CHAPTER 21

 

Chapter 21

 

The restaurant was high end and elegant, tucked into the heart of the bustling capital and Michael had pulled strings to book it entirely for the evening so that not a single soul could disturb them.

The walls were a rich, earthy beige, intricately carved with geometric patterns that whispered stories of ancient empires while lanterns hung low, their filigreed designs casting playful shadows across the room. The air carried a faint hint of rosewater and saffron, mingling with the warmth of freshly baked khubz bread that sat untouched on the table.

Across from him, Amani radiated beauty in a way that felt almost manufactured, her almond-shaped eyes framed by lashes that looked suspiciously enhanced. Her glossy black hair cascaded down her shoulders in perfectly controlled waves, and her lips — painted a deep and sultry red — moved with a practiced slowness.

She wore a dress of soft, pale gold, shimmering like moonlight, its neckline plunged just far enough to be dangerous, and the slit up her thigh revealed long, toned legs.

She leaned forward slightly, her manicured fingers toying with the stem of her wine glass as she spoke in a strong, yet somewhat cute accent, her words dancing somewhere between clumsy and rehearsed.

“And you? What is your favorite color, Michael?”

His fork froze midway to his mouth, and he blinked at her. Favorite color? Was she serious? He dragged his gaze down to his plate, a beautifully arranged spread of machboos laham, fragrant spiced rice and tender lamb that practically melted under the fork, except Michael wasn’t eating. He couldn’t. His appetite had died somewhere between the appetizer and his mounting sense of discomfort...

He shoved a piece of lamb across the plate, trying to muster an answer.

“Uh… red, I guess?”

“Ah, red!” She clapped her hands together, her bangles chiming. “Like cherries, no? Or roses?”

“Sure.”

Her giggle was light, tinkling, and entirely devoid of substance and Michael narrowed his eyes at her before he reached for his glass of water, downing half of it just to keep himself from saying something rude. This really wasn’t her fault. Amani wasn’t bad company, per se… no, she was sweet in a sort of surface-level, airbrushed way. Michael had met her about two weeks earlier at a meeting the producers once again had dragged him to and that casual introduction quickly turned into something more when Amani had given him that look. The kind that made men stupid, and Michael, God help him, had been stupid enough to invite her to the charity gala that weekend.

And she had been a hit there, her easy laugh and perfect face worked wonders in that kind of crowd...

Before the event, Amani had signed all the necessary NDAs without batting an eye, didn’t ask intrusive questions, and seemed content to be exactly what he needed… very simple and somewhat safe.

Except now, sitting across from her in that posh restaurant, Michael felt none of that.

Amani launched into some story about her childhood, her words a mix of English and the occasional Arabic phrase she didn’t bother translating and he caught fragments of it — something about her family’s large estate, her ponies and summers in Paris. It was all gilded nonsense, and her stilted phrasing only made it harder to follow.

“I have this nanny…” She said with a bright smile, gesturing with her glass. “She teach me piano when I was… eh… five? But I was so terrible! My father, he say, ‘Amani, you play like the donkey.’”

Michael snorted. He couldn’t help it. The image of a little girl in a palace somewhere, plunking out discordant notes on a baby grand piano, was almost absurd enough to distract him. Almost…

But as Amani laughed at her own story, a sound that felt strangely hollow in the empty restaurant, his hand drifted to his pocket where his phone was. Silent, lifeless, but pulling at him like gravity and Michael pulled it out and looked at it quickly.

Nothing.

Of course there was nothing.

He knew there wouldn’t be anything, and yet the familiar wave of disappointment hit him anyway as he stared at the empty notifications bar, as though willing it to fill with her name.

Lisa.

What would she even say, if she had reached out? Not that she would, or that she even could. Not after he had burned every possible bridge between them… After he had seen those goddamn photos in the magazine of her and Matt, smiling, happy, like they had been playing house for years, he had just snapped.

Changed his number and deleted hers, wiped her existence from his life in the coldest, most calculated way he knew, so why the hell was he checking his phone now, when there was no way for her to reach him even if she wanted to?

