CHAPTER 19

 

Chapter 19

 

Michael stepped into the hotel suite at about 2 a.m., each step echoing in the vast, empty room. He flipped the switch by the door and let out a loud sigh.

He stopped just inside the doorway, his shoulders sagging under the weight of everything he hadn’t yet let himself feel and he let out a sigh that was less a breath and more a purge, the kind that came from a bone-deep exhaustion no amount of sleep could fix.

One less day until he could get out of there and go back home. That thought was the only thing keeping him upright, the faint glimmer of normalcy waiting somewhere ahead.

His jacket felt like it weighed a thousand pounds as he shrugged it off, letting it slip through his fingers before tossing it over the back of a sleek leather chair. Then he tugged at his tie, jerking it loose like it had been strangling him for hours, and flung it onto the chair as well, not really caring where it landed.

How the hell had he even made it through those first two weeks in Bahrain? He had no idea…

His brain was fried from back-to-back press conferences where he had flashed his best smiles, his face aching from photoshoots that demanded a grin he didn’t really feel.

He had shaken so many hands they blurred into one sweaty, forgettable haze, and every conversation felt like wading through knee-deep mud… small talk, platitudes, all of it just a mask for people who wanted something from him.

It had been the same routine every day: his driver would take him from one godforsaken venue to the next, the car reeking of stale coffee and his own frustration. Fundraisers and Gala Nights where he plastered on a smile so fake it felt like it might crack his face, press conferences with endless strings of cameras flashing, reporters asking him the same tired questions… wash, rinse, repeat.

He paced the room slowly, his shoes gliding over the hardwood, the sound sharp and clean in the stillness when the bar caught his eye from across the room, all gleaming glass and polished wood, the bottles lined up like little soldiers waiting for orders.

A drink. Just one.

The thought hit him before he could even try stopping it and though he shoved the idea away, it somewhat clung to him, whispering promises of release, of escape…

Michael stopped in front of the coffee table, his eyes snagging on the magazines piled neatly in the center. The arrangement was too perfect, too deliberate, and something about the way they sat there, waiting, made his stomach twist.

He didn’t need to open them to know what they said…

Lisa had moved on.

That’s what they were saying.

And his team, the people who were supposed to protect him, who were paid to have his back, had left those magazines there for him to find, like bait in a trap.

Michael’s chest tightened. It wasn’t just the magazines… no, it was pretty much everything in those past couple of days. From the way the room would go dead silent the second he walked in to the not-so-subtle glances they would trade when they thought he wasn’t looking.

He had heard the whispers, caught the tail-end of conversations that died the moment he got close but deep inside he felt like there was another kicker … almost like they wanted him to know.

Oh, they were playing their parts perfectly, no doubt about that… every smirk, every sidelong glance, every awkward pause was deliberate, like they were testing just how far they could push him.

And then the thought hit him, hard and fast: were they actually trying to break him?

Paranoid or not, it felt real. Real enough to crawl under his skin and stay there, gnawing at him.

Lisa wasn’t just a girlfriend. No, she was Michael’s anchor, the one thing that managed to keep him from drifting too far into the storm and that scared them… Maybe they thought that without her, he would crumble and become someone easier to manage, easier to manipulate.

His jaw clenched as he fought the urge to smash something, to scream, to do anything that would release the pressure building inside him and he rubbed his hands over his face, exhaustion dragging at him like an undertow.

He should just leave it alone. The magazines, the rumors, all of it. He didn’t need to feed the beast.

But somehow, he just couldn’t walk away. The pile of glossy pages sat there, mocking him, daring him and his hand hovered over the stack, trembling slightly, before he snatched it back like he had been burned.

He turned back to the bar and the thought of pouring himself a drink slithered back in, tempting and dangerous. He didn’t move, though. He just stood there, staring at the bottles, the room silent.

Just one drink…

But one was never enough, and he knew it. Soon, he would be staring at an empty bottle, the numbness spreading through him like poison.

