For The Cameras (Chapter 3: An Unusual Request)
Pairing: Michael Jackson x fem!reader Chapter: 3/? (Click for previous chapters: One / Two) Tags: fake / contract relationship, slow burn, strangers to friends to lovers, romance, hurt/comfort, not actually unrequited love, mutual pining, mutual admiration, angst with a happy ending, idiots in love
Summary: Michael Jackson is no stranger to rumors, but when increasingly invasive articles begin dissecting his private life, even he starts to feel the weight of the headlines.
At the same time, Hollywood's favorite leading lady is growing tired of being reduced to pretty smiles and successful romance films while her dreams of becoming a serious actress remain firmly out of reach.
A carefully negotiated relationship offers a solution to both of their problems. For Michael, it provides a much-needed shift in public perception. For you, it opens doors that have always remained frustratingly out of reach. It's mutually beneficial, protected by a contract, and entirely for the cameras.
At least, that's what it's supposed to be.
March 1986 The day after the phone call, Michael asked Frank and John to come by Hayvenhurst.
Neither man thought much of the request at first.
Meetings had become a regular occurrence over the past few weeks, and by the time they arrived that afternoon both of them assumed they would be discussing the lawsuit, the latest developments surrounding the magazine article, or some other unpleasant consequence of the rumors that seemed determined to follow Michael everywhere he went. It wasn't until they stepped inside the studio and found him already waiting for them that they realized something was different.
The studio felt unusually quiet.
Sunlight filtered through the tall windows and stretched across the floor in long golden rectangles while dust drifted lazily through the air above the mixing equipment. Michael sat in one of the chairs near the console with his hands loosely folded together, watching as Frank and John settled into the seats opposite him. For the first few minutes the conversation remained practical, revolving around the lawsuit and the progress–or lack thereof–that had been made since the article's publication a few days ago.
"We're still at the beginning stages," John explained after Michael asked for an update. "The cease and desist has been delivered, we've started gathering statements, and we're building the strongest possible case before taking the next step. Unfortunately these things take time."
Michael nodded slowly. That was more or less what he had expected.
Lawsuits moved slowly. Tabloids, unfortunately, did not.
The article had only been published a few days earlier, yet by now countless people had already read it, discussed it, and formed opinions based on it. Whatever damage it was going to cause had already begun long before any courtroom would ever see the case.
"I figured as much," he said quietly.
John studied him for a moment before tilting his head slightly. "You didn't ask us here to discuss the lawsuit."
It wasn't phrased as a question.
Michael smiled faintly. "No."
The reaction from both men was immediate. Frank straightened slightly in his chair while John lowered the folder he had been holding, and for the first time since arriving neither of them looked distracted by legal paperwork or strategy. That alone was unusual. For weeks Michael had seemed exhausted by the entire situation, more interested in escaping from it than confronting it, and yet now there was something different about him. Not excitement exactly, but determination. Tentative determination perhaps, the kind that came with uncertainty, but determination nonetheless.
Leaning back slightly in his chair, Michael let out a slow breath. "I've been thinking."
Frank immediately laughed. "Well that's always dangerous."
The comment earned the smallest smile from Michael before he continued. "I've been thinking about something you said, Frank."
Frank frowned slightly. "Which part?"
"The part about people already knowing the answer."
The amusement disappeared from Frank's face immediately. Neither he nor John interrupted as Michael looked briefly toward the floor, gathering his thoughts before continuing.
"I keep thinking about what you meant. Every few months somebody decides to sell the same story again, and it doesn't seem to matter whether it's true or whether it even makes sense. People read it because they already think there might be something there, and every new article becomes proof of the last one regardless of whether any of it is actually real."
Frank nodded slowly. "That's exactly the problem."
Michael folded his hands together. "So I've been thinking about how to change that."
Silence settled over the room.
Not uncomfortable silence. Interested silence.
The kind that appears when people realize a conversation is about to go somewhere unexpected.
Frank eventually raised an eyebrow. "You're proposing a solution?"
The disbelief in his voice made Michael laugh softly. "I know."
"No offense, I love that you’re actively taking part in finding a solution with us here," Frank said, "but your preferred solution until now has been hiding."
"That's fair."
John folded his arms. "Go on."
For a moment Michael hesitated, not because he wasn't sure of the idea anymore but because saying it out loud suddenly made it feel far more real than it had while sitting alone beside the pool imagining it.
"What if I entered a relationship?"
The silence that followed lasted several seconds.
Frank blinked. John stared.
Finally Frank spoke. "A real relationship?"
Michael shook his head. "No."
Understanding dawned immediately. "Oh."
Frank sat back in his chair. John looked considerably less amused.
"A fake relationship," Michael clarified. "A public one."
For several moments neither man responded. Frank appeared intrigued, while John looked as though he had just been handed a legal nightmare wrapped in a bow.
"Explain," Frank finally said.
And so Michael did.
He explained the idea as clearly as he could, describing how the public would see him consistently alongside somebody whose image was overwhelmingly positive, somebody trusted, respected, and generally liked by nearly everyone. Somebody whose reputation would naturally soften the public perception surrounding him through association alone, providing a different answer to the questions people seemed so desperate to ask.
Frank listened carefully. John remained skeptical.
"Who?"
Michael looked between them before finally saying your name.
The reaction was immediate. Not shock, but recognition.
Frank's eyebrows rose slightly as he leaned back in his chair.
"That makes considerably more sense."
John looked less convinced. Frank noticed.
"She's one of the few people in this industry who doesn't seem to have enemies."
"Everybody has enemies," John muttered.
"Relatively speaking."
As the discussion continued, Michael found himself watching their reactions carefully. Frank seemed increasingly receptive the more he considered the idea, while John approached it exactly as a lawyer would, immediately searching for weaknesses, risks, and worst-case scenarios.
"What happens if she tells somebody?" he asked.
"She won't."
"What happens if she tells a friend?"
"She won't."
John narrowed his eyes. "And what happens if somebody offers her money?"
That question lingered in the room longer than the others.
Michael found himself thinking about the past month. About late-night phone calls. About your concern. About the fact that you had never once treated him differently despite every reason in the world to do so.
"I don't think she would."
John studied him carefully, and it occurred to Michael that he probably sounded far more certain than he had intended.
Fortunately, he already had another answer prepared.
"I don’t think she would,” he repeated, “because there would be a contract."
That immediately got John's attention. "A contract?"
Michael nodded. "I wouldn't do something like this without one."
For the first time since the conversation began, some of John's skepticism eased. "Good."
To Michael's surprise, the lawyer actually looked impressed. "At least you've thought that far ahead."
Frank laughed. "Look at that. He's learning."
John ignored him completely. "If this happens, there needs to be a confidentiality agreement, financial penalties, clearly defined obligations, and consequences for violating them."
Michael nodded. "I know."
The lawyer in John appeared considerably happier now that paperwork had entered the discussion. Eventually Frank shifted the conversation elsewhere.