Amani’s voice jolted him back and he glanced up to find her staring at him, her eyes wide and shimmering with unspoken excitement, and Michael realized she had asked him something, but he hadn’t heard a single word.

“Sorry, what was that?”

Her smile faltered, just slightly.

“I ask… do you like Bahrain? It is nice, no?”

“Yeah.” He said quickly, pushing his phone back into his pocket. “It’s nice. Great, actually.”

She brightened again, launching into yet another monologue about the country’s beauty, the food, the shopping malls and Michael nodded along, his mind already wandering again. He felt like a passenger in his own body, his responses automatic, detached. He did catch some snatches of her words — pearls, yachts, something about a fashion show — but they blurred together into white noise as his thoughts drifted back to Lisa, like they always did. He could almost hear her voice in the back of his mind, sharp and cutting: "That’s what you replaced me with? Really? Wow."

That was what she would say to him, if she saw him here, with this woman who was like Lisa’s polar opposite — polished, perfect, and utterly uninspiring.

He glanced down at his plate again, at the food he had barely touched while Amani kept talking, her hands gesturing as she described something trivial, her accent thickening with excitement but Michael couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Michael?”

Her voice pulled him back again, sharper this time and he looked up, meeting her expectant gaze.

“Yeah?”

“Are you… okay?” Her brow furrowed slightly, her lips curling into a pout. “You look… um, distracted.”

“Just tired.” He forced a smile, leaning back in his chair. “Long day. I’m sorry.”

“You work too hard.” She nodded, her expression softening.

“Yeah, well.” He said, picking up his glass again. “That’s life, isn’t it?”

She reached across the table, her fingers brushing his hand and the touch was warm, soft, and so entirely meaningless. Michael pulled his hand back, reaching for his napkin instead before he wiped at his mouth, even though he hadn’t really eaten a bite.

“Listen, Amani, this has been great, but…”

Before he could finish, her face fell, and he hated the pang of guilt that followed because this wasn’t her fault at all and he hated stringing people along.

“It’s okay, Michael. I understand. You are… busy man.” She gave him a small, hesitant smile.

Busy. Well, that was one way to put it…

Michael stared at the flickering candle on the table, his mind slipping free from the here and now, leaving the soft music, the untouched food and Amani’s syrupy voice behind while his thoughts drifted backward, sliding into the chaos of the past month, an unforgiving blur of exhaustion and pressure…

 

 

He had been extremely busy, with every person around him cutting him no slack at all. Meetings blurred into rehearsals, appearances into more rehearsals, and somewhere in the middle of it all, he had slowly started to unravel.

The upcoming concert was all anyone cared about, the planned pinnacle of his two-month stint there, and every rehearsal felt like a fresh trial by fire. The musicians, the producers, the choreographers, they all wanted more from him, their eyes screaming demands that their words often didn’t bother to disguise.

Michael had pushed himself to meet their expectations, but his body wasn’t holding up its end of the bargain… The first dizzy spell hit him already on the second day of rehearsals, sudden and disorienting, while he was halfway through a particularly grueling choreography. One minute, he had been standing, his voice raw from hours of singing, and the next, his vision had blurred and the ground seemed to tilt beneath him.

“Michael!” Someone had shouted, their voice cutting through the haze, but he wasn’t able to respond and the next thing he knew, he was slumped against a chair someone had thrust beneath him and the room was still spinning, his shirt damp with sweat.

The second fainting spell, about a week later, had been even worse. He had blacked out entirely, waking up to find himself lying on the cold studio floor with his team hovering over him, their faces pale with alarm.

“You need to rest.” One of his producers said sternly, thrusting a bottle of water into his hand.

“Rest?” Michael had snapped back, forcing himself to sit up despite the protests around him. “Like I have time for anything like that with that goddamn schedule…”

Then the sleeplessness came and was as relentless as ever, the kind that left his nerves frayed and his thoughts scattered while his back pain had morphed into something even sharper, a stabbing sensation that flared whenever he moved too quickly. And the weight loss? Well, that was impossible to ignore as well. His once-tailored suits now hung off him, loose in ways that made him wince every time he saw himself in the mirror.