Michael shook his head, the motion sharp and final and turning back to the table, he let his gaze fall on the magazines again. They were calling to him, pulling him in, the same way a car crash demanded attention and he sank onto the couch reaching out, his fingers brushing the edge of the top magazine.

The air in the room seemed heavier suddenly, thick and stifling, making it hard to breathe, yet daring him to go through with it.

He cleared his throat before he finally picked up the first one.

It was one of those bottom-of-the-barrel tabloids, the kind that plastered ridiculous, grainy photos on its cover alongside screaming headlines that made your brain hurt just reading them.

They lived off dirt, the nastier the better, and didn’t care if it was true or not and god, he hated those things so much! Hated how they twisted reality into some grotesque carnival mirror, how they had been dogging him for years.

So why the hell was he falling for it now? Why was he letting it get under his skin?

He flipped through the magazine lazily at first, almost disgusted by himself, his thumb skimming over glossy pages filled with celebrity breakups, weight-loss “miracles”, and other garbage that made him sick.

He tried to keep his eyes moving, to skim past the nonsense, to pretend he didn’t care but then … there it was.

The headline hit him like a sucker punch he hadn’t really seen coming:

Next One, Please!

And below it, in obnoxiously bold print:

Jacko Kicked to the Curb, Again!

The words blared at him, burning into his brain, and for a moment, he just stared at them, his chest tightening like a vice. He didn’t want to know what came next, he really didn’t but his eyes betrayed him, moving over the page like they had a mind of their own… and there it was…

The photos stopped him cold.

The first one felt like a dull, rusty knife to the gut. Lisa, leaning down over some guy in a wheelchair. Matt. She was smiling at him, sunlight cutting through the trees in the background, the whole scene looking like something out of a goddamn Hallmark card. The way she looked at him, that smile, so easy and so warm twisted something sharp in Michael’s stomach.

But the second photo? That one was worse. Way worse…

They were outside some café, and Matt was holding up an ice cream cone, feeding her like they were two teenagers in love. She was laughing, leaning in like it was the most natural thing in the world, her eyes crinkling at the corners the way they always did when she was truly happy.

And then came the third one.

Lisa, chin smeared with ice cream, laughing so hard her shoulders seemed to be shaking, and Matt leaning in with a napkin, wiping it off her chest. The angle was just perfect and Michael could already hear the reporters dissecting every second of it.

His vision blurred as he slammed the magazine shut and hurled it across the room, the sharp crack of it hitting the wall echoing in the quiet, but it didn’t do a damn thing to drown out the roaring in his ears.

He fell back onto the couch, his head in his hands, his fingers digging into his scalp as he tried to steady himself.

He wasn’t sure what he actually felt. Rage? Heartbreak? Humiliation? They all blurred together into one overwhelming mess that he seemed unable to untangle.

“Dammit.” He groaned under his breath, his voice barely more than a whisper…

 

 

The first two weeks in Bahrain had been a train wreck from the second his plane touched down and he should have known they would be… Everything about the trip had been micromanaged to hell and back, with a schedule so tight it felt like there wasn’t room to breathe and every day was a repeat of the last - press conferences where reporters lobbed questions like grenades, most of them about things he never wanted to talk about,  business meetings with corporate vultures who didn’t see him as a person, just a brand, a product they could exploit, and endless photo ops with donors and with people who only wanted to cash in on him.

His driver moved him from one venue to the next, and by the end of each day, he felt like a damn marionette, pulled in a hundred different directions by people who didn’t give a damn about how much it cost him.

It wasn’t that he didn’t care about the fans or the work he was supposed to be doing. He did. But everything about the trip felt off, like a trap designed to keep him performing, grinning and pretending he was fine. But Michael wasn’t fine. He hadn’t been fine in quite some time, and no amount of forced smiles or fake laughs was going to change that.