"Let's assume she says yes. You get better press, less speculation, less attention on the rumors, and a significantly more positive public image. The benefits for you seem fairly obvious."
Michael lowered his gaze briefly before speaking again. "She will benefit too."
That earned both of their attention.
"I know directors," he said.
Frank smiled. "That might be the understatement of the year."
"I'm serious,” Michael said, looking at them both. "If she says yes, this isn't just about me."
Neither man interrupted.
"I want introductions for her. Meetings. Producers. Directors."
His mind immediately drifted toward names he'd worked with over the years, people he respected and who respected him in return.
"If she wants dramatic roles, then she deserves opportunities to pursue them."
Frank watched him carefully. "You've already thought about this."
"I have."
"Quite a lot."
Michael didn't deny it. "If she's helping me, then I want to help her."
The conviction in his voice left little room for argument.
Eventually Frank exchanged a look with John, and the silent conversation that passed between them seemed to last several seconds before John finally nodded.
Reluctantly, cautiously. But genuinely.
"I'll start drafting something."
Frank followed shortly afterward. "As long as she agrees voluntarily and understands exactly what she's signing, I don't hate it."
Coming from Frank, that was practically enthusiasm.
For the first time since the article had appeared, Michael felt something dangerously close to relief settle in his chest as the idea stopped being a private thought and began transforming into something real.
The only thing left now was to propose the idea to you.
–
Two days later, Michael found himself waiting.
The afternoon sun filtered through the windows of Hayvenhurst while a thick stack of papers rested on the table beside him, their corners already beginning to curl from how many times he had picked them up, set them down, only to find himself reading them again a few minutes later. By now he knew entire sections of the contract almost by memory, yet somehow he continued turning pages as though a fresh reading might reveal something he had previously missed.
The previous evening, John had personally driven out to Hayvenhurst to deliver the first draft. What Michael had expected to be a brief discussion lasting perhaps twenty minutes had instead consumed nearly two hours, largely because John possessed an extraordinary ability to imagine every possible disaster a situation might produce and then document it in writing.
"You understand this isn't a normal contract," John had remarked at one point while adjusting his glasses and flipping through several pages covered in annotations.
Michael remembered rolling his eyes. "I figured that out."
John, naturally, had ignored the sarcasm entirely.
"If somebody accidentally leaks this, that's one thing. If somebody deliberately leaks it, that's another. If a reporter obtains information through a third party, that's another entirely. If an agent knows, that's different from a publicist knowing. If a family member finds out, that's different again."
For nearly two hours they had worked through the document line by line, discussing confidentiality clauses, financial penalties, interview obligations, media appearances, publicity requirements and enough legal language to make Michael's head ache. John seemed particularly pleased with the section governing public appearances, which required both parties to present a believable and consistent relationship whenever cameras were present, while interviews would require them to speak positively about one another and gracefully avoid intimate questions without creating suspicion.
A termination clause had also become a non-negotiable addition.
"If this goes badly," John had said bluntly, tapping the page with his pen, "I want a clear exit strategy."
Michael couldn't argue with that.
The sections that had occupied most of his own attention, however, weren't the ones protecting him.
Those had already been there.
The sections that mattered were the ones protecting you.
Originally the draft had been heavily focused on Michael's interests, his image, his publicity concerns and his legal exposure, and the imbalance had irritated him almost immediately. By the time John finally left that evening, several pages contained additions written in Michael's own handwriting, detailing introductions, professional meetings, networking opportunities and explicit commitments to help further your career should you agree to the arrangement.
At one point John had looked up from the draft and asked, not entirely without amusement, "Are you negotiating against yourself?"
Michael remembered shrugging. "It should be fair."
The response had earned him a look suggesting John believed Michael was making the entire process considerably more complicated than necessary.
Now, nearly twenty-four hours later, he found himself reading those pages again, although the truth was that he wasn't really searching for mistakes. John had dropped off the newest version containing Michael’s adjustments just this morning. His attention kept drifting toward a different question entirely.
How would you react? Would you laugh? Would you stare at him in complete disbelief?
Would you think he had finally lost whatever remained of his sanity? Or would you simply stand up, thank him politely for the invitation, and leave?
That final possibility had crossed his mind more than once.
His eyes drifted toward the window again. Then he looked back down at the contract. Read half a paragraph. Forgot every word of it. Looked back outside.
The cycle had repeated itself all afternoon.
Then, finally, a car appeared at the far end of the driveway. Michael immediately sat up straighter.
And just like that, the contract no longer seemed nearly as important.
Meanwhile, seated in the car as it wound its way toward Hayvenhurst, you had spent most of the journey trying to determine exactly why Michael had invited you over. The answer seemed relatively obvious, at least from your perspective. Over the past month the two of you had settled into an unexpectedly comfortable friendship, and after everything that had happened with the tabloids, the interviews, the increasingly ridiculous headlines and the betrayal of yet another former girlfriend, it wasn't difficult to imagine Michael wanting somebody outside his usual circle to talk to.
Somebody who wasn't a lawyer or a manager.
Somebody who wasn't being paid to solve his problems.
You remembered months earlier, during a New Year's gala, you had offered him exactly that. If he ever wanted somebody to listen, somebody who wasn't a reporter or journalist, you had told him you would be happy to do so. Perhaps he had finally decided to take you up on the offer.
The thought felt strangely flattering.
Not because you believed yourself particularly insightful, but because Michael appeared to trust very few people these days, and the fact that he had chosen you of all people felt significant in a way you couldn't quite explain.
Besides, your schedule had finally begun to ease. Filming had wrapped several weeks earlier, and although promotional obligations still loomed somewhere in the near future, interviews and premieres remaining unavoidable realities of the profession, for the moment you found yourself enjoying something that felt suspiciously like free time.
A rare luxury.
One you had used to immediately accept his invitation.
By the time the car passed through the gates of Hayvenhurst, your curiosity had only increased. The property seemed somehow larger than you remembered, yet at the same time considerably more peaceful, with rolling lawns, swaying trees and wide stretches of open space creating the strange illusion that Los Angeles existed very far away despite being only a short drive in reality.
For the first time, you understood why Michael seemed happiest here.
And before you had fully taken in your surroundings, the front door opened and Michael stepped outside.
The smile that appeared on his face the moment he spotted you was immediate and genuine, and something about it felt unexpectedly nice.
"Hi."
The greeting felt oddly normal considering the size of the estate surrounding him, and for a moment you found yourself smiling simply because there was something reassuring about the fact that Michael Jackson, standing in front of a sprawling California estate, somehow still managed to sound like someone greeting a friend at their front door.
"Hi."
Before you could say anything else, Michael stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you in a brief hug. The gesture surprised you just enough to make you hesitate for a second, not because it felt inappropriate or unexpected, but because it felt natural. Somewhere over the last month, between late-night phone calls, charity dinners, private screenings and countless conversations that seemed to wander aimlessly before becoming meaningful without either of you noticing, the two of you had quietly crossed the line separating acquaintances from friends.
