CHAPTER 18

 

Chapter 18

 

Michael slammed the suite door behind him, the heavy thunk resonating through the silence. He didn’t bother flipping on the lights, the glow from the city skyline outside his window bled into the luxurious living room anyway, spilling pale streaks over the sleek furnishings.

His torn jacket slipped from his shoulders and he tossed it toward an armchair by the window. His feet moved automatically, carrying him to the small bar tucked into the far corner of the room where the bottles sparkled under the faint light like silent promises of much needed temporary oblivion. Michael’s hand found a vodka bottle first, cold glass meeting his palm as he opened it in a swift motion, the cap landing somewhere on the counter with a soft clink. His hand was surprisingly steady as he poured himself a shot glass to the brim, the clear liquid glistening inside.

No hesitation.

No second thoughts.

Nothing…

The glass clinked against the marble countertop as he slammed it down after emptying it in one swift gulp and the burn scorched his throat, heat rushing to his chest, but it clearly still wasn’t enough to dull the edges of the day.

Michael let out a low growl, the sound barely audible in the vast room, and planted his palms on the countertop, leaning heavily into it as he stood there, head bent slightly, his reflection in the bar’s mirrored backdrop staring back at him like a stranger.

It had been a shit day from start to finish, one of those relentless disasters where every time you thought it couldn’t get any worse, life seemed to be saying, ‘Oh really? Well, hold my beer.’

Michael reached for the vodka again, this time pouring another shot slower, more deliberately and then lifting the glass while he stared into it for a moment, as if it held some answers he wasn’t even looking for.  Then, he drank it more slowly and in smaller sips, almost enjoying the taste. Almost.

The burn wasn’t as sharp this time, but it hit just the same, chasing the tightness in his chest and replacing it with something duller, maybe even more manageable.

At least there had been one bright spot, a single moment of peace when a few minutes earlier, after he had returned to the hotel, Michael had gone across the hall to check on the kids.

They had been out, sleeping soundly and he had stood in the doorway for a moment, the soft sounds of their breathing filling the space, making the weight on his shoulders lessen for a short, fleeting second. Watching them sleep had been like a balm, a tiny oasis in the middle of that awful, godforsaken desert he was now trapped in… literally.

Michael tried shaking the thought off as he bent down and yanked the mini-fridge open. The cool air hit him in a wave, and his hand closed around a beer bottle, then he twisted the cap off with a flick of his wrist and took a long pull.

The bitter taste hit his tongue, somehow grounding him and though he was not a fan of beer in the slightest, he felt like he was going to drink pretty much anything that night.

His thoughts drifted back to the day, to the train wreck it had been from the moment the kids had been dropped off at the hotel…

 

 

After that, the car had taken him straight to the press conference while he had leaned his head against the cool leather of the seat, exhaustion tugging at his eyelids, wishing he could cancel, turn around, and crawl into a hot bath instead of dealing with what was ahead.

But the producers had been clear — that was not an option and there was no escape.

The Ritz-Carlton resort had loomed ahead of him like a monument to excess. The large white columns gleamed under the evening lights, and the air was thick with both humidity and the faint tang of salt from the nearby sea. The massive driveway was a parade of luxury cars, their frames gleaming in the soft glow of the perfectly spaced lamps and Michael steeled himself as the car door opened, taking a breath and squaring his shoulders.

The second he stepped out, the chaos hit and people screamed his name, their voices rising in a frenzy that was almost primal.

“Michael, over here!”

“Look this way, Michael!”

“Smile for us, Michael!”

The crowd surged forward and camera flashes popped like fireworks, blinding bursts of light that made his head pound. His security team immediately closed in, their firm voices pushing the tide of bodies back as they escorted him toward the entrance but the heat of the crowd still pressed against him, their desperation tangible, and Michael gritted his teeth, forcing himself to keep moving. His heart wasn’t racing, but his patience sure as hell was wearing thin because he truly hated this part of his life… always had, always would — the circus, the noise, the feeling of being a commodity instead of a human being…

And inside wasn’t much better.

The lobby was massive, a cathedral of wealth and opulence where crystal chandeliers dripped from the high ceiling, scattering light across the polished floors. The air was cool, almost sterile, and the scent of money and power lingered in the faint perfume of fresh flowers arranged in towering vases.

