell him a thing."
"Wait, where are you going?" your manager stammered, looking frantically between you and the door. "The press is waiting, and heāsā"
"I'm done," you interrupted, your voice dropping into a calm, steady whisper that brooked no argument. "The tour is over. I'm going home."
Without waiting for a reply, you slipped through the private heavy curtain at the back of the dressing room, stepping into the quiet, industrial labyrinth of the arenaās service corridors. You bypassed the main exit entirely, navigating past the towering stacks of empty equipment cases and moving swiftly toward the rear loading docks. The cool, crisp night air hit your face as you stepped out into the dark alleyway where a single, private black SUV was idling, waiting for you. You climbed into the backseat, pulled your baseball cap low over your eyes, and told the driver to pull away.
As the taillights of the SUV vanished into the city traffic, the scene backstage violently fractured.
"Get out of my way!" Michaelās voice, usually so gentle and soft, carried a rare, sharp edge of pure panic as he shoved past the final line of your security guards. He threw the heavy wooden door of your dressing room open so hard it cracked against the drywall.
"Wait! Please, just let meā" The words died in his throat. The dressing room was completely silent. The hum of the brightly lit vanity mirror illuminated a space that was entirely devoid of life. He took a slow, trembling step inside, his dark eyes wide and frantic as they scanned the room. Your soaked leather jacket was still draped over the back of the chair. A half-empty water bottle sat on the table.
The faint, lingering scent of your perfume still hung in the warm air. But you were gone.
Michael stood frozen in the center of the room, slowly pulling the black silk mask down from his face. His chest rose and falling with a shallow, panicked breath as the brutal reality of the empty room settled into his bones. He had chased you across an ocean. He had stood in a crowd of thousands, watching you sing his own heartbreak back to him.
He had humbled himself, ready to beg, ready to tear down every wall he had built between you.But he was too late. He sank slowly onto the edge of the empty sofa, resting his forehead in his hands as a heavy, suffocating silence filled the room. For months, he had left you naked and shivering in a bed that was already growing cold, expecting you to just accept it.
He had made you wait backstage, wait in cars, wait at his door.
Now, sitting alone under the harsh glare of your empty vanity lights, the King of Pop finally understood the agonizing weight of the timer running out. The waiting game was officially over, and he was the one left behind in the dark.
You looked down at him as he sat with his face buried in his hands. A few weeks ago, his tears would have broken you. You would have knelt on the floor of the cabin, wrapped your arms around him, and accepted whatever beautiful excuse he offered just to feel his touch again.
But you weren't that girl anymore. The roaring crowds of Europe, the flowers at your feet, and the cold reality of his year-long betrayal had given you eyes that could see right through his desperation.
"I don't want to lose you," he repeated, his voice small and cracking as he slowly looked up at you, his dark eyes pleading for a lifeline.
"Please. I'll change it. I'll make it right."
"No, Michael," you said softly. The anger was entirely gone from your voice, replaced by a calm, heavy finality that was far more dangerous than any yelling.
You sat back down in your seat across from him, your spine straight, your hands resting calmly in your lap. You didn't shield yourself, and you didn't look away.
"You're only saying this because I finally stopped waiting," you continued, your voice steady over the low hum of the jet engines. "You were completely fine letting me pieces of myself to you while you kept me hidden. You were fine with 'casual' until I decided I was worth more than scraps of your time."
"I love you," he choked out, leaning forward, his hand trembling as he reached across the aisle toward you. "I do. I throw those words out because I mean them."
"Maybe you do," you replied, gently pulling your hand out of his reach before he could touch your skin. "But the way you love me hurts. It makes me feel small. It makes me feel invisible. And I respect myself too much to ever feel that way again."
Michael froze, his hand hovering in the empty space between you. The realization of what you were doing hit him with a terrifying, absolute clarity. You weren't punishing him. You weren't trying to make him jealous. You were breaking up with him, choosing your own peace over his world.
"Please," he whispered, a single tear escaping his eye and tracing down his cheek. "Don't do this."
"It's already over," you said, turning your face toward the cabin window. Outside, the dark night sky was completely clear above the clouds, stars stretching out into an endless, beautiful horizon. "I spent a year letting you lead me on, hoping that if I just waited a little longer, I'd be enough for you to choose me in the light. But I am choosing myself now. When this plane lands, we are completely over."
For the rest of the flight, the cabin was wrapped in a suffocating, absolute silence. Michael sat completely still in his seat, staring at the floorboards, utterly crushed by the weight of a consequence he couldn't charm or bargain his way out of. He had the entire world at his fingertips, but he had lost the one person who truly loved him for who he was, all because he thought she would always be waiting.
When the wheels finally touched down on the tarmac back in the States, the private jet taxied to a quiet, secure hangar. The flight attendant opened the heavy cabin door, the crisp morning air rushing inside.
You didn't look back at him. You simply stood up, zipped your jacket, and walked down the steps of the plane into the bright, open daylight. You walked past the security team and straight into a waiting car, leaving Michael Jackson alone in the luxury of his empty aircraft. The timer had officially run out, the waiting was finally over, and you were stepping out into a world that was completely yours now. You were no longer going to be in line waiting for someone to love you.
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