𝗧𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗠𝗼𝗼𝗻 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗕𝗮𝗰𝗸

𝗘𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 | 𝗔 𝗕𝗮𝗱 𝗛𝗮𝗯𝗶𝘁

𝙄𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙞𝙙𝙨𝙩 of nothing less than a whirlwind, Mallorie found herself seated on one of the sofas within the cabin of Michael Jackson's private jet. Even though the past few months of her life had been focused around him and the start of the Bad tour, she was still grappling with the fact that it was coming into fruition.

She was part of the small group that had boarded the plane first in an attempt to avoid the blinding cameras and deafening crowds waiting in the surrounding areas. Since it was just John, the tour's manager and Jolie, Michael's personal assistant in the group that boarded first, there wasn't much conversation between them other than brisk introductions and them placing their orders with the flight attendant. Mallorie ordered herself a coffee and made herself most comfortable on the sofa parallel to the two personnel. As she listened to the fans' muted screams from outside, she wondered if the fans were as anxious and excited as her to catch a glimpse of Michael Jackson.

It had been two arduous weeks since she'd woken up in Michael's arms, and she thought of him everyday since. With his rehearsal and preparation schedule becoming more intense and with Frank DiLeo's threats still looming over her, she didn't have the opportunity to see or hear from Michael aside from her excessive replays of the album. She made the collection of songs her only access to him, and she told herself that it was for good reason; she could be more disciplined with her studying on top of preparing to live out of her suitcases for the next year. However, and surprisingly so, Michael wasn't put off one bit. For every missed call of his, there was a new advancement.

An adorable, beseeching voicemail. A new bouquet of flowers along with a note attached letting her know that he hoped she was well and he couldn't wait to see her. The grand displays of affection, while transforming her home into a colorful greenhouse, made her heart ache, and it took everything within her not to dig up the first note he had written her to call his number.

Ignoring Michael to ebb Frank DiLeo's suspicion of her felt like a cruel game, but the stakes were too high not to play. Not only was her career at stake but Michael's was as well. She knew that he had worked with Frank for years, and he built up trust within a generally healthy friendship with the man overtime. As much as she now despised DiLeo, she had no intentions of ripping apart the relationship by exposing the threats to Michael. The perplexing connection between them truly couldn't go further if she wanted to maintain her ethics and her license to practice, so there was no purpose in doing such a thing. But that didn't keep her from loathing his cigar-smoking hog of a manager.

And that was exactly what she called him, along with a slew of other disparaging things, when she had written a letter about him in the heat of her rage. Her intense disdain for DiLeo had calmed down a little within the two weeks, and she didn't plan to actually send the letter anywhere. The four pages of her ranting were simply an outlet, and they remained a good recount of how she'd been made to feel, hidden underneath the pages of her composition notebook just in case she would ever need them. Based on the way he had asked her to keep the conversation a secret from Michael, she felt he couldn't be fully trusted, especially not with his own retelling of how he spoke to her, so she decided to keep the letter.

If not for the smile-inducing sound of Michael's laughter, Mallorie would have been lost in her bitter memory and went on to glare at Frank DiLeo as he boarded the plane. But the dawdling man stepped onto the aircraft with Michael and Karen in tow, the two of them engaged in one of their many lively conversations. Karen stopped talking to wave at her, the gesture missed by Mallorie focusing to keep herself from springing up from her spot and capturing Michael in a tight embrace.

The air in her lungs left from the squeezing sensation in her chest, and she felt like she was seeing him for the first time all over again. A red, Sherpa long sleeve added volume to his slender frame and puffed around the waistband of his black slacks. His mullet was pulled into a casual low bun, and he was wearing what she felt he looked the most handsome in: a wide, beaming smile.