His security team led him into a conference room off to the side, where the chaos continued, of course… like he could ever get a break.

The space was already packed with journalists and media personnel, their voices blending into a low roar that buzzed in his ears as cameras swiveled toward him relentlessly.

And there he was… John.

John stood near the stage, his tailored suit perfectly pressed, his hair slicked back with precision. The man exuded charm like a snake wearing cologne, his smile wide and practiced, his posture too open to be real. He waved when he saw Michael, his enthusiasm a performance in itself, and Michael immediately felt the first pangs of regret for even walking into the damn building.

As Michael approached, John’s arms opened in a gesture of welcome and when Michael actually reached the stage, John pulled him into a hug — not the kind that conveyed warmth or camaraderie, but the kind designed for the cameras.

“Don’t screw it up.” John whispered in Michael’s ear, his tone low and sharp. “And I hope to hell you’re sober.”

Michael stiffened, his head spinning as he stepped back, forcing a smile for the crowd. His fists clenched at his sides, itching to wipe the smug look off John’s face, but of course he didn’t. He couldn’t. The game was on, and Michael knew he had to play his part, whether he wanted to or not.

The flashes popped again, lighting up the room like a storm of fireflies, and Michael could feel the weight of all the expectations as well as the suffocating reality of a life that wasn’t really his anymore, settle squarely on his shoulders.

The long table stretched across the stage like a barrier between him and the buzzing swarm of journalists and photographers waiting in the audience.

A couple of minutes later the press conference started… and, to Michael’s surprise, it started smoothly enough.

He took his seat, wedged between George, his manager for the next two months — round as a cannonball and bald as an egg — and John. Beyond them, the others at the table, some other producers, marketing heads and PR reps filled the space too and Michael barely remembered half their names, though he was sure he should have.

For the first ten minutes, everything rolled along just fine. The questions were predictable, softballs about the project, the location, the production team.

Michael even managed a few canned jokes that earned some polite chuckles from the audience and his smile stayed plastered on as the cameras kept clicking furiously…

But then, as the reporters volleyed their questions, his mind started to drift slowly…

Lisa.

Lisa. Lisa. Lisa.

He could see her face everywhere he looked now as her voice from the voicemail began playing on loop in his head, low and raw.

‘You deserve better than me’… ‘I don’t know how to fix this anymore.’

Her words were like shards of glass slicing through his chest, leaving him breathless and in so much pain.

Was that it?

Was she really giving up on them?

The thought made his stomach churn. He wanted to be angry, oh, scratch that, he was angry, but it was the kind of anger that felt hollow, a mask for the gut-wrenching ache beneath.

And then, the sound of his name jolted him back.

“Michael? Your thoughts?”

He blinked, realizing everyone at the table was now looking at him, waiting… and so were the dozens of journalists in the audience.

The question had come from a woman near the front row, her hand poised over a notepad.

What had she asked, though? Michael had no clue.

“Uh…” His voice came out hoarse, and he cleared his throat awkwardly. “Yeah, um, that’s a great question…” He fumbled, buying time, but his mind was just totally blank and he could feel a small bead of sweat sliding down his temple. “I think… well, it’s all about collaboration, right?”

He winced inwardly as the words spilled out, disjointed and meaningless while a low murmur rippled through the audience and George shot him a sharp look, his lips pressed into a thin line.

Michael turned his head and on his other side, John, who was still smiling like a snake for the cameras, gave him a quick pat on the back, a move clearly meant to look supportive but felt more like a warning.

John leaned into the microphone with a smooth grin.

“Alright, alright.” He said, holding up a hand like he was trying to reign in the tension. “Let’s cut Michael some slack here, okay? Long flight, you know how it is — man’s probably still trying to figure out what timezone we’re even in now.”

A chuckle rippled through the room, disarming just enough of the awkwardness.

“And also, between us, Michael’s a purist who only likes talking about music, so, if it’s cool with everyone, I’ll take this one…”

Michael blinked, trying to process the situation, but it was like his brain wasn’t connected to his body anymore and he just watched, almost floating above himself, as John spoke into the microphone with that fake, practiced ease.

The words came in waves, something about vision and synergy, but they didn’t really stick. They just swirled around Michael’s head, as distant and meaningless as static on a broken radio.