When he finally stepped back, the smile remained. "I'm glad you came."
The sincerity in his voice made you smile in return.
"So am I."
Rather than immediately leading you inside, Michael insisted on showing you around first, and before long you found yourself wandering across the property beside him while he pointed out different parts of the estate. The tour began with the house, drifted naturally toward the grounds, and eventually led to the animals, which seemed to relax him more with every passing minute. By the time you reached the deer enclosure, much of the tension you had noticed when he first greeted you appeared to have disappeared entirely.
The moment Princess spotted him, she immediately began making her way toward the fence, her movements slow and careful, and it wasn't until your attention shifted slightly to the side that you noticed the much smaller figure standing beside her.
Your eyes widened instantly. "Oh my God."
Michael laughed at your reaction. "Yeah."
The tiny fawn blinked up at you with oversized dark eyes and impossibly long legs that seemed only partially convinced of their own purpose. He looked fragile and curious at the same time, the sort of animal that appeared almost unreal when seen up close.
"This is Valentino."
The name suited him immediately.
You crouched slightly, unable to stop smiling. "When did he arrive?"
"Yesterday."
The pride in Michael's voice was impossible to miss.
Princess remained close while he gently stroked her neck, and the affection between them felt so familiar that it was obvious this wasn't unusual for either of them.
"She had a difficult delivery."
Your expression softened immediately. "Is she okay?"
"She's doing great."
The smile that appeared on his face looked different from the ones you usually saw at events or fundraisers. It lacked the careful politeness he often carried in public and seemed warmer somehow, softer, entirely unguarded in a way that made him look younger.
"I stayed with her most of the night."
You looked up. "You did?"
Michael nodded as his hand continued absentmindedly scratching behind Princess's ear.
"I didn't want her to be alone."
The answer arrived so naturally that it made something tighten unexpectedly in your chest. There was no self-congratulation in it, no expectation that you should be impressed. To him, it simply seemed obvious that he would stay.
For several more minutes he talked about Princess and Valentino, occasionally interrupting himself to reach out and stroke Princess's head whenever she nudged closer. Watching him with the animals felt strangely intimate, though not in a romantic sense. It was more like accidentally discovering a room in somebody's house that they rarely showed visitors, a glimpse into a softer side of them that existed when nobody was looking.
Eventually, however, Michael glanced back toward the studio building next to the house and seemed to remember why he had invited you there in the first place.
"We should probably go inside."
You nodded.
The walk back felt noticeably quieter than the tour had been, both of you falling into your own thoughts as the estate stretched peacefully around you. Somewhere beneath the easy conversation and the introductions to various animals lingered the unspoken understanding that the real reason for your visit still waited ahead, and the closer you came to the house, the more that realization seemed to settle between you.
A few minutes later Michael opened the door to the studio and motioned for you to enter first.
Unlike the rest of Hayvenhurst, the studio felt almost entirely separate from the outside world. Instruments rested where they had been left, cables stretched lazily across portions of the floor, and sheets of paper sat scattered across nearby surfaces in a way that suggested creativity rather than clutter. Sunlight spilled softly through the windows and bathed the room in warm afternoon light, while the familiar scent of wood, electronics and old sheet music lingered faintly in the air.
The moment the door closed behind you, the outside world seemed to disappear completely. There were no reporters waiting outside, no photographers hoping to capture a moment, no managers hovering nearby with schedules or obligations. For the first time all afternoon, it was simply the two of you alone in a room where nobody could interrupt, and whatever Michael had wanted to talk about badly enough to invite you all the way to Hayvenhurst.
For a moment neither of you spoke.
The silence wasn't uncomfortable, but it carried a certain expectation now that the two of you were finally alone, and Michael seemed aware of it too because instead of immediately sitting down, he crossed the room toward a small refrigerator tucked into one corner of the studio and opened it while glancing over his shoulder.
"Orange juice?"
You smiled. "Is that my only option?"
"No," he replied immediately, the answer arriving suspiciously fast. "We also have correctly prepared tea."
The emphasis he placed on the last three words made you groan before you could stop yourself. "Oh my God."
"I just wanted you to know your options."
"You invited me all the way here to bully me about a microwave."
Michael looked entirely pleased with himself. "I invited you all the way here because I care."
For a moment you simply stared at him. "Water is fine."
"That's disappointing."
A few moments later he returned carrying a bottle of water for you and a glass of orange juice for himself before settling into the armchair nearest the couch. The stack of paperwork that had occupied the coffee table earlier had disappeared completely, tucked away somewhere out of sight before your arrival, leaving nothing visible that might hint at the conversation he knew was waiting ahead.
At first the discussion remained comfortably light. The two of you talked about Valentino, your recently wrapped film, and a producer who had apparently managed to irritate you enough to earn a surprisingly passionate rant, which Michael found considerably funnier than you intended. The familiar rhythm that had developed over weeks of phone calls returned almost immediately, and for a little while it felt less like an important meeting and more like one of those evenings where the two of you ended up talking for far longer than either of you had planned.
Eventually, however, the conversation began slowing naturally. You took a sip from your water, then another, and when Michael looked up from his glass he found you watching him with a patient expression that somehow managed to be both curious and understanding at the same time. You weren't demanding answers, nor did you seem impatient for him to get to the point, but there was a quiet expectation in your gaze that made it clear you knew there was a reason he had invited you here, and that you were perfectly willing to let him arrive at it in his own time.
The expression made him smile faintly.
Lowering his gaze toward the orange juice in his hands, he rolled the glass slowly between his palms before finally speaking.
"First of all… thank you for coming."
The statement caught you completely off guard. "Michael, I drove just twenty minutes."
"Still." The smile remained on his face, but some of the humor had quietly disappeared from his voice. "I'm glad you came."
Something about the sincerity in his tone made you straighten slightly.
Michael exhaled slowly. "I've actually been meaning to thank you for a while."
Now you looked genuinely confused. "For what?"
"For New Year's."
You thought for a second, then the memory returned almost immediately: the gala, the conversation, and the offer you'd made without thinking much of it at the time.
If you ever want somebody who's not a reporter or journalist, I'd be happy to listen.Understanding crossed your face. "Oh."
Michael nodded. "At the time, I don't think you realized how much I needed to hear that."
The room seemed to grow a little quieter.
"You were one of the only people who approached me normally after everything started."
The comment immediately stirred something inside you. Your eyebrows pulled together. "People were awful."
The response escaped so quickly that Michael nearly laughed.
"No, seriously," you continued, sitting forward slightly as irritation immediately resurfaced. "They were awful."
"You should've seen some of the things people were saying."
"I did."
"And?"
"I wanted to hit them with a chair."
The answer arrived with such complete sincerity that Michael laughed despite himself.
You pointed at him immediately. "I'm serious."
"I can tell."
"It's ridiculous."