He had caught his reflection one morning, just before stepping out of his hotel suite, and the sight had stopped him cold. Gaunt cheekbones, dark circles carved deep beneath his eyes, his jawline sharper than it had been in months. He looked like a ghost of himself… a walking, talking lie.

But lies were his currency these days, weren’t they?

He had perfected his mask early into his Bahrain stay. Sure, there had been some missteps … his first press conference had been a disaster as well as the meet-and-greet that had him puking his guts in the bathroom minutes after performing one song but Michael had adapted. He always did. Now, he stood tall, his suit crisp and his expression polished, he smiled at the right times, spoke in calm, measured tones, and gave the press exactly what they wanted — a version of himself that was strong, sharp, and confident.

And the media ate it up. Articles started popping up about his “comeback", calling him “refocused", “reenergized", and “a force to be reckoned with.” Michael almost laughed every time he read one. If they only knew...

In reality, he was drained. Empty. And the only fleeting moments of relief came when he was with his kids…

But, the kids, at least, seemed happy. They treated the stay in Bahrain like an endless adventure, their days packed with outings arranged by the nannies and security detail. Michael would see them off almost every morning, the three of them practically vibrating with excitement as they piled into the SUV for a day of swimming and shopping and their laughter as they waved goodbye had lingered in his ears long after they had gone.

Michael smiled faintly at the memory, but it faded quickly, replaced by the nagging unease that had been gnawing at him for a couple of days now…

It had started subtly enough, small things that felt off-kilter, almost imperceptible. His bodyguards, typically the epitome of stoicism and discipline, had begun acting... odd. They exchanged glances that lasted a beat too long, whispered in corners when they thought he wasn’t looking and at first, he chalked it up to paranoia, brushing the tension aside as a product of his shattered nerves but then there were some incidents he couldn’t really ignore.

Like two days ago when his car eased to a stop in front of the hotel as usual. Michael reached for the door handle, ready to get out of the car, go to his suite and finally get some rest but before he could step out, Ahsan, one of his bodyguards, ran out of the hotel entrance and opened the car door stopping Michael.

“Sir, we should use the back entrance tonight.” Ahsan said, his tone brisk but calm.

Michael frowned. “Why?”

“Um, there’s a bit of a situation in the lobby.” Ahsan replied, almost too smoothly. “Some fans causing a disturbance. Best to avoid it.”

Michael glanced toward the entrance. The lobby seemed quiet, the usual hum of activity and he turned back to Ahsan, his brow furrowing.

“Doesn’t look like a riot to me.”

“It’s under control now. But we still think it’s safer this way.”

Something about the explanation didn’t sit right, but Michael sighed and shrugged, too tired to press further.

“Fine. Whatever.”

The car pulled away from the front entrance, heading down a narrow lane toward the back of the hotel and as they turned the corner, Michael glanced back at the lobby one last time, narrowing his eyes. There seemed to be no fans, no commotion… Something wasn’t adding up.

And then there was the way the nannies started avoiding eye contact, their usual cheerful updates about the kids’ activities growing shorter and more clipped and even his new assistant, a young woman who always laughed and never seemed to be able to stop talking, had begun acting strangely evasive, brushing off his questions with vague answers that felt off.

Michael had tried to ignore it, telling himself it was nothing, but the feeling lingered, scratching at the edges of his mind…

 

 

Amani’s voice yanked him back to the present as she started laughing again, entirely oblivious to the turmoil roiling inside him.

“Michael?”

“Yes?” He said quickly, forcing a smile. “I’m listening.”

She grinned, launching into another story about her teenage years, something about a yacht trip gone wrong, but Michael couldn’t focus no matter how hard he tried.

He stared across the table at Amani, her words flowing in a near-constant stream of light, airy chatter and she was leaning slightly forward, her slender fingers toying with the stem of her wine glass as her lips curved in a smile that was undoubtedly meant to be alluring. Her voice was soft, her accent almost sweet, but he couldn’t focus on a damn thing she was saying. Something about her family in Dubai, or maybe the horses they bred there. He wasn’t sure.

