Love, Michael

1987: Frustration in New York City

Nine years had passed since that unforgettable night when I met Michael Jackson.

In that time, I had pursued my own career as a famous singer and actress, leaving my small town and making a name for myself in the bustling city of New York.

My apartment, overlooking the city's skyline, had become a sanctuary where I could reflect on my journey and the promises of the past.

Sitting on the couch with a big wine glass in hand, I listened to Michael's newest album, "Bad," which had taken the world by storm. His music still had the power to captivate me, but it also stirred a sense of frustration that had been brewing for years.

Michael had promised that he would find a way back to me, once he was away from his abusive father and The Jacksons, focusing on his own career. It had been five years since he had gone solo, but not once had he made an effort to reconnect.

Despite the success I had achieved in the music and acting industry, Michael seemed oblivious to my presence. I couldn't help but wonder if his promise had been nothing more than empty words, a fleeting moment of affection that had faded over time.

Doubts gnawed at me, and the frustration grew with each passing day. Had I been a pawn in his game? Had he used me for some temporary comfort, only to discard our connection when it was no longer convenient?

As I sipped my wine and listened to his voice pouring from the speakers, I couldn't deny the love I still felt for him. But the unanswered questions and the years of silence weighed heavily on my heart. I was a successful woman now, and I deserved answers.

Feeling a little bit more than tipsy from the 3 cups of wine I drank, I set the glass down on my coffee table and adjust my lacy red lingerie.

As I stood there, a sudden thought crossed my mind—one that felt both bold and empowering.

I retrieved my photography camera and positioned it just right. In my lacy lingerie, I snapped a series of risqué pictures. It was a side of me that I had rarely shown publicly, but now seemed like the perfect time to embrace it.

Over the years, I had chosen to stop wearing excessive makeup and had embraced my natural beauty. My adoring fans had responded positively to this change, as I promoted the idea of being naturally beautiful and authentically oneself. I had become a role model for those who appreciated my message.

As I reviewed the photos on my camera, I couldn't help but feel a sense of satisfaction. They looked stunning, and I knew they would catch the eye of my manager and record label. But that wasn't the only purpose these photos would serve.

If my mere presence in the same industries as Michael wasn't enough to catch his attention, I had another weapon in my arsenal. I was going to write a hit song—a provocative, subtle call-out, a sexy anthem that would not only showcase my talent but also serve as a message to him.

As I sat down at my desk, the creative juices flowed. I began to pen lyrics that would send a message loud and clear, a message that I hoped would reach Michael's heart and make him realize what he had been missing all these years.

The new sound I was crafting was ambitious—it was going to take New Jack Swing to an entirely new level. I had extensive discussions with my producers about creating an electronic fusion, something unprecedented that would leave a lasting mark on the world of modern pop music.

After contemplating my next move, I settled back on my couch, the Polaroid pictures from my bold photoshoot laid out on the coffee table before me. With a sense of urgency, I called my executive director at the record label and insisted on an urgent meeting for tomorrow.

"We're going to release a single," I declared confidently, my voice filled with determination. "It's going to be something entirely new, extraordinary, and irresistibly sexy."

The executive director agreed, and we set a meeting for the following day with a promise that a car would be sent for me at 8 AM.

With the call concluded, I thanked him for his swift response, and he reciprocated with gratitude before we hung up. As I headed to bed, a devilish excitement coursed through me. My plan was set in motion.

But before I could drift into sleep, I turned on the news on my bedroom's rear projection television. After a brief update on the weather forecast, a shocking report jolted me wide awake—Michael Jackson had a potential lover named Tatiana Thumbtzen.

I sat up abruptly, sobering up instantly.

The news showed them flirting on the set of "The Way You Make Me Feel," and an interview with Tatiana played, where she announced that she would be accompanying Michael on his upcoming "Bad Tour."

Anger surged within me, and I clenched my hands into fists, my nails digging into my palm.

"No...fucking...way...."