The more you talked, the more agitated you became. "The whole thing was ridiculous. Watching people suddenly act like associating with somebody was contagious because of a rumor was one of the stupidest things I've ever seen, and honestly, if somebody suddenly decides a person is worth avoiding because they might be gay, then that says significantly more about them than it does about the person they're avoiding."
Michael found himself watching you for a moment.
Then another.
The conviction in your voice was unmistakable. You genuinely believed every word.
Eventually he lowered his gaze. "Yeah."
The smile faded slowly from his face.
"It was… a difficult few months."
The understatement felt almost absurd the moment it left his mouth.
Your expression softened immediately.
Michael turned the glass slowly in his hands while gathering his thoughts.
"I started avoiding events. At first I kept telling myself it would pass, but then another article came out, and then another story, and after a while it just became easier to stay home than deal with whatever people were going to say next."
You nodded quietly. "I noticed."
"I figured you did."
For several seconds he watched the light reflecting through the orange juice before continuing.
"The strange thing wasn't the reporters. I expected that. It was the people I knew."
You already knew exactly what he meant. "The people you thought were friends."
Michael nodded.
"Some of them stopped calling. Some stopped inviting me places. And some suddenly became very concerned about being seen with me."
The bitterness in his voice was subtle, but impossible to miss.
You shook your head immediately. "That's horrible."
"It was disappointing."
"No." The response came so quickly that it almost overlapped his. "It was horrible."
The certainty in your voice made him glance up, and for a moment neither of you spoke.
Then Michael smiled faintly. "Maybe."
A thoughtful silence settled between you before he leaned back slightly in his chair. "That's part of why I wanted to thank you."
You frowned. "For what?"
"For not doing that."
The answer arrived so simply that it caught you off guard.
Michael held your gaze.
"For treating me exactly the same way before and after. For continuing to call."
You immediately opened your mouth. "Michael–"
"No." He shook his head gently. "I mean it."
Something in his voice stopped you.
"There were days where those phone calls were the only part of my day that didn't involve lawyers, reporters, managers, headlines, or somebody trying to get a statement out of me. For a little while I got to forget about all of it."
The confession seemed to embarrass him slightly.
"And somewhere along the way," he continued with a small smile, "you became my friend."
You couldn't help smiling back. "You don't have to thank me for that."
"I do." The answer came immediately.
Michael laughed softly and shook his head.
"You know, when I approached you at that screening, I wasn't actually planning to."
Your eyebrows rose. "You weren't?"
"No."
The smile widened slightly.
"I was standing there looking at a room full of people who suddenly didn't know how to act around me."
You winced. "Michael…"
"I'm serious." He leaned back in his chair. "Everybody felt different."
Then his smile softened. "Except you."
For a moment the room seemed unusually quiet. Michael's gaze remained fixed somewhere near the floor before he continued.
"You were the only person who didn't treat me differently, and honestly, by that point you were the only person in the room I actually wanted to talk to."
The confession was delivered so casually that it took a second to fully register.
When it finally did, something in your expression softened immediately. You looked touched, surprised, and perhaps even a little honored by the admission, while Michael, noticing that you'd understood exactly what he meant, allowed himself a small smile of relief.
For several moments neither of you spoke, the quiet hum of the studio filling the silence while Michael stared into the orange juice in his hands, turning the glass slowly between his fingers as though the movement somehow made it easier to organize thoughts he had spent months avoiding.
Eventually he exhaled.
"The thing is…" He hesitated briefly before continuing. "Most people seem to think the articles bother me because they're calling me gay."
You listened carefully while Michael shook his head. "That's not really it."
His fingers tightened slightly around the glass.
"I mean, obviously the rumors themselves aren't pleasant, mostly because they're being used as a weapon and because people insist on treating them like an accusation instead of simply another way somebody could be. I honestly hope there comes a day where people stop acting like it's some kind of scandal, because it shouldn't be."
The sincerity in his voice left no room for doubt.
"But that's not what keeps me awake at night."
His gaze drifted away from yours for a moment.
"What bothers me is that they keep talking about things that were private."
Your expression softened immediately, and Michael noticed. Somehow that made it easier to continue.
"You've probably seen some of the headlines." Michael laughed quietly, though there was no amusement in the sound.
"They talk about me like I'm a character they used to know instead of a person they once cared about."
For a moment he seemed to drift somewhere else entirely.
"One of them talked about things that should've stayed between two people. Another one made assumptions about things she never really understood in the first place. And now this latest one…" He shook his head. "She got paid to tell a magazine I was gay."
Your eyes widened immediately. "Wait. She was actually paid?"
The disbelief in your voice was so genuine that Michael almost smiled.
"I thought people were just speculating."
"No." The word came quietly. "I called her and she admitted it."
For a moment you simply stared at him before your expression darkened considerably. "That's disgusting."
"It is." Michael couldn't help smiling faintly at how genuinely offended you sounded on his behalf.
At least one of you seemed willing to be angry about it.
You folded your arms. "Well, I hope your lawyers destroy them."
That earned a short laugh. "John's certainly trying."
"Good."
The firmness of the answer made something warm settle briefly in his chest, and the silence that followed felt comfortable enough that Michael found himself continuing before he had entirely decided whether he wanted to.
"I think what people don't understand is that none of that ever came naturally to me."
Your attention sharpened immediately.
Michael noticed. And yet he continued anyway. "Trusting people. Being vulnerable. Letting somebody get close enough to really know me."
His eyes drifted toward the floor. "Especially intimacy."
The final word came more quietly than the rest.
For several moments he said nothing, and when he finally spoke again his voice sounded thoughtful rather than bitter.
"My childhood wasn't exactly normal."
You almost laughed at the understatement. Almost.
"Everything was public. Everybody always wanted something from me. A performance. An interview. A photograph. A piece of me. And because of that, I never really learned how to give all of myself to somebody else the way most people seem able to."
The admission settled quietly between you. Not dramatic. Simply honest.
Michael stared at a point somewhere beyond the coffee table.
"When women came into my life, things usually started well enough. There was excitement and curiosity and all the things people expect at the beginning of a relationship. But eventually they always wanted more access to me, more closeness, more intimacy, and I don't blame them for that because it's a completely normal thing to want."
His fingers tightened slightly around the glass.
"Most people expect intimacy in a relationship. Most people want to feel fully known by the person they're with."
You remained silent, listening.
"I just wasn't always able to give that."
The confession hung heavily in the room.
"I spent years assuming that made it my fault whenever somebody left."
Your heart ached. Because the sadness in his voice sounded old. Older than the articles. Older than the rumors. Older than the women themselves.
As though this was a conclusion he had carried around for years without ever examining it too closely.
Only then did Michael seem to realize how much he had said. A faint look of embarrassment crossed his face almost immediately, and he laughed softly while rubbing the back of his neck.
"Sorry."
You blinked. "For what?"
"I wasn't planning on turning this into therapy."
The comment made you smile despite yourself. "You can if you want."
Michael shook his head, though the smile that followed looked grateful.