He nodded absently, tossing out the occasional “Yeah” or “That’s great,” just enough to keep the conversation going and hope she wouldn’t notice how checked out he was. But Amani wasn’t clueless. After a brief pause, she shifted in her chair, her eyes zeroing in on his, her tone turning a little more deliberate, like she was working up the nerve to say something.

“So, are you single, Michael?”

“Huh? Excuse me?”

“I read… readed about… Lisa? Are you two, um how do you say… ainfasalat… uh, broke up?”

The name hit him like a punch to the gut and Michael narrowed his eyes, the question cutting through the thick fog of his thoughts as his fork froze mid-push, stilling against the untouched food on his plate.

The way she said it, so casual and yet so pointed… it could have been innocent, sure, but it didn’t feel that way to him. It felt like an invasion, a trespass into a part of his life he wasn’t ready to share with anyone, let alone with her.

He took a long breath, carefully setting the fork down before meeting her gaze again.

“That’s… personal.” He said, keeping his tone polite but also cold enough for her to notice and Amani blinked, clearly startled by his response. She leaned back, her lips parting as if to apologize or explain herself, but he didn’t give her the chance.

“Maybe you’d like some dessert?” He offered, and she hesitated, confusion flashing across her face.

“No… I think, I don’t need dessert… Do you?”

He forced a tight smile.

“No, no… I’m good. And it’s late, I should probably get you home.”

“I did something wrong?” She asked in her hesitant, clumsy English, her voice softening to the point of near vulnerability though her brows furrowed.

“No…” He said quickly, shaking his head. “It’s just been a long day. Forgive me.”

Her expression told him she wasn’t buying it, but she didn’t push further and Michael stood and walked over to her side of the table, extending a hand to help her up, ever the gentleman, at least on the surface. She took his hand, her touch light, and he led her toward the door.

As they exited into the warm night air, she looked up at him, her face filled with something that looked like hope.

“Maybe we could take a walking? The beach is close, yes?”

“I can’t do that.” Michael shook his head quickly without missing a beat.

“Why not?”

“It’s not safe for me, Amani. And I really need to get back to my kids. I’m sorry.”

She frowned a little but the line seemed to do the trick because no one could argue with a man wanting to go home to his children, right?

The waiting car was already parked at the curb and the driver stepped out to open the door for them, and Michael let her climb in first, then slid in beside her, the door clicking shut softly.

The drive was silent for the first few moments, but then Amani shifted closer and her perfume, which was a mix of jasmine and something much heavier and muskier, filled his senses. Her fingers brushed against his arm, light at first, then started trailing upward with a deliberate slowness that made him tense.

“You really are so much tired?” She asked, her accent thick and her words dripping with fake bashfulness.

Michael nodded, shifting slightly away from her in the confines of the seat.

“Yeah. Rehearsals have been brutal. I need sleep, you know.”

Her fingers didn’t stop, sliding up to his neck now, her touch warm and persistent, as she leaned in, her breath brushing against his ear.

“My bed is comfortable.” She whispered. "I think you can sleep good there."

Michael froze, a sharp jolt of discomfort coursing through him as he turned his head, intending to politely but firmly shut her down, but before he could speak, her hands cupped his face, and her lips pressed against his.

The kiss was soft but it felt just wrong. So wrong.

Amani’s lips were warm, but there was no spark, no connection, just a hollow, intrusive sensation that made his stomach churn and Michael didn’t kiss her back, he simply couldn’t. The moment her lips met his, Lisa’s face had flashed behind his eyelids again, her smile, her laughter, her voice...

Dammit! He was mad at Lisa and he was done with her, so what the hell was going on??!

What the hell was wrong with him? Here was this gorgeous woman, practically throwing herself at him, and all he could do was sit there like some pathetic loser stuck on his ex who had already moved on with someone else. But no matter how hard he tried, she was still there, in his head, like a damn ghost haunting every moment and it was so freaking infuriating!