The first day sure had been a train wreck with the botched press conference, but by the second, Michael hit the wall, and it hit back harder…

He had barely scraped together two hours of sleep the night before, thanks to a headache that had pounded behind his eyes like a hammer on metal, each strike sharper and crueler than the last and his back wasn’t actually much better.

But the exhaustion he was feeling had been actually building for quite some time. Michael hadn’t slept much on the plane ride over and the week before that? Forget about it and so he had actually been running on fumes for so long now, he wasn’t even sure what “rested” felt like anymore.

That second morning, he stood in the bathroom of his hotel suite, gripping the edge of the sink so hard his knuckles went white as he stared at the mirror, but the man looking back at him wasn’t the man he wanted to see.

His eyes were bloodshot, his skin more pale than usual and he looked… old. Not just tired, but aged, like the weight of everything he was carrying had sunk into his bones overnight.

His head throbbed, a steady, punishing rhythm that made him consider reaching for something stronger than some over-the-counter meds he had brought with him but he knew better.

The last thing he needed was to add yet another problem to the mess he was already juggling and he was well aware that it would soon turn into one hell of a problem...

And so he grabbed the Tylenol, shaking two tablets into his palm and swallowing them dry before chasing them with a long gulp of water though he knew it wouldn’t really do the trick at all.

Yet, there was no time to wallow. He had kids waiting for him, even if only for a few stolen moments before he had to leave them with the nannies again and the guilt hit him like a tsunami every single time.

The meet-and-greet planned for the second day was at some high-end venue downtown and normally, Michael might have found some joy in it because he loved his fans and loved hearing their stories and feeling their energy. But it was just completely beyond him that nobody even considered he might need some rest.

The room was packed with hundreds of people, their cheers bouncing off the walls, each echo slicing through his skull like broken glass making his migraine, already bad, bloom into something unbearable, every pulse of sound like a hammer blow.

But he smiled anyway…

He signed posters and CDs with hands that shook just enough for him to notice but hopefully not enough for anyone else to and he posed for photos, his cheeks aching from the effort of keeping the corners of his mouth turned up. Every interaction felt like a performance, his lines rehearsed and mechanical and he hated himself for that, blaming himself for not being able to give more…

“Thank you for coming.”

“It means so much to me.”

“I love you, too.”

And he did love them, truly, but that early afternoon felt like dragging his body through quicksand, every step and every word an unbearable effort.

And then, of course, John showed up… because why wouldn't he?

Sleazy, smug John, with his too-bright smile and his too-familiar hand clapping Michael’s shoulder.

“Great crowd, huh?” He said, his voice oily with forced enthusiasm and he didn’t wait for an answer… he never did … before snatching a mic from one of the tech guys.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” John’s voice boomed, his grin so wide it could have split his face in two. “We’ve got a special treat for you all today, as a heartfelt thank you for coming out and showing your incredible support for Michael! Trust me, you’re not going to want to miss this.”

Michael’s stomach dropped.

“What the hell are you doing?” Michael hissed, his words low and sharp, meant only for John’s ears and John turned to him, his smile frozen but his eyes hard as steel.

“We were going to tell you...” He said through gritted teeth. “You would know if you actually bothered to answer your damn phone.”

Before Michael could argue some more, John leaned back into the mic.

“Michael’s going to perform a song for you!”

Immediately, the crowd exploded and cheers erupted like a tidal wave crashing through the venue, a deafening roar that shook the walls. High-pitched screams from excited fans pierced the air, mingling with thunderous applause and chants of Michael’s name, creating an electric atmosphere of unrestrained excitement.

Yet, Michael’s head swam, his heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” He hissed again, his jaw clenching so tight it hurt.

“It’s just lip-syncing.” John whispered, his tone sharp as a blade. “So do us all a solid and don’t screw it up.”

Michael wanted to punch him, to shove that mic where the sun didn’t shine but the crowd was chanting his name now and there was no way out of it…

The spotlight hit him as he stepped onto the stage, blinding and unforgiving, and a tech handed him a mic, casually mentioning which song it was going to be…

Wow, what a professional approach to performing on stage - truly high class. Nothing screams "prepared" like finding out your song seconds before you are supposed to sing it.