His hands felt cold and weirdly clammy, but he stayed still, his face locked into what he hoped was a neutral expression for the cameras.

It felt like being trapped in a glass bubble, everything muffled and far away while John carried on, handling the question and probably saving Michael’s ass.

He forced himself to focus, gripping the edge of the table but the next thing he knew, the moderator turned to him again.

This time, he was supposed to introduce a major partner in the project and Michael’s eyes darted to the cue card in front of him… The name stared back at him, but his brain was just so fried, so fogged up with exhaustion and all the emotions, that he suddenly wasn’t able to read the blurred letters and fucked up even that easy task...

“...and, of course, I am thrilled to be working with Daniel… uh… Daniel Redmond.” He trailed off, realizing halfway through that Daniel was someone else entirely… that Daniel was the guy who used to write press releases for him back in 1990s  and of course wasn’t even part of this stupid project. His heart plummeted. “I mean, uh, David Reynolds.”

David Reynolds was a legend in the music world, a sound engineer whose name carried the weight of countless iconic records and groundbreaking live performances. He was the kind of genius whose work had redefined how music was experienced, a quiet titan in an industry that thrived on perfection and so forgetting his name wasn’t just a slip-up… it was like blanking on Hendrix at a guitar convention… but well, too late. The damage was done. The room erupted into a flurry of whispers and even muffled laughter while the cameras zoomed in mercilessly.

Then again, if played well, it probably wouldn’t have been that big of a deal, people screw up names or miss a question or two all the time. But Michael could feel it… his face was betraying him.

The way his eyes darted, his awkward half-smile that probably looked more like a grimace, the sweat starting to prickle on his forehead, it all screamed ‘This guy is totally out of it!’.

And the worst part? He wasn’t out of it!

He was stone-cold sober, but he knew damn well he probably looked like someone who had pre-gamed this press conference with a whiskey or three.

John’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes did burn with fury now. He leaned in as if adjusting his microphone and muttered through clenched teeth…

“Get it fucking together, or I swear, you’ll never live this down.”

Michael’s throat tightened and he tugged at his collar, suddenly feeling like the air was too thick to breathe. The room seemed to close in on him, the lights too bright, the noise too loud and his pulse thundered in his ears, as a familiar wave of panic started to rise.

Oh no, he couldn’t do this. Not now.

But his body seemed to have a different idea and it was like everything short-circuited at once. A cold shiver ran through him, followed immediately by a flush of heat so intense it felt like his skin was burning. His lungs tightened, every breath shallow and useless, like he was sucking air through a straw while his hands started shaking uncontrollably, his fingers twitching as if they weren’t even his, and his legs felt like they might buckle under him at any second if he stood up.

The room tilted, spinning around him like a carnival ride gone wrong, and his stomach lurched.

“I… uh …excuse me…” He mumbled, pushing his chair back abruptly and the screech of metal legs against the floor made everyone flinch. Heads turned as he stood up, his movements jerky and unsteady. “I’ll be right back.”

The crowd started buzzing with confusion, and the PR team scrambled to salvage the moment but Michael didn’t care. He didn’t even register the producers’ furious glares as he stumbled off the stage.

The hallway outside was mercifully cooler and more quiet and he found the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face, gripping the edge of the sink as he fought to steady his breathing.

His reflection stared back at him, pale and disheveled, his eyes bloodshot with exhaustion.

He quickly fumbled in his pocket for the little bottle of chill pills his doctor had prescribed for anxiety and popped two into his mouth, swallowing them dry before the door creaked open, and George waddled in, his face red and sweaty from anger.

“What the hell was that?” He hissed, slamming the door shut behind him.

“I can’t do this, George.” Michael said, his voice cracking. “I’m tired, I’m jet-lagged, and I’ve got a million things on my mind. I need a break.”

“You don’t have a break!” George shot back, jabbing a finger in Michael’s direction. “You had one damn job, show up and don’t fuck it up! How hard is that, huh?? Huh??! Do you have any idea how bad this all looks now?”

“I’m human, not some goddamn robot you can program to smile and wave on command. I need rest.”

George hmphed and frowned.

“You need to go back out there, apologize, and finish this thing. Look, it’s just a few more minutes, and then you can drink yourself into oblivion and collapse in bed for all I care.”