Aside from all that, there was absolutely nothing between him and Amani, nothing to make his pulse race, nothing to light that spark in his chest. She was gorgeous, sure, but it felt... hollow, like kissing a lifeless mannequin. There was no heat, no pull, no nothing, just going through the motions, and even that felt wrong, like forcing puzzle pieces that didn’t fit.

With Lisa, it had always been electric, messy, chaotic, real. Even when they fought, it was fire and sparks.

With this woman? It was like trying to ignite wet kindling. Nothing about her stirred that deep, uncontrollable craving he had always felt with Lisa, and somehow, that made it even worse, made him feel like he was betraying Lisa and himself all at once.

And then, with a sharp inhale, he pushed Amani away, his hands firm, though not rough.

“I’m sorry.” He murmured, his voice low and strained. “I really can’t do this.”

Her face twisted in a mixture of hurt and frustration, and she pulled back, crossing her arms with a huff as she stared out the window and the rest of the drive passed in heavy silence.

When they finally pulled up to her house, Michael stepped out and opened her door, extending a hand to help her out, yet she ignored it, climbing out on her own and slamming the car door shut with enough force to make him flinch.

Her house loomed in front of them, a huge, opulent mansion outside the city. The façade was adorned with intricate Arabesque patterns, and golden lights illuminated its white marble exterior while some very tall date palms lined the long, circular driveway, their shadows stretching across the manicured gardens and the fountain that gushed in the center.

“Goodnight.” He said, his voice even, but she didn’t respond. Instead, she stormed up the steps without a backward glance and Michael let out a long breath, running a hand through his hair. Damn.

The rest of the night, at least, was quiet. The car ride back to the hotel was mercifully uneventful, and by the time he got back to his floor, it was well past midnight. The halls were silent, and he decided to head straight for his children’s rooms first.

He checked on Prince and Blanket, both sound asleep, their small forms tucked under blankets and Michael leaned over each of them, pressing a kiss to their foreheads, mumbling softly how much he loved them before pulling the covers snug around them.

Then he headed to Paris’s room.

The light was still on, a soft glow spilling under the door and he opened it quietly and found her sitting cross-legged on the bed, a book open in her lap.

“Hey…” He said, his voice gentle. “Why are you still up, peanut? It’s late.”

Paris looked up, her big eyes lighting up at the sight of him.

“I couldn’t sleep, Daddy.” She said. “Missed you.”

“I missed you too.” He said with a soft smile, stepping inside. “You feeling okay?”

She nodded, then closed the book shut.

“Would you sit with me?”

“Of course.”

He grabbed the rocking chair from the corner and pulled it closer to her bed but as he sat down, Paris suddenly scrambled up, climbing into his lap and curling against his chest, her small arms wrapped around him tightly and her face pressing into his shirt like it was her safest haven.

“Anything on your mind, kiddo?” Michael asked, his hand rubbing soothing circles on her back and she shrugged, her voice muffled against his shirt.

“We went to the beach today. It was fun.”

“Yeah? What did you guys get up to?”

She lifted her head slightly, looking up at him with wide eyes that still sparkled with leftover excitement.

“We made a big sandcastle! Like, huge! Bigger than me.”

“Whoa, bigger than you? Are we talking, like, skyscraper size or just a two-story mansion?”

She giggled, her breath warm against his neck.

“Mansion. But Jenny kept saying the waves were gonna get it, so we made a moat. I think it worked ‘cause it didn’t fall.”

“A moat, huh? That’s some engineering genius right there. Should I be worried you’ll ditch school and go work for an architect?”

Paris’s laughter bubbled up again, and she shook her head firmly.

“Nooo. But I think you would’ve liked the sandcastle. It had seashell windows and everything. Jenny said it was the fanciest castle she had ever seen.”

“Sounds like Jenny’s got good taste.” He said, grinning. “What else? You swim?”