Back in the day, Michael wouldn’t have let anything like this happen. Every detail of his performances had to be perfect, down to the last note, and he had always made sure it was. Rehearsals had been meticulous, and nothing was left to chance.

But now? This moment felt like yet another glaring sign of how little control he had over his life and everything seemed improvised, chaotic, like he was just along for the ride rather than steering the wheel.

The opening notes of Blood on the Dance Floor blasted through the speakers and Michael started moving automatically, his body remembering choreography he didn’t even have to think about. The audience roared with every spin, every glide, but each movement sent a searing pain through his back, sharp enough to steal his breath. His headache pounded relentlessly, like a drumbeat echoing inside his skull, each throb blurring the edges of his vision while the bright stage lights felt like daggers, stabbing into his temples with every flash, making it nearly impossible to focus.

He gritted his teeth, pushing through it, counting down the seconds in his head. Eighty-four. Eighty-four more seconds. That was how perfectly he knew his songs.

When it was finally over, he forced a smile, raising a hand in thanks.

“Thank you! Thank you so much!! I love you all!” He said, his voice steady despite the storm raging inside him before he disappeared off the stage and he stumbled into the first bathroom he found backstage, locking himself in a stall.

His knees slammed against the cold tile as nausea surged through him like a violent wave. Michael barely had time to brace himself before his stomach lurched, forcing a thick, acidic torrent up his throat and out of his mouth. The sound of retching echoed sharply off the stall walls, the bile burning his throat and leaving a sour, bitter taste that clung to his tongue. His body convulsed again, a deeper heave dragging up what felt like the very lining of his stomach and tears pricked his eyes as he gagged, his chest tightening with each brutal spasm until there was nothing left but dry, rasping coughs.

When it was finally over, he slumped back against the stall door, the back of his head pressing into the cold metal. His breath came in ragged gasps, his entire body trembling with exhaustion. For a long moment, he just sat there, too drained to move and too drained to feel anything...

The day had already been a grind, but Michael wasn’t off the hook just yet. After the disastrous meet-and-greet there were still two more PR stops on his schedule.

First up, a radio interview that felt like pulling teeth. The questions were the same recycled garbage: What’s next for you? Who’s your inspiration? Got any wild tour stories?

He gave the answers they wanted to hear, but every word felt hollow, like he was just going through the motions.

And then, it was off to some fancy dinner thing with industry execs — basically a room full of suits with fake smiles, pretending to care about his "vision." He couldn’t even remember half their names, let alone what they talked about and by the time he escaped, he felt like he had been wrung out like a wet towel.

By the time Michael dragged himself back to the hotel that night, it was so damn late again he couldn’t even think straight. He felt like his body was running on autopilot, his legs moving him down the hallway without any real direction, his mind swimming in a thick fog of exhaustion. The only thing clear in his head was that he needed to see his kids.

He pushed open the door to Blanket’s room first and Michael watched him as he was sprawled out across the bed, arms stretched wide, his little face slack with peaceful sleep. He stepped closer, brushing a stray curl off the boy’s forehead, careful not to wake him.

“I love you so much.” He whispered, his voice barely audible.

Then he moved quietly through the hallway again, checking on Prince and Paris too. In one room, he adjusted the blanket that had slipped off a small shoulder, smoothing it gently as he leaned down to kiss a soft cheek and in the next, he tucked a stuffed animal back into the crook of an arm and brushed his fingers lightly over a tiny hand.

For each of them, he whispered the same words he always did “I love you so much, you’re my whole world…” barely loud enough for the air to carry it, before slipping back out as quietly as he had come.

Michael knew he had to work, he needed that job so bad. Needed to pay off all the debts that still loomed over him like storm clouds, needed to make sure his kids never had to worry about a damn thing, even if that meant gritting his teeth, showing up and doing the job that felt like it was killing him.