Michael hesitated, his gaze glued to the red face of the man standing in front of him. He wanted to argue, to tell George to shove it, but deep down, he knew he didn’t have that leverage anymore. He felt the pills slowly kicking in and cleared his throat.

“Fine. Let’s just get this over with.”

Back on stage, he forced a smile as he sat down and picked up the microphone.

“I apologize for that. I’m really sorry.” He said, his voice shaky but audible. “Long flight… jet lag… I wasn’t feeling well, but I’m good now. Let’s continue, please.”

The rest of the press conference passed in a sort of a blur. Michael answered the questions mechanically, his mind still elsewhere and his eyes burned, fighting back the tears he just refused to let fall as his voice wavered more than once.

Before he had gotten back on the stage, he had put on his sunglasses and now couldn’t feel happier about the decision.

By the end, the tension in the room was palpable, and the energy that had once filled the space had drained away completely… When the moderator finally thanked everyone for coming, Michael barely waited for the applause to fade before he bolted from the stage. He didn’t care what anyone thought. Not anymore. All he wanted was to get back to the hotel and shut the world out for a while.

By the time he was off the stage, Michael felt like he had just run a marathon and gotten hit by a bus at the same time.

He had been in front of crowds a million times before, but for some reason this was different.

It was his first public appearance since the trial and apparently he had underestimated how much that shit would mess with his head.

What used to be second nature, what used to be his bread and butter, had now turned into a damn minefield and somehow he could barely remember how to breathe, let alone handle the spotlight.

Maybe he had gotten too used to flying under the radar, hiding in the shadows for so long, and today he had been thrown right back into the fire… And it fucking burned.

His security detail flanked him immediately, their black suits and grim expressions a silent promise to get him out of there no matter what and he couldn’t be more grateful.

"Car’s waiting outside, sir."

“Let’s go.” Michael mumbled, not bothering to glance back at the chaos he had left behind.

His chest still felt tight, his head was pounding now, and the only thing keeping him upright was the promise of a quiet night in his hotel suite with his kids close.

They moved briskly through the back corridors of the hotel, the muffled noise of the conference fading behind them but as they rounded a corner and approached the secondary lobby, his heart sank.

A swarm of fans had gathered there, far more than anyone had anticipated.

Hundreds of them packed the space, bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, faces alight with frenzied energy and they surged forward as soon as they spotted him, a collective gasp and cheer rising like a wave.

Cameras shot into the air again, the flashes blinding him as all the frenzied voices screamed his name.

“Michael! Michael, over here!"

“Sign this, please!"

“I love you!"

He loved his fans dearly, no doubt about that and he knew damn well he wouldn't be anywhere without them, without their love and their constant support that had kept him going through the highs and lows.

But right now he just couldn't handle it anymore… It felt like the walls were closing in, every flash of a camera, every shout of his name just hammering at him.

The previous week had drained him more than he wanted to admit… After all the fights with Lisa, barely getting any sleep, an hour or two if he was lucky, his body was screaming for rest and the 20-hour flight didn't help, either.

Every time he tried to close his eyes, his mind was flooded with nightmares so twisted and fucked up he’d rather stay awake than deal with them and so eventually, he had given up on even trying to sleep and then… straight from the plane to this press conference, like he was some kind of circus animal.

It was just too much…

The lobby immediately became a battlefield and though his security team tightened their formation and their arms outstretched to hold back the crush of bodies, the crowd was relentless.

Michael’s stomach twisted as hands reached out, grabbing at him — his arms, his jacket, even his hair. Someone tugged at his sleeve so hard that he stumbled, barely catching himself before he fell.

“Jesus Christ.” He mumbled, his voice drowned out by the roar while he tried to take a step forward, but the crowd pressed in even more, a wall of bodies surrounding them.

The screams grew louder as someone yanked at his jacket again, and he heard the faint tear of fabric.

Of course this wasn’t the first time he had been mobbed like that but today, he was just over it, just over everything…

He felt like he was suffocating, drowning in a sea of hands, faces and noise while one of the bodyguards barked orders, his voice a deep rumble above all the chaos.

“Back up! BACK UP!” But the crowd surged again, a tidal wave of bodies pushing against them and then it happened.