For a brief moment he found himself wondering why talking to you felt so easy. Then again, perhaps it shouldn't have surprised him. You had listened to every word without interrupting, without trying to fix him, without making the conversation about yourself, and without offering any of the empty reassurances people usually reached for when they felt uncomfortable.
You had simply listened. Exactly as you'd promised you would that night at the gala.
Michael looked at you for a long moment before continuing. "I used to think the problem was me. I thought maybe I wasn't giving enough, maybe I wasn't trusting enough, maybe I wasn't open enough."
He shook his head slowly. "But after these articles started coming out, something changed."
For the first time since beginning the conversation, he held your gaze completely.
"I realized the problem wasn't that relationships ended." His voice remained calm. "It was what happened afterward."
You felt yourself straighten slightly.
"People I trusted took private things and turned them into stories. Then they sold those stories to strangers."
The hurt was still there, visible beneath every carefully chosen word.
"And every article chipped away at my reputation a little more."
He looked away briefly before continuing. "My image isn't what it used to be."
The statement sounded strange coming from somebody as famous as Michael Jackson, and yet you understood exactly what he meant.
"For years I convinced myself I could ignore it and that eventually people would get bored. But I'm not sure that's true anymore."
The weight of the admission settled heavily between you.
Michael leaned forward slightly. "There is nothing wrong with being gay. Nothing."
You nodded immediately. "Of course."
"But there is something wrong with people weaponizing it. And there is something wrong with living in a world where a rumor like that can damage somebody's career simply because other people are uncomfortable with it."
Again you nodded.
Michael held your gaze for another moment before finally saying the sentence that had been forming in his mind for days.
"So I've reached a point where I think I need to do something."
The words lingered between you.
After saying it aloud, Michael fell silent again while his thoughts raced considerably faster than his expression allowed. He had spent days thinking about this conversation, discussing it with Frank and John, rereading contracts, imagining every possible reaction you might have, and yet somehow saying it now felt infinitely more difficult than it ever had inside his head.
You watched him carefully. The hesitation was obvious.
Not because he seemed uncertain of what he wanted to say, but because he seemed genuinely nervous about saying it to you, a realization that made you sit up slightly. For a man who regularly performed in front of stadiums full of people and navigated rooms filled with powerful industry executives without blinking, Michael suddenly looked remarkably uncomfortable.
Eventually you decided to speak up.
"How can I help?"
The question immediately pulled his attention back toward you.
"Or did you just want somebody to listen?"
Something about the question made him smile, and not the polite smile people usually received from him, but a genuine one that reached his eyes because, of course, that was exactly what you would ask. Rather than pressuring him to explain himself, you were trying to make things easier for him.
For a moment he simply looked at you before nodding slowly. "Both."
The answer came quieter than he'd intended.
You waited patiently while he lowered his gaze toward the orange juice in his hands once more.
"I invited you here because…" He hesitated. "Because I thought you would understand. And because I feel like we've become friends."
The confession sounded oddly vulnerable despite how simple it was, and your smile softened immediately. "I hope so."
Michael laughed quietly. "No, I mean it."
His fingers tapped nervously against the side of the glass. "I didn't invite you here just because of… this."
The vague gesture he made suggested he wasn't entirely sure how to summarize the last several months of his life into a single word.
"The rumors?"
"The situation."
You nodded. "I didn't assume you did."
The answer seemed to relieve him more than you expected. Some small tension visibly left his shoulders, as though he had been worried you might think every conversation, every phone call, and every shared laugh over the past month had secretly been leading toward a favor.
"Good."
The word escaped before he could stop it. You tilted your head slightly.
Michael immediately looked away.
"I just don't want you to think I only started talking to you because I needed something."
The sincerity in his voice caught you off guard. For a moment he seemed genuinely worried about it, and the realization made something warm settle in your chest.
"I don't."
The answer came immediately.
Michael relaxed slightly.
Then, unfortunately, he remembered what he still had to tell you. The tension returned almost at once.
"I would never ask you to do something you're uncomfortable with."
You blinked. Michael continued before you could respond. "And you can absolutely say no."
Now you were definitely confused. "Michael–"
"No, let me finish."
The words arrived much faster than usual, as though he was trying to outrun his own nerves.
"If you're uncomfortable with the idea, or if you think it's a bad idea, or if you don't want to be involved at all, that's completely okay."
Your confusion only increased. "Okay…"
"And it won't change anything."
You stared at him. "What won't?"
"Our friendship."
The answer came immediately.
"If you say no, it won't change anything."
At this point Michael was speaking so carefully that it almost sounded as though he was negotiating with himself rather than with you. His fingers kept moving restlessly between the glass, the sleeve of his shirt, and the armrest of the chair before returning to the glass again, and it didn't take long for you to recognize what was happening.
He was spiraling.
The realization made a small smile tug at the corner of your mouth because, unfortunately for him, you occasionally did the exact same thing.
Without thinking much about it, you shifted across the couch until you were sitting closer to him and gently placed your hand against his forearm.
The effect was immediate.
The restless movements stopped. The nervous fidgeting stopped. Even the rambling seemed to disappear for a moment as Michael looked first at your hand and then at you.
"It's okay." Your voice was calm. Gentle. "Just tell me."
The room grew quiet.
For a moment Michael simply stared at you before finally exhaling, and when he spoke again the words seemed to leave him all at once.
"I want us to pretend we're together."
The sentence landed in the room with all the subtlety of a falling piano.
Silence followed immediately. Complete silence.
For several seconds you genuinely wondered whether you had heard him correctly, your hand slowly retreating back into your lap while Michael watched realization spread across your face, followed closely by surprise, confusion, and finally something that looked suspiciously like shock.
Leaning back against the couch, you allowed the thought space to settle.
Because of all the possibilities you'd imagined during the drive to Hayvenhurst, that one had not been among them.
Not even remotely.
The silence stretched long enough for Michael to begin regretting every decision that had brought him to this exact moment.
"You don't have to say yes."
The reassurance escaped almost instantly.
Still silence. You blinked. Then blinked again.
And because Michael had never reacted particularly well to prolonged silence, he immediately began talking again.
"I've actually thought about this a lot."
The explanation sounded ridiculous even to him.
"I can tell."
The comment escaped you before you could stop it.
Michael laughed nervously. "Right."
For another moment neither of you spoke before Michael found himself doing exactly what he always did whenever he became nervous.
Talking.
"I considered other people."
Your eyes immediately lifted toward him.
Michael nodded. "I really did. I thought about who it would make sense with, who the public would believe, who had a good reputation, who would benefit from it, who wouldn't."
He paused briefly. Then smiled faintly.
"And eventually I realized there wasn't really anybody else I'd even consider asking."
The room went quiet again. This time for a completely different reason.
Because suddenly the proposal felt less like a calculated business arrangement and more like something deeply personal. Michael wasn't describing a publicity strategy anymore. He was describing a choice.
A very specific choice.