When he pulled the last door closed quietly Michael shuffled back to his suite. Some contracts and other papers scattered across the table like a bad metaphor for his life but he barely spared them a glance, his eyes landing on the brand-new phone left on the table instead, a small note propped up against it. The handwriting was neat, precise: ‘Sir, it’s all set. Should be working.’

Finally!

Michael picked up the phone, turning it over in his hands before he powered it on, watching the screen light up as he settled into a chair by the window.

Outside, the city stretched out like a sea of lights, glittering in the darkness. Beyond the skyscrapers, the desert loomed, endless and quiet and above it all hung the moon, huge and pale, casting an eerie glow over the sand dunes. He looked back at the phone and his thumb hovered over the buttons about to dial a number burned into his memory.

Should he call her?

He glanced at the clock on the wall and did the mental math. The time difference worked.

It rang a few times before she picked up.

“Michael? Is it you?”

His mother’s voice, warm and steady, cut through his spiraling thoughts and for a moment, he didn’t say anything, just closed his eyes and let her familiar tone wash over him.

“Hello, Mother.” He said, forcing a little life into his voice. “Yes, it’s me.”

“Finally.” She said, a hint of reproach in her proper, measured tone. “I was hoping you  would call me sooner.”

“I’m sorry.” He said, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s been... just crazy. Nonstop.”

“It’s always crazy with you.” She said, her tone softening. “How are you? How’s Bahrain?”

“It’s great.” He lied smoothly. “Just busy.”

“Mmm.” She made that sound she always did when she didn’t believe a word he was saying but decided not to push. Instead, she asked about the kids, the weather, the safe stuff and he answered as best he could before, good twenty or so minutes later, he blurted. “Um... Mother, do you still have Lisa’s number?”

“Lisa?” Her voice sharpened with curiosity. “Why do you ask?”

“My phone got smashed.” He added quickly. “And I lost all my contacts. I remember you mentioned talking to her.”

“Ah.” She dragged the syllable out, like she was piecing something together and Michael hated how she always seemed to know. “Well, let me see...”

He listened to the sound of her shuffling papers, muttering something about organization, and when she came back, she rattled off the number.

“Thank you.” He said, scribbling it onto the nearest scrap of paper.

“You’re welcome.” She said, a little too brightly. “Are you going to call her now?”

“Maybe.” He hedged, and they left it at that.

They talked some more, the conversation meandering back to the usual: what was new back home and a few little updates about the neighborhood gossip.

Katherine asked about the kids again, her voice softening in that way it always did when she brought them up.

When they finally hung up, Michael was left staring at the number scribbled on the scrap of paper in front of him. It looked innocent enough, just a few digits scrawled in his messy handwriting, but for some reason it felt heavier than it should have.

Calling Lisa seemed so simple in theory, but in practice? The whole day had already been a train wreck, and he wasn’t sure he had the energy to pile more mess on top of it. If this call turned out to be bad news, it might just tip him over the edge.

Then again, putting it off wouldn’t really change anything and the knot in his chest wouldn’t leave him alone. He needed to know the truth.

He picked up the phone, his fingers hovering over the keypad for a moment before he started dialing, each button press feeling heavier than the last. By the time the ringing started, his pulse was pounding in his ears.

It rang. Once. Twice. Four times.

“Hello?”

Her voice was soft, unsure, and it made his heart do a weird little flip.

“Hey. It’s me.” He said, his voice more casual than he felt.

“Michael?” She sounded surprised, almost wary. “Hi.”

“Hi.” The word hung awkwardly between them before he cleared his throat and went on. “How are you?”

“Oh, I’m okay.” Lisa said slowly. “How about you? How’s Bahrain?”

“Oh, it’s good, really good. Just, uh, busy. You know how it is.”

“Yeah.” There was another pause. “And how are the kids?”

“They’re good. They seem to be having a great time here. But, you know, I can’t tell if it’s because they’re really happy or if it’s just the novelty of the place.”

