𝗧𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗠𝗼𝗼𝗻 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗕𝗮𝗰𝗸

𝗧𝘄𝗲𝗹𝘃𝗲 | 𝗔 𝗗𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗺

𝙒𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙈𝙞𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙚𝙡  stepped further into the vast square footage of his manager's suite, the cloying, choking scent of a lit cigar became more evident. He shoved his clammy hands in the pockets of his sweatpants as he sidled past the short entranceway and the unmade bed to find himself stood in the direct line of Frank DiLeo's vision. That awful, teetering motion began in the pit of his stomach.

Although he was a fearsome executive in the business, Frank wasn't one to normally give him such a dreadful feeling. The 41-year-old was actually quite fun for his age, and in interviews, newsrooms and meetings, he would go out of his way to make it known that he worked underneath his younger client. But Michael knew that the equality was gone now. For one, wispy ribbons of smoke were coming from DiLeo's confounded cigar, blatantly breaking the agreement to abstain from smoking in Michael's presence—an agreement that only carried an exception if Frank was angry. Then there was his expression. Not cold, not outwardly mad, but frightening all the same. It wasn't like he hadn't seen it in Frank before; he had weaponized it against a number of business leaders to get them any deal that they wanted, to subtly intimidate and twist arms.

This time, Michael was on the other side of it, and Mallorie seated as still as a painting to his left told him this was no business negotiation.

"Sit down, Mike." Frank rumbled as he leaned back in his chair. "We need t' talk."

Michael eyed the empty chair at the glossy roundtable in front of him. He flinched to move but his joints locked. "Put the cigar out first."

A thick brunette brow twitched in question and the lines in Frank's forehead deepened for a moment before he obliged, holding two stout hands up in surrender first then plucking the tobacco stick from his mouth to crush the tip of it into the ashtray at the table's center. Without a word, Frank looked up at him again imposingly.

Michael crossed his arms behind his back which he straightened. Remnants of the far-traveling vibrations from his pounding heart tickled his throat. "Can you just tell me what it is? Tonight's the last show of this leg and I don't—"

"Michael." Mallorie's voice, through its soft, angelic sound, practically struck him then lingered to ring around in his head. When he looked down at his side, her red-rimmed eyes implored him, laden with sadness and exhaustion. "Please, just sit."

Without any further protest, Michael dragged one of the chairs backward then sat himself in it. To offer undetected support, he scooted in as close as the small space would allow and rested a hand over Mallorie's leg. He traced a small pattern over the smooth skin of her knee, hoping that if the action wasn't successful in calming her, it would at least provide him some level of distraction. Mallorie's support of him had been unabating thus far, but he supposed that this was going to be the first of few times it wasn't. She didn't look at him again or at all, keeping her stare fixed on the wood table's ring structure.

"Listen, kid," Frank said staunchly. "I already talked to Dr. Powell over here, so I already got a story."

Spoke to Mallorie about what? A Story? As the questions rose with alarm in Michael's head, Frank was quicker to supply an answer. He scarcely stopped the folder Frank produced from his lap and slid across the table, slamming his hands over it when it made it in front of him. Michael pierced Frank with an exasperated look before opening up the fold to reveal what was in between. When he saw it, his heart nearly fell clear to his toes.

Tangible and utterly undeniable was a large-scaled color photo of himself in Tokyo. But he hadn't been alone. Mallorie's dainty fingers were splayed across his cheeks, their bodies positioned in an obviously romantic way against a backdrop of foreign candies as she laid a sweet kiss over his lips. A mix of emotions swirled in Michael's gut. That entire night seemed distant—the events of the current morning made him feel as though he were even further removed from the rapt man in the photo. The longer he stared at it, the more he longed to be in that second of time again.