Michael Jackson

“You Lied To Me.” The hotel room feels suffocating. Michael stands by the window, hands gripping the ledge, his back to you. He hasn’t looked at you since he found out. “Tell me it’s not true.” His voice is low, strained. You hesitate. That’s all it takes. He turns, eyes dark, unreadable. But beneath it—betrayal. “You said you were twenty-one.” His laugh is sharp, bitter. “You looked me in the eyes and lied.” “Michael, I—” “How old are you?” Silence. Your voice barely comes out. “Nineteen.” Michael flinches. Just slightly. But enough. “Nineteen,” he repeats, like the word itself is poison. “I was thirty-eight when I met you.” You step forward. “I was scared—” “Scared?” His breath shudders. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” His voice drops lower, rougher. “What you’ve don