“Well, I’m sure they love it there. And I’m… I’m really glad.”

“And so… Um, how’s... Matt?”

“Oh, well.” The hesitation was slight but noticeable. “He’s... doing better. Focusing on physio. Trying to get back to normal. It’s not easy, though, he’s struggling more than he lets on.”

“Right.”

The silence stretched again, heavy and awkward, until Michael finally took a deep breath and mustered strength to ask what he needed to know.

“So... about that voicemail.”

“Oh.” Her voice faltered. “Yeah.”

“What did you mean by all that, Lisa?”

“I... I meant it. All of it.” She said quietly. “I’m really sorry, Michael. For everything. For that last week especially. I was trying to do right by everyone and just... fucked up.”

“Fucked what up, exactly? You mean letting me leave without saying goodbye? Or leaving me a message like that? Should I go on??? You scared the shit out of me, Lisa! My phone got broken and I wasn’t even able to get your phone number all the while trying to figure out if you’re breaking up with me or… God, what the hell?”

He felt all the anger bubbling up now, hot and somewhat unreasonable but he just couldn’t hold it back.

“I don’t know! I don’t know, okay?” Lisa mumbled, clearly taken aback by his outrage. “I just… I hate myself for this. For all of this! I’ve been trying so hard to make everything work, and it’s like the harder I try, the more I mess up. I feel like… I don’t know, like I’m failing. Then, Matt kinda opened my eyes about some things, you know….”

His grip on the phone tightened.

“Oh did he now? Guess he’s got it all figured out. Must be nice.”

“It’s not like that… Geez…” She said quickly. “He just... he made me realize I might have handled some things wrong, is all.”

“Right. Well, thanks to him, I guess.”

She didn’t argue, but he could hear the tension in her silence.

“And that other stuff?” Michael swallowed hard, running a hand through his hair. “The ‘find someone better’ thing. What the hell was that about? You really think there’s someone better for me out there? Seriously?”

“Oh, gee… I just...” Her voice cracked. “I feel… sometimes I feel like that, yes. Like you … like you really deserve better, Michael. I… I mean, look at me! I’m all over the place and I never get things right! I mess up your life while fucking up mine and you just … you could be with someone so much better, someone who isn’t… this.”

“Stop it, dammit, Lisa!” He cut her off, pacing now. “That’s the biggest load of crap I’ve ever heard!”

“But it’s true, Michael!” Lisa said, her words tumbling out. “I’m not perfect. I’ll never be perfect. You could find someone who…”

“Jesus, stop!!!” He was yelling now. “I don’t want anyone else! I want you. Do you want me to go and find someone else, Lisa? Is that what’s going on? Are you trying to make me the bad guy and get me to walk away so you can feel better about yourself?? Real classy, Lisa. Real brave.”

The silence that followed was unbearable.

“Lisa…” He said again, his voice low, desperate. “Do you still love me or not? That’s actually the only question I need you to answer here.”

He heard her breath hitch before she let out a little sob.

“Yes.” The word was so soft he barely heard it but it was there. “I do. Very much.”

“Good…” He said, relief hitting him like a tidal wave. “Let's start there. I love you, too and you’re the only one I want, okay?”

“Okay…” She let out sheepishly but he could hear a small smile in her voice.

He sat down on the couch and leaned back, relaxing and for the first time in what felt like forever, they actually talked — the kind of conversation where all the walls came down and they said the things they had been too scared or too damn stubborn to admit before, and then, little by little, the tension started to melt away too. Awkward silences turned into easy laughter, and soon enough, they were just them again, Michael and Lisa, in love, talking like they used to, giggling over dumb inside jokes, swapping stories about the kids… It felt good, so good that in a way it felt like coming home.

“So…” She said, her voice lighter now… “How’s Bahrain, really?”