Michael got pushed to the side again and as he stumbled his phone slipped from his pocket like a fish darting out of his grasp, hitting the ground with a faint clatter.

His breath caught as he saw it, lying there like a lifeline just out of reach.

“No… No!” He let out, his voice breaking. He tried to bend down, reaching for it, but the crowd surged again, and he was shoved backward this time.

In slow motion, he saw it happen. A black sneaker, its sole grimy and worn, came down on his phone and the screen splintered beneath the weight before the sneaker twisted slightly, grinding the phone even more into the floor.

Michael took a deep breath lunging forward, but a bodyguard grabbed his arm, yanking him back.

“Wait! My phone! I need my phone!”

“Sir, we have to move!”

Michael’s throat was tight with panic. That phone wasn’t just a phone... It was the last voicemail, the last connection to Lisa. He didn’t even remember her new number!

The crowd was relentless as hands kept clawing at him, voices screamed his name, and he felt like he was being swallowed alive while he fought to keep his footing.

He glanced down again and there it was, or what was left of it… His phone, smashed to hell under the chaos of stomping feet, the back panel had popped clean off, the battery skittered somewhere he couldn’t even see, and the tiny buttons were scattered like broken teeth across the floor.

The whole thing looked like it had been chewed up and spit out by the crowd but before he knew it, the bodyguards finally managed to push harder, their broad shoulders and sheer force carving a narrow path through the chaos and Michael stumbled right after them, his heart hammering, his vision tunneling.

Finally, they broke through the mob and spilled out into the cool night air… The car was waiting at the curb, its black paint gleaming under the streetlights like a beacon of salvation and Michael didn’t wait for the door to be opened for him, he yanked it open himself and practically dove inside, collapsing onto the seat, followed by two large bodyguards.  

“Go.” He rasped, his voice raw. “Just go, now!”

The driver didn’t need to be told twice and the car lurched forward, the noise of the crowd fading behind them as they sped away.

Michael leaned back against the seat, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. His hands were trembling, his fingers digging into his thighs as he fought to steady himself. And then, the tears came… hot and uncontrollable and they spilled down his cheeks, blurring his vision… He did try to wipe them away, but they kept coming anyway, each one heavier than the last as the weight of the day, the voicemail, the press conference, the mob, the phone and the exhaustion all came crashing down on him, crushing him under its unbearable load.

The car sped through the city, the lights outside a blur of gold and white, but Michael didn’t see them. He was lost in his own storm…

 

Michael sat slumped on the edge of the overstuffed sofa in his large hotel suite now, the cold, metallic taste of the imported beer lingering on his tongue.

The bottle, sleek and foreign, rested loosely in his hand, condensation dripping onto the expensive hardwood floor beneath him.

The beer tasted off… not spoiled, just… wrong, much like everything else in his life right now. He sighed heavily, leaning back, his head thudding softly against the cushion. He glanced around the suite — lavish, expansive, sterile.

The place was a five-star masterpiece, sure, but he actually couldn’t care less.

The walls were a soft ivory color, accentuated by gold trimmings and massive pieces of abstract art that screamed money but whispered nothing of warmth.

The sitting area was big, with its marble-topped coffee table and cream-colored couches positioned in a perfect, soulless arrangement.

Everything in the suite reeked of wealth and detachment and he hated it. He hated being there.

Michael took another swig of the beer, grimacing as he swallowed, while a slow, hot burn crawled up his throat. He replayed the disasters of the day in his mind, each moment a dagger twisting deeper into his chest...

His fingers tightened around the neck of the beer bottle as he stood and walked to the massive window and gazed out at the foreign cityscape stretched before him, the glittering lights of the high-rises piercing through the desert haze.

The horizon seemed endless, the rolling sands meeting the darkness in a harsh, unyielding line and somewhere out there, life was moving on, people were living their lives, laughing, loving, doing all the things he was so far removed from that he felt like an outsider, like a tourist not only in this country but in his own damn existence.

He wanted to leave. More than anything, he wanted to hop on a plane, and just go. But to what? He didn’t even have a real home to return to, just a series of temporary addresses, places he rented... The only thing he truly cared about was Lisa and the kids, and even that felt like it was slipping through his fingers faster than he could hold on.

Finishing the beer in one long, bitter gulp, he set the empty bottle on the windowsill and stared down at his hands.