“Uh-huh! Jenny let us go in the water! Not too far, though. Just to where it tickled my knees.” Paris paused and tilted her head. “Oh! And we saw little crabs running on the sand. Jenny said they were ‘cute,’ but I think they were weird. They had eyes on sticks, Daddy.”

“Eyes on sticks, huh?” He said, chuckling. “Yeah, crabs can be pretty weird but they are amazing, too. They look like little alien bugs.”

“Exactly!” She agreed, nodding vigorously. Then, her tone softened, her words coming slower. “We got ice cream after and I got chocolate. It was really good. But…” She paused, her small hands gripping the fabric of his shirt. “I wish you were there too. It would’ve been more fun if you came, you know.”

His chest tightened, guilt creeping in like it always did when he missed moments like that and he hugged her a little closer, his chin resting on the top of her head.

“Ah, you know I wanted to be there. I’m really sorry but work just got in the way.”

“I know.” She said, a tiny sigh escaping her lips. “But it still would’ve been better with you.”

“Well, I promise next time I’m going with you, deal?”

“Deal.”

A comfortable silence fell over them for a moment and then Paris leaned back just enough to look up at him.

“Daddy, what about Lisa?” She asked suddenly, her voice small but clear and the question hit him like a jolt of cold water. For a moment, he just stared at her, his heartbeat quickening and his hand, which had been rhythmically rubbing her back, stilled mid-circle.

“What about her?” Michael managed to say, keeping his tone calm, though a strange tension coiled in his chest.

“Do you still like her?”

The sheer innocence of the question made his chest ache and Michael tried to steady himself, brushing a stray lock of her hair behind her ear.

“What makes you ask that, Paris?”

“I dunno.” She shrugged, her small shoulders moving against his arm as she tilted her head, a thoughtful expression on her face. “Just wondering.”

Michael studied her, his eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to piece together what was running through her mind. He felt that there was something deeper there, something she wasn’t saying, but he didn’t push and instead, he exhaled slowly and let his voice soften.

“I do…” He said at last, his words measured and deliberate. “But it’s not as simple as just liking someone. Sometimes… grown-ups make things really complicated.” He offered a small, apologetic smile. “It’s nothing for you to worry about, though, okay?”

Paris didn’t look entirely convinced and she shifted in his lap, resting her chin on his chest as her wide eyes searched his face again.

“Are we going to live with her when we get back?”

“I don’t know, kiddo. I don’t know.”

A minute of silence followed before her next question came, quietly and almost as if she was testing the waters.

“Do you miss her, Daddy?”

Michael hesitated, his emotions tangling into a knot he couldn’t untangle and he looked at the ceiling for a beat, then back down at Paris’ earnest face. Where were those questions coming from?

“Yeah… I do.” He admitted, the words dragging out of him like a confession and he saw his daughter press her lips together, thinking.

“I think she misses you too.” Paris said softly, her voice so matter-of-fact that it startled him.

“What do you mean?”

“I… I shouldn’t tell you…” She mumbled, ducking her head, suddenly interested in the hem of her pajama sleeve. “Forget it.”

“Paris.” He said gently but firmly, sliding a hand under her chin and tilting her face up so their eyes met. “What are you talking about?”

She squirmed under his gaze, her lower lip trembling slightly.

“Nothing…”

“Doesn’t seem like nothing, sweetie. Seems like something is on your mind. You can tell me. You know you can tell me anything.”

“But… but they told me not to tell…” She blurted, her voice cracking as tears welled up in her eyes and Michael’s breath hitched, a cold wave of dread washing over him while his grip on her tightened, protective.

“Who told you not to tell?”

“Jenny… Ahsan… everyone.” She sniffled, her small hand gripping the front of his shirt like it was a lifeline.

“What did they tell you not to tell me?” He asked, his voice surprisingly steady despite the storm brewing inside him and Paris hesitated, glancing at him with wide, teary eyes before finally blurting.

“I saw Lisa… it was like two days ago. She was in the lobby, talking… or arguing… I don’t know… with Ahsan and Farid. I think… I think she wanted to see you, but they told her you didn’t want to see her and then they made her leave.”