"It wasn't random." The words came quietly. "It was you."
And somehow that surprised you even more than the proposal itself.
The silence that followed stretched just long enough for Michael's nerves to begin getting the better of him. You were clearly still processing what he had just said, and while you hadn't reacted negatively, you also hadn't reacted at all, which somehow felt significantly more terrifying. He could practically see you trying to organize your thoughts, and because Michael had never possessed the ability to sit comfortably in silence when he was anxious, he immediately continued talking.
"I know it sounds crazy."
The words escaped before he could stop them, drawing your attention back toward him.
"A little."
The honesty of the answer earned a nervous laugh.
"Yeah."
For a brief moment he rubbed a hand across the back of his neck before exhaling slowly.
"It's just been really hard pretending none of this bothers me. I've spent months trying to ignore it, trying to convince myself that people would eventually get bored and move on to somebody else, but every time I think it's finally dying down another article appears, another interview happens, or my own words get twisted, and suddenly I'm right back where I started."
He let out a deep sigh. "And frankly, I'm tired of it."
The admission came quietly.
"Tired of defending myself, tired of wondering what people are saying the second I leave a room, tired of opening newspapers and seeing complete strangers discuss things they know absolutely nothing about."
For a moment he paused before repeating. "And I know my image isn't what it used to be."
The statement settled heavily between you.
Michael looked up again. "I want that to change."
Neither of you spoke for a moment.
Then he continued before the silence could return.
"But I don't want you thinking I chose you because of your image."
The seriousness in his voice immediately caught your attention.
"Would it help? Of course it would. I'd be lying if I said it wouldn't. Everybody likes you. Critics like you, directors like you, journalists like you, and somehow even people who don't watch movies seem to like you."
Despite yourself, you laughed. "I'm not sure that's true."
"It is." The answer came immediately. "But that's not why I thought of you."
Something softened in his expression.
"The idea didn't exist when we met. It didn't exist at New Year's, and it didn't exist at the screening either. It only became an idea later, after we'd already become friends and after we'd spent weeks talking on the phone."
A small smile appeared.
"What I'm trying to say is that I never approached you intending to ask for something. I never started talking to you because I thought you could help me. The idea came afterward."
The distinction seemed important to him. Important enough that he needed you to understand it.
And somehow, as you watched him struggle to explain himself, you realized it mattered to you too.
Relief briefly crossed his face when he saw that you'd understood before he pressed onward.
"And the more I thought about it, the more I realized it wouldn't just help me."
That finally made you sit up straighter. "What do you mean?"
Michael leaned forward slightly. "I know how frustrated you've been."
Your eyebrows rose.
"I know how badly you want more serious roles. I know how often you've talked about wanting your career to move in a different direction, and I know how tired you are of being overlooked by the directors you actually want to work with."
The room suddenly felt much smaller.
"I know you want something more than what people keep offering you."
You didn't interrupt. Couldn't. Because every word was true.
"And I know people."
The understatement almost made you laugh. Michael smiled faintly.
"A lot of people, actually. Directors I've worked with before, directors I'll work with in the future, producers, writers, people who might actually listen if I tell them somebody is worth paying attention to."
His expression grew thoughtful.
"I could make introductions. I could vouch for you personally. I could put your name in rooms you've been trying to get into for years."
Your attention never left him.
"If I tell somebody I think you're talented, they'll at least listen long enough to take a second look, and if this arrangement worked, those doors wouldn't stay closed."
The room fell quiet again. Michael leaned back slightly.
"I know you've never really done public relationships the way I have, and I know agreeing to something like this would change how people look at you, but it would benefit you too. It wouldn't just be me taking something from you and walking away."
The sincerity behind the statement was impossible to miss. Everything he'd said made it painfully obvious that he had spent a considerable amount of time thinking about your side of this as well.
Slowly, the room grew quiet once more, and this time Michael finally let the silence exist.
You sat back against the couch while everything settled into place around you. The fake relationship. The tabloids. The introductions. The directors. The opportunities. The friendship that had somehow led both of you here.
It was a lot.
More than a lot, actually.
When you finally spoke, your voice sounded thoughtful rather than shocked.
"I'm honored you thought of me."
Michael immediately looked up.
"And honestly, the fact that you actually considered what I would get out of this means a lot."
Something softened in his expression.
"But did you really think this through?"
The question made him laugh, not because it was funny but because it was probably the most predictable thing you could have asked.
"Yes." The answer came immediately.
Then, after a brief pause: "Probably too much."
That earned the faintest smile from you.
Unfortunately, there was still one final detail. Michael hesitated before continuing.
"There is one other thing."
Your eyebrows rose.
His expression immediately became apologetic. "Unfortunately it comes with a contract."
For a moment you simply stared at him. "A contract?"
Michael nodded.
"My lawyer is pushing it." He sighed heavily. "It's mostly there to protect both of us. Confidentiality, expectations, media obligations, exit clauses, things like that. But it isn't just protection for me."
You listened carefully.
"The benefits we talked about are included too. Your protections are in there, your interests are in there, and John made sure there are consequences for both sides if either of us violates the agreement."
A brief pause followed. "I wanted it to be fair."
The sincerity in his voice left little room for doubt.
Slowly, silence settled over the room once more, neither of you rushing to fill it this time as you sat there letting the idea sink in while Michael watched you with increasing apprehension, his heart beating far faster than he would ever admit aloud while he waited for whatever reaction was coming next.
For several long moments neither of you spoke while Michael watched you process everything he had just laid out before you. The proposal, the reasoning behind it, the potential benefits, the risks, and the fact that somehow, against all odds, this conversation was actually happening seemed to settle over the room all at once, and although he had become increasingly skilled at pretending patience over the years, even he could feel the tension steadily building inside his chest.
Eventually he stood.
The movement pulled you from your thoughts as he crossed the room toward one of the cabinets near the far wall and retrieved a thick stack of papers that immediately looked far more substantial than you had expected. Even from where you sat, it was obvious the document had been revised multiple times. Several pages contained tabs, others looked as though entire sections had been rearranged, and the overall impression was that of something which had been examined, argued over, and reconsidered more than once.
Returning to the seating area, Michael carefully placed the contract on the coffee table between you before settling back into his chair. For a brief moment neither of you reached for it, as though acknowledging the significance of the thing sitting between you, but eventually curiosity won and you picked it up.
The contract was considerably thicker than you'd anticipated.
Michael remained silent while you flipped through the pages, your eyes skimming sections rather than attempting to read everything properly. Legal language occupied much of the document, but certain headings immediately caught your attention. Confidentiality clauses. Media obligations. Public appearance requirements. Termination provisions. Financial penalties.
Your eyebrows rose slightly.
Continuing onward, you eventually reached another section that immediately drew your attention for entirely different reasons.
Benefits.
That section was surprisingly detailed.
Introductions. Professional meetings. Industry networking opportunities. Personal recommendations. Career development support.
You glanced up briefly.