He should have been more careful. He should have left his phone in the car… what was he thinking?

Sure, he could replace the phone in a heartbeat, he could probably have a dozen brand-new ones delivered to his door within the next hour. But Lisa’s number…

Michael ran his hand through his hair, the thought hitting him like a gut punch. He didn’t know her new number by heart…

And now?

Now he was stranded, disconnected from her in a way that felt crushing and he didn’t even know which hotel she was staying in back in LA, didn’t know if she was still at the hospital, didn’t even know if she would pick up if he somehow managed to get through to her.

The anger built inside him like a storm, hot and suffocating and before he could stop himself, he grabbed the empty beer bottle and hurled it across the room with a loud growl. It shattered against the pristine white wall, shards of glass raining down while the sound echoed through the suite, sharp and violent, a perfect reflection of how he felt inside.

A knock came at the door almost immediately, a tentative rap that made Michael’s head turn and he bit his lip, muttering a curse under his breath.

“Mr. Jackson?” It was one of his security guys, his deep voice muffled but concerned. “Everything okay in there?”

Michael didn’t bother going to the door. He stayed where he was, leaning heavily against the windowsill, his head bowed as he tried to steady his breathing.

“I’m fine.” He called out, his voice rough. “Sorry about that. I’m fine.”

There was a pause, then the faint sound of footsteps retreating and Michael exhaled, his shoulders slumping as he pushed off the windowsill and began pacing the room.

His thoughts raced, one frantic idea after another flashing through his mind.

He needed to find Lisa’s number. He could call Priscilla, but God knew if she would even volunteer her number to him. Also, the thought of reaching out to Lisa’s mother, of having to beg her for something, made his skin crawl… That woman hated his guts so much and he didn’t have it in him to deal with her now…

He ran a hand over his face, dragging his palm down his cheek as he sighed.

It was hopeless.

For now, at least.

He needed to let it go and stop obsessing over something he couldn’t fix tonight.

Maybe in the morning, he would figure out a plan but for now, all he could do was try to calm his racing thoughts, to claw back some semblance of control over the chaos in his head and to try and relax a bit…

His gaze drifted toward the bedroom, and he made his way there slowly, his footsteps heavy against the hardwood floor but as he crossed the threshold, something caught his eye, a large, ornate desk positioned against one wall.

It was beautiful, a piece that looked like it belonged in a museum rather than a hotel room,  the dark wood gleamed under the soft light, its surface polished to perfection and on top of the desk sat a leather-bound writing pad, an elegant ink pen with a gold-plated nib, and a stack of cream-colored envelopes.

He approached the desk slowly, running his fingers over the smooth wood as an idea began to form in his mind.

A letter. He could write Lisa a letter.

Sure, it was old-fashioned, hell, it was practically medieval compared to the instant gratification of a text or a call but there was something about it that felt… just right.

He knew it would take weeks for her to get it, mail wasn’t exactly speedy, especially when he was now on the other side of the world, and yeah, he hoped like hell he would be able to call her long before the letter actually reached her. But still, he wanted to do it. It felt like something he should do, like it mattered in a way that a phone call or text never could…

Lisa had always loved his letters and his little notes, had kept them in a little box she called her “treasure chest” and he could still picture her as her face lit up every time she unfolded one of his notes, her lips curving into that soft smile he loved so much.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Michael smiled. It was faint, tentative, but it was there and he pulled out the chair and sat down, the leather cool against his skin.

He turned on a small lamp on the desk and carefully, almost reverently, picked up the pen, turning it over in his hands. It was heavier than he had expected, the gold nib catching the light as he held it. The paper was thick, smooth to the touch and Michael stared at the blank page for a moment, his mind racing as he tried to find the right words.

Finally, he leaned forward, pressing the pen to the paper. The first words came slowly, hesitantly, but once they were there, they felt right.

 

My dearest Lisa,

There are moments in life when silence is no longer an option, and this is one of them. I’ve always believed that actions speak louder than words, but there are things only words can express, and I hope these will be enough to show you what’s in my heart…

 

He paused, his heart aching as he considered what to say next. How did you put a thousand emotions into a single letter? How did you explain how much someone meant to you when words always seemed to fall short?

And yet, he wrote on…