Michael snorted, shaking his head. “It freaking sucks, girl…”

 

After the phone call with Lisa, Michael had allowed himself to breathe again, just for a moment and it felt like the world had finally tilted back into place. She loved him, and he loved her, and that was all that mattered… He was going to get through the two horrendous months in Bahrain and then he would go back to Lisa… easy peasy, right? No reason to sweat it, everything seemed okay now…     

But life does have a cruel way of grinding hope into dust, and the demands of Michael’s  career didn’t just knock at the door… no, they barged in and took over, and very fast.

Over the next few days the PR circus had become relentless. There were charity appearances, meet-and-greets with fans, and a dozen other events he didn’t have the energy to care about.

And then, his producers, ever the geniuses, had cooked up yet another “brilliant” idea: a final, massive concert in Bahrain to cap off his stay.

Michael didn’t want to do it. Not even a little. His body already felt like it was running on fumes, and his mind wasn’t far behind. The thought of pushing himself through another high-stakes performance and all the needed rehearsals filled him with dread, but as always, nobody really bothered asking what he thought or what he wanted. Instead, they just plowed ahead, assuming he would fall in line like he always did.

And between the endless obligations, he barely had time to breathe, let alone sleep, his kids were practically growing up with nannies at that point, and every time he caught a glimpse of them, his heart ached with guilt. And Lisa? Well, Lisa had become a distant voice on the other end of a phone, and sometimes not even that.

A lot of times when Michael checked his phone, there was a missed call from her and he would try calling back but it always seemed to be a bad time.

“Hey, can I call you later?” She would say, her voice rushed and apologetic. “Sorry, baby, I really can’t talk right now.”

And so for a while, Michael made it a point to keep his phone on him, just in case and he actually managed to catch her calls a few times, but it never worked out the way they wanted. The second he would pick up, someone from the crew would pop up with some “urgent” crap that couldn’t wait, or there would be some last-minute fire he had to put out.

“Hold on a sec, Lise.” He would say, juggling the phone and whatever chaos was brewing around him, but it always ended the same. “Shit, I gotta call you back. I’m so sorry.”

And when they did manage to talk after all, usually in the middle of the night or very early in the morning, it was surface-level at best, a brief exchange of pleasantries with one of them yawning over and over before falling asleep with the phone in their hands.

No matter how much they tried, it seemed like they were always just missing each other, and the distance wasn’t just physical anymore.

It didn’t take long and the whispers came, too. At first, they were background noise, the kind of gossip Michael learned to tune out but it didn’t take long for him to catch on that he and Lisa seemed to be the topic of conversation...

And so now there he was, sitting alone in his sprawling hotel suite, already two weeks into his god-awful stay in Bahrain, staring at the pile of tabloid magazines on the coffee table like they were some kind of sick joke. Someone had oh-so-generously left them there for his reading pleasure, probably thinking he would love to relive every piece of trash written about his “crumbling relationship” or his “tragic downward spiral.”

Real thoughtful.

He hated tabloids. Always had, always would. They were nothing but lies and venom, cheap entertainment at the expense of people’s lives. But these... these had his name plastered across the covers, alongside Lisa’s and Michael leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, staring at the glossy covers. He didn’t want to pick them up, he knew better not to. But… But his curiosity was like an itch he couldn’t quite scratch.

His hand twitched toward the stack, then pulled back.

“Don’t do it.” He mumbled to himself. “It’s all garbage and you know it.”

But the nagging voice in the back of his mind whispered louder.

What if it’s not? What if there’s something you need to know?

Against his better judgment, his hand moved of its own accord, reaching for the magazine on top and he opened it slowly, flipping through the pages with a sinking feeling in his chest.

The first few headlines he skimmed were the usual trash.

“Pop Princess Caught in Scandalous Affair!”

“Exclusive: Hollywood’s Newest Power Couple Spotted!”

“Guess Which Starlet Was Kicked Out of the Oscars Afterparty?”

Michael’s lip curled in disgust, but he kept flipping, his forearms resting on his knees as his eyes scanned the pages. He was barely reading, his mind racing ahead to the page he knew was coming. And then, there it was…

Her name. His name. Bold, black letters stretched across the page like a slap to the face.