For a moment, Michael froze, the words hitting him like a sucker punch and his mind reeled, struggling to process what she was saying. Lisa? Here? His jaw clenched so tightly it ached, and his pulse thundered in his ears while anger surged through him, hot and unrelenting, like a dam that had suddenly burst.

“What?” His voice was sharp, though he quickly softened it when Paris flinched. “You’re sure it was her?”

“Yep.” She said with a small nod, her gaze unwavering and Michael exhaled shakily, his hands gently cradling her small shoulders.

“Paris…” He said, his voice low but kind. “You did the right thing telling me. You didn’t do anything wrong, okay?”

Then he paused for a moment, making sure she heard every word.

“They had no right telling you what to do or what not to do. Their job is to take care of you and your brothers, to protect you, and that's all. You should never feel like you can’t come to me with anything, no matter what it is. If something’s troubling you, I want to know. Always.” His tone softened as he added. “I’m sorry I haven’t been able to spend enough time with you, with all of you, like I should, but I want you to know something… no matter what, I love you all very much, and that will never change.”

She nodded again, sniffling as she pressed her face against his chest and he stroked her back in soothing circles again, though his thoughts were anything but calm. His mind raced, questions slamming into each other. How long had Lisa been there? What was she doing in the lobby? Was she really looking for him? And why the hell had everyone around him kept this from him like he was some clueless child? The nerve of them!

Heads were going to roll for this, that much was clear and whoever thought they had the right to play gatekeeper between him and Lisa, was about to learn exactly how wrong they were.

Paris slowly stood up and went back to bed and Michael crouched beside her, gently adjusting the pale-pink blanket around her.

“Daddy, why are you so mad?” Her voice was soft, but it sliced straight through the storm swirling in his chest and he forced a smile, though it felt as fragile as glass.

“I’m not mad, munchkin. Just tired.”

“You were grunting again.” She tilted her head, unconvinced.

Michael huffed out a chuckle, leaning in to kiss her forehead.

“Sorry about that. I’ll try not to grunt anymore.” He smoothed the blanket once more, the movement soothing for them both. “But it’s late, and you’ve got to sleep.”

“Promise you’re okay?”

“I promise.” He said softly. “And I love you. To the moon and back.”

“I love you more.” She mumbled, her voice fading as her eyes closed.

Michael stayed until her breathing deepened, and then he shut off the lamp, closing the door quietly behind him. The instant he stepped into the hallway, however, the anger came roaring back, fierce and unchecked… And it wasn’t just anger, it was also betrayal, insult, and a deep, festering rage at the sheer audacity of it all. He strode down the hall, his movements sharp and deliberate when he almost collided with Farid, who appeared from around the corner, his expression neutral as always.

“Sir.” Farid said, his deep voice breaking the silence. “Is something wrong?”

Michael’s eyes narrowed, his voice like ice.

“Yeah. Something’s wrong, alright. Find Ahsan, Jenny, and Monica. Tell them to meet me in my suite immediately. That includes you, too.”

Farid hesitated, his brow furrowing slightly.

“Should I…”

“Just do it.” Michael’s tone was clipped, his expression leaving no room for argument. “Now.”

Without waiting for a response, he stalked off toward his suite and the second the door slammed shut behind him, the sound reverberating through the room, he went straight to the small bar in the corner, grabbed the bottle of vodka, and poured himself a shot. The liquid burned its way down his throat, but it didn’t dull the fire raging inside him while his thoughts spun faster and faster.

How dare they?

Who the hell gave them the right to interfere in his life, to decide who he could see and when? Lisa had flown all the way here and had been in the lobby, within arm’s reach, and they had kept her from him?! They had lied, orchestrated the entire thing behind his back, and for what? His fists clenched at his sides, the muscles in his jaw aching from the pressure.

The knock on the door came all too soon and Michael straightened, his anger coiling tighter, somewhat controlled but ready to strike.