Michael immediately looked away. The reaction alone told you everything you needed to know.
Those additions had been his.
Your eyes dropped back toward the document, and several pages later you found yourself spending considerably more time reading through the consequences section, noting that the obligations appeared to apply equally to both parties rather than existing solely to protect Michael.
By the time you finally lowered the contract onto the table, your thoughts felt even more tangled than before.
Across from you, Michael waited with a level of patience that looked impressive from the outside but felt considerably less dignified from where he was sitting. Every second seemed to stretch twice as long as it should have, and by the time you finally looked up, he was convinced you could probably hear his heartbeat from across the room.
"I have to admit…" A faint smile appeared. "This is not what I thought you invited me here for."
A quiet laugh escaped him. "No. Honestly, I invited you because I wanted to thank you."
Your eyebrows rose slightly. Michael glanced down at the contract before looking back at you.
"I wouldn't have brought any of this up if I hadn't felt comfortable with you first."
The admission came more easily than he'd expected.
"For a while I wasn't even sure I was going to mention it. I just knew I wanted to talk to you today."
Something softened in your expression. Michael shrugged lightly.
"The proposal only became part of the conversation later."
The word earned the smallest smile from you before your expression softened into something more thoughtful.
"I need some time."
The answer came gently. Not a rejection. Not an acceptance. Simply honesty.
"I didn't anticipate something like this."
Relief flooded through Michael so quickly that it was almost embarrassing. You hadn't said yes, but you hadn't said no either, and at that particular moment the distinction felt enormously important.
"Of course," he said immediately. "Take all the time you need."
You nodded gratefully.
The contract remained between you.
Then Michael hesitated.
"There is one thing."
When you looked up, his expression had become noticeably more serious.
"I'd appreciate it if this stayed private until you've made a decision."
The request didn't surprise you. "Of course."
Michael visibly relaxed. "I mean it."
"I know."
A brief silence followed before you added: "I'll probably have my lawyer look it over."
Michael nodded immediately. "That's fair."
"But nobody else." The answer came just as quickly.
He tilted his head slightly. "Not even your agent?"
The laugh that escaped you carried absolutely no affection whatsoever.
"No."
The certainty in your voice made him blink.
"No?"
"My agent is incapable of keeping information to himself."
Michael laughed.
You folded your arms. "I'm serious."
"You don't trust him?"
"I trust him with my projects." You paused. "Not with gossip."
That earned another laugh and noticeably eased some of the tension that had been hanging over the room.
"Lawyer only."
You nodded. "Lawyer only."
For the first time since making the proposal, Michael felt himself breathe a little easier.
Eventually you gathered the contract into your arms and rose from the couch, and the moment you did, something tightened unexpectedly in his chest because it suddenly occurred to him that the meeting was ending and he still had absolutely no idea how it had gone.
You seemed to notice the uncertainty almost immediately.
Of course you did.
For a moment you simply looked at him before stepping forward and wrapping your arms around him.
The hug caught him completely off guard.
For a brief second he froze before returning it, his arms settling around you gently while the contract remained tucked beneath one of yours.
"I'm serious, you know." Your voice was quiet.
Michael frowned slightly. "About what?"
You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. "The proposal."
Understanding crossed his face.
You offered him a small smile. "It was brave."
Michael immediately looked unconvinced.
The reaction made you laugh softly. "No, really. I understand why you feel like you need to do this, and honestly…" Your expression softened. "I really do understand."
For a moment neither of you spoke.
Then you continued. "But it's a big decision, and I want to think about it properly before I answer."
Michael nodded immediately. "I know."
"I just need a few days to let it marinate."
That finally made him laugh. The familiar phrasing felt strangely comforting.
"Okay."
For another moment neither of you moved before Michael eventually opened the studio door and walked you back through the grounds of Hayvenhurst. The conversation remained considerably lighter this time, neither of you returning to the proposal as though both instinctively understood that everything which needed to be said had already been said.
When you finally reached the car, you turned back one last time.
Michael stood beside the open door watching you. Waiting.
You smiled. He smiled back.
And several minutes later, after the car had disappeared down the long driveway and vanished beyond the gates of Hayvenhurst entirely, Michael still found himself standing exactly where he was. The uncertainty remained. The nerves remained. The possibility of rejection remained very real.
And yet, as he stared down the now-empty road, he realized he was holding onto a feeling he hadn't allowed himself much of lately.
Hope.
Because she hadn't laughed. She hadn't walked away.
And perhaps most importantly of all, she hadn't said no.
–
The following morning, you met with your lawyer, fully expecting the conversation to be awkward at best and mildly humiliating at worst.
The meeting lasted considerably longer than expected, partly because the contract itself was surprisingly extensive and partly because the moment you explained where it had come from, your lawyer had simply stared at you for nearly ten seconds before asking whether you were actually serious. Once you assured him that yes, this was real and yes, Michael Jackson had genuinely asked you to enter into a contractual fake relationship, the discussion shifted from disbelief to business.
What followed was nearly three hours of reviewing clauses, obligations, confidentiality provisions, financial penalties, termination procedures, media expectations, and enough legal language to make your eyes cross. Throughout the process, you watched your lawyer move through several distinct stages of reaction. He started skeptical, became cautious once he realized how serious the arrangement actually was, and eventually settled somewhere close to impressed as he continued turning pages.
By the end of the meeting, he closed the contract, leaned back in his chair, and regarded the document for a moment before finally saying, "Honestly, I was expecting something significantly worse."
A laugh escaped you despite yourself.
"That's reassuring."
"I'm serious," he replied, tapping the stack of papers. "This is thorough. Balanced. Fair. In some places I'd actually argue he's being overly generous."
Your thoughts immediately drifted toward the benefits section.
The introductions, the meetings, the opportunities, the connections.
Your lawyer appeared to follow the exact same train of thought as his eyes moved across several marked pages before he added, "Whoever drafted this clearly spent a great deal of time making sure this benefits you as well."
The comment lingered in your mind long after the meeting ended because the more often you reread the contract, the more obvious it became that Michael hadn't simply asked himself what he stood to gain from the arrangement. Somewhere between the revisions, the negotiations with his lawyer, and the countless pages of legal language, he had also spent considerable time thinking about what you might gain from it.
Strangely enough, that realization only made the decision harder. Not easier.
The next several days passed in a haze of overthinking. You reread the contract, then reread it again, then convinced yourself you only needed one final read-through before realizing you were now examining the same pages for a fourth time while discovering absolutely nothing new. The practical benefits were obvious to the point of being difficult to ignore. Every time you looked at the document, your mind drifted toward directors, producers, scripts, meetings, introductions, and opportunities, all of them representing doors that had remained stubbornly closed throughout your career despite years of effort.
You thought about what it would feel like to finally be taken seriously.
You thought about dramatic roles.
About respected directors.
About awards.
About the possibility, however distant, that one day you might find yourself standing on a stage holding an Oscar because somebody had finally given you the chance to prove what you could do.
Those opportunities were tempting.
What proved considerably harder to untangle were the personal implications.
You had never really been publicly attached to anyone before. There had been dates, private relationships, brief romances, and connections that never lasted long enough to become anybody else's business, but never anything that the public could claim ownership over and certainly never anything that would generate headlines. If you agreed to this arrangement, that would change immediately.
Suddenly you would arrive together.
Leave together.
Attend premieres together. Award shows. Fundraisers. Industry dinners.
Every camera would be watching. Every photograph would be analyzed. Every gesture would become a story, and every story would inevitably become something larger than the moment itself.
The thought felt strangely surreal.
You could already picture it. A hand resting casually on an arm.
Fingers intertwined during a red carpet appearance.
A whispered comment during a dinner.
A shared laugh for the benefit of photographers.
The appearance of intimacy. The performance of closeness.
As an actress, none of that frightened you. Performing affection had never been difficult.
What felt unexpectedly amusing was the fact that the person on the receiving end would be Michael.
Michael, who named a baby deer Valentino with complete sincerity.
Michael, who called you at ten o'clock at night just to talk about books, movies, and a ranch project he was secretly excited about.
The absurdity of it made you laugh more than once.
At one point your thoughts drifted toward the possibility of a kiss, and the idea immediately made you stare at the ceiling for several seconds. Not because it bothered you, but because it felt ridiculous. From a strategic standpoint it would probably make sense. If the goal was convincing the public that Michael wasn't secretly gay, then eventually some public display of affection would likely become useful.
You could do it. Of course you could.
You were an actress.
And Michael, despite what people sometimes assumed, was capable of acting when he wanted to.
Yet somehow imagining the conversation beforehand felt significantly more awkward than imagining the kiss itself, a realization that made you bury your face in a pillow and laugh at your own stupidity.
That evening, after hours spent thinking in circles and arriving at absolutely no useful conclusions, you finally gave up and wandered into the kitchen in search of something to do with your hands. The apartment was quiet around you as you opened one of the cabinets and reached automatically for a mug, only to pause when your eyes landed directly on the kettle sitting on the shelf above.
For several seconds you simply stared at it.
The memory arrived immediately. Michael sounding genuinely offended by your methods. The sound of disbelief in his voice when you'd admitted to microwaving water. The entirely unnecessary argument that had somehow lasted nearly twenty minutes.
A faint smile tugged at the corner of your mouth.
Then you shrugged, closed the cabinet, filled the mug with water, and placed it directly into the microwave without a second thought.
Some battles were worth fighting.
You were halfway through your tea when the phone rang.
The moment you heard your agent's voice, your stomach sank because you already knew what the call was about. Several days earlier, after hearing through industry gossip that one of your favorite directors would be attending an upcoming event, you had asked your agent to secure an invitation. It had always been a long shot, but it had felt worth trying. Opportunities rarely appeared on their own in Hollywood. More often they had to be chased.
Unfortunately, the answer wasn't the one you'd hoped for.
The conversation lasted less than five minutes. The organizer had declined the request politely, professionally, and with enough carefully chosen language to make the real reason perfectly clear without ever having to say it outright. You weren't the target audience. Your work wasn't considered the right fit. The event was geared toward more serious talent, more serious projects, and more serious careers.
The same rejection. The same implication. The same wall.
Just dressed up in nicer words.
You thanked your agent, ended the call, and remained seated at the kitchen table long after the line disconnected, staring absently into your tea while frustration slowly settled into your chest.
The feeling followed you for the rest of the evening. It followed you while you rinsed your mug and cleaned the kitchen, followed you while you changed into comfortable clothes, and followed you all the way into bed where it remained stubbornly lodged in the back of your mind as midnight slowly crept closer. No matter how hard you tried to ignore it, the same questions kept returning.
How exactly were you supposed to break through if nobody ever allowed you into the room? How were you supposed to prove yourself to directors who refused to even meet you? How many more years were you expected to spend waiting for somebody to finally take a chance on you?
The thoughts chased each other in circles until eventually another realization began forming around them.
Michael was offering a door. A real one.
Not a guarantee. Not success handed to you on a silver platter.
Just an opportunity. An opening.
Access to rooms you'd spent years trying to enter.
By the time you sat upright in bed, the decision had already been made. You simply hadn't admitted it to yourself yet.
Several minutes later you found yourself standing beside the phone, staring down at it while common sense desperately attempted to catch up with whatever impulse had already taken hold of you. Unfortunately for common sense, your hand reached for the receiver before it could offer any meaningful objections, and moments later you were dialing his number.
Across Los Angeles, Michael sat alone in his studio.
For the first time in weeks, work had begun flowing properly again. The proposal hadn't solved everything, but it had eased enough of the pressure weighing on him that music was finally starting to make sense again. He had spent most of the evening working on a song and was deep in the middle of a melody when the phone rang, answering absentmindedly without even looking up from his notes.
"Hello?"
Your voice reached him immediately. "Michael."
His brow furrowed.
It was late. Very late.
Late enough that concern immediately replaced whatever thoughts he'd been having about music.
"Are you alright?"
You ignored the question completely.
"I'm coming over tomorrow."
Michael blinked. "What?"
"I'm bringing my lawyer."
The silence that followed stretched several seconds longer than necessary.
"And you should probably tell your lawyer to be there too."
For a moment Michael simply stared at the receiver in his hand while realization slowly began settling into place.
"You thought this through?"
The question came more quietly than he'd intended.
"Yes."
"You're sure?"
A brief pause followed.
Then: "Yes."
The certainty in your voice left little room for doubt. For several seconds Michael couldn't speak. The relief arrived so suddenly and so completely that he found himself smiling before he even realized he was doing it. Not the polite smiles he'd spent months giving reporters and industry executives, but a real one, the kind that reached his eyes and softened something deep inside him. "Okay." A faint laugh escaped you. "Okay." The conversation lasted only a few minutes longer before finally ending, neither of you quite sure what else to say after a decision that had occupied so much space in both of your minds. Back in your apartment, you lowered the receiver and climbed back into bed, only to spend the next twenty minutes staring at the ceiling while wondering whether you had just made the smartest decision of your career or one of the most reckless. Somewhere between those two possibilities, exhaustion eventually won and sleep found you. At Hayvenhurst, however, Michael remained seated in the studio long after the call ended. The receiver still rested loosely in his hand while the room sat quiet around him, the song he'd been working on entirely forgotten. For the first time in what felt like weeks, he allowed himself to exhale fully, the breath leaving him slowly as it carried away an enormous amount of tension he hadn't even realized he was holding. Leaning back in his chair, he stared up at the ceiling for several moments before a smile spread across his face once more. For the first time since the rumors had begun, and perhaps for the first time in even longer than that, he genuinely believed things might actually get better.
Thank you for reading this long chapter! Now that we got the serious parts out of the way we can fully go into the fake dating! I'm so exciteddd :) I'd be so happy if you left a comment ❤️