 

“Lisa Marie Presley Moves On: Out with the Old, In with the New?”

The only daughter and heir to the King of Rock and Roll Elvis Presley has done it again! Just months after rekindling her romance with the troubled musician, sources say Lisa Marie Presley seems to have left the chaos of Michael Jackson far behind, trading his erratic antics for the steady reliability of one of her many ex-boyfriends, Matt Lewis.

The pair were recently spotted basking in the sunshine at a local park, sharing coffee and ice cream like a picture-perfect couple and onlookers couldn’t help but gush over how comfortable they looked together, laughing and chatting like they were the only two people in the world.

But let’s not forget that Lisa Marie’s love life has always been as unpredictable as it is headline-worthy. Critics are quick to point out that the man-on-her-arm carousel spins fast.

Just a few months before her rekindled whirlwind romance with Jackson, she was linked to another Michael - this time Michael Lockwood, an eccentric musician with a flair for the dramatic. Some have even joked that Lisa should consider installing a revolving door at her house, given how quickly her partners seem to change.

And yet, her latest beau, Matt Lewis, might just prove to be the exception. Matt is now in a wheelchair after allegedly sustaining an injury at Lisa’s home and sources claim he has been spending a lot of time with her recently, but details about how the accident happened remain unclear.

“It’s all very hush-hush.” An insider whispered. “No one will confirm what actually went down, but it’s obvious Lisa is devoted to Matt right now. She’s been by his side through it all.”

For Lisa Marie, this seems like the perfect fresh start.

“Lisa needs stability.” A friend explained. “And let’s face it — Michael Jackson was never going to provide that. He’s been spiraling for years, but lately? It’s just pathetic. His desperate attempts at a comeback are almost painful to watch.”

The pop icon has reportedly fled to Bahrain in what many are calling a last-ditch effort to salvage his crumbling career but insiders suggest the move reeks of desperation.

“He’s out there pretending he’s laying low to ‘focus,’ but the truth is he’s running from his problems.” A source dished.

Adding to the drama, Michael recently held a press conference that can only be described as tragic. Witnesses claim he appeared completely out of it, fumbling over his words, mixing up names, and struggling to answer even the most basic questions. Eventually, the once-revered performer abandoned the event altogether, leaving reporters stunned and concerned.

“He looked like a shell of himself.” One attendee said. “This is a man who used to command every room he walked into. Now? He’s running away mid-sentence. It’s hard to watch someone fall apart like this.”

Meanwhile, Lisa and Matt’s romance is heating up. “They’ve always had chemistry.” Another source spilled. “Lisa has been his rock lately, and you can tell she feels safe with him, too. He’s everything Michael isn’t: dependable, stable, and mature.”

Whether Matt’s injury will impact their romance remains to be seen, but insiders insist Lisa is dedicated to making it work. And as for Michael? The question isn’t just whether he can salvage his career, it’s whether he can salvage himself.

Stay tuned for the latest twists and turns in this celebrity saga.

 

Michael stared at the words, his breath coming in shallow bursts as his hand clenched around the magazine, crumpling the edges. The glossy photo of Lisa and Matt seemed to mock him, her smile so bright, so carefree…

He slammed the magazine shut, throwing it back onto the table with a grunt.

“Fucking bastards.” He muttered under his breath but the anger couldn’t mask the ache spreading through his chest, cold and heavy.

Was it true? Could it be true? Lisa had said she loved him, but now... now he wasn’t so sure. Why the hell did she look so damn happy in those pictures?

Michael leaned back against the sofa, staring up at the ceiling, his mind a chaotic mess of anger, doubt, and heartbreak.

His world, already fragile, felt like it was collapsing in on itself now and he knew the tabloids were lying but the seed of doubt was there now, and no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t unsee that picture, couldn’t unhear the whispers. Couldn’t erase the words he had just read.

“Lise...” He let out, his voice barely above a whisper. “Girl, what are you doing?”