When he opened the door, they stood there, a mismatched quartet illuminated by the hallway light. Jenny and Monica looked disheveled, their robes hastily tied over pajamas while Farid and Ahsan were stoic as ever in their standard black slacks and jackets, though there was a flicker of unease in Ahsan’s gaze.

Michael didn’t bother inviting them in, he just turned and walked back into the suite, leaving the door open behind him and they filed in slowly, standing awkwardly in the center of the room. He didn’t offer them seats, didn’t even look at them at first.

The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating, until Michael turned to face them and he made sure his gaze was ice-cold and sharper than a blade.

“So…” Michael began, his voice low, deliberate. “I need some clarification. Immediately.”

He stepped closer, his movements precise and measured while his eyes swept over the four of them, settling momentarily on each face.

“Who gave you the impression that you could interfere in my personal life? Who told you it was acceptable to prevent Miss Presley from reaching me?”

Jenny flinched, her hand twitching as if to adjust her robe while Monica’s fingers fidgeted nervously with the fabric of her pajamas, her posture shrinking under the weight of his stare. Farid and Ahsan stood like statues, though Michael caught the subtle tightness in their shoulders, too.

“Two days ago, I was informed that the lobby was overrun with fans.” Michael continued, his tone unyielding, almost clinical. “Yet, when I passed by, it was completely empty. Was that fabrication a part of your strategy, too? Diverting me to a back entrance to ensure I didn’t see her?” He paused, letting the silence stretch uncomfortably. “The level of presumption here is staggering. Let me remind you of something very simple. You are here to assist and support, not to make executive decisions, certainly not decisions that involve my personal life and who I can or cannot see.”

Jenny let out a small, broken sound, quickly muffled behind her hand while Monica’s eyes glistened with tears that began to spill silently down her cheeks and Michael’s voice remained calm, though his words sliced with precision.

“I’m deeply disappointed and very angry.” He said, pacing now, his steps echoing in the heavy quiet of the room. “This level of overreach is unacceptable. Unprofessional. And frankly, it leaves me questioning whether I can trust the people I’ve entrusted with not just my privacy, but my family’s safety.”

He stopped suddenly, turning back to them, his expression unflinching.

“I’ll ask again. Who decided this? Was it a collective decision or did one of you take it upon yourselves to orchestrate this?”

Jenny opened her mouth, but her voice wavered into a shaky, barely audible apology right before Michael raised a hand, cutting her off.

“No. Spare me the apologies. I don’t need excuses or regret, I need facts. Answers.”

The silence pressed down before Farid finally stepped forward.

“Sir.” He said, his head inclining slightly in deference. “We were just following orders.”

Michael tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing.

“Orders?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And who…” Michael said, his tone now razor-sharp. “…issued these orders?”

Farid hesitated for the briefest moment before speaking.

“Mr. Evans.”

Michael’s lips pressed into a thin line, a flicker of bitter recognition crossing his face. John, of course. He should have known.

He drew in a slow breath, steadying himself before speaking again and when he did, his voice was quieter, but no less cutting.

“Let me make this abundantly clear. You do not work for John Evans. You work for me. If Mr. Evans has any instructions, he is to relay them to me, not you. Is that understood?”

They all nodded, their movements stiff and awkward.

“I expect professionalism from each of you.” Michael continued, his tone cold. “This… meddling… is unacceptable. Do you have any idea the position you’ve put me in? The message it sends when my own staff acts without consulting me? This is not just a failure in judgment, it is a breach of trust. And trust…” He added, his voice hardening. “…is not something I take lightly.”

Jenny’s quiet sobs broke the tense silence, her shoulders shaking as she struggled to contain herself and Monica was no better, tears slipping down her cheeks unchecked while Farid and Ahsan remained stoic, though the air between them radiated unease.

Michael exhaled sharply, his patience thinning.

“Leave.” He said finally, his tone unrelenting. “I want all of you out of my sight. Now.”

They turned toward the door, relief mingling with dread in their hurried movements but just as they reached it, Michael spoke again.

“Wait.”

They froze, turning back to face him and the weight of his gaze pinned them in place.

“Where is she now?”