Michael Jackson encounters a mysterious and alluring woman he dubