Athena Tyler is an Italian-American musician who rose to fame as the lead singer of a girl band with her sisters, called 'Sorelle'. She has amassed millions of dollars and now lives alone in a luxurious mansion. Although she no longer sings, she has...
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When Michael woke up, he reached out to where his wife would normally be, only to feel the cold sheets next to him.
He sighed, realizing she was already off to work—sometimes he forgot she was a popular choreographer, and singer, and songwriter. He himself, of course, was a singer and dancer, but sometimes he easily forgot how his wife was a workaholic.
"Jerome, let me know when Athena gets home," he spoke into the intercom connected to the security office.
"Sure thing, boss," Jerome replied.
"Thanks, Jerome. I'll be in the studio."
So he worked on his music for the remainder of the day. He wrote lyrics and tested different sounds. He hummed and sang to himself for around eight hours.
And that was when he heard Jerome's voice, "Your wife's home, sir."
Michael's heart skipped a beat as he quickly packed everything up and made his way onto the main floor.
As he walked into the doorway of the living room, he was greeted with the sight of Athena sitting on the couch, scrolling through her phone.
"Hey," he said softly, walking over and sitting down next to her.
"Hey," she replied, not looking up from her phone.
Michael wanted nothing more than to confiscate the, as he would put it, 'stupid mini computer' and make her talk to him, but the second he went to open his mouth to speak up on the matter, he realized she was dead asleep.
"How in the world?" he muttered to himself, "Okay, let's think about this. She's less talkative, she always tired, she's avoiding making love, she seems to be working more than necessary, and she's avoiding physical contact...something isn't right here," he said as he talked to himself, "The woman falls asleep everywhere! Not to mention, I think she's lost weight. Like....an unhealthy amount, and she was already tiny as hell before."
His first thought was drugs, but he shook his head, dismissing the idea. Athena was far too responsible to ever start using them. Plus, he knew her better than anyone—he could see in her eyes when she was hiding something. No, something else was going on, and he was determined to get to the bottom of it.
When Athena woke up around forty minutes later, she wasted no time in evading attack of serious discussions as she bolted for the stairs.
But Michael wasn't about to allow her to avoid this issue any longer. He swiftly caught up with her, wrapped his arms around her thighs and threw her over his shoulder.
"Hey, you brute!" Athena protested, "Put me down! You think just because you're Michael Jackson, the King of Pop, that you can do whatever the hell you want!" she exclaimed as she writhed in his arms, almost as if attempting to climb him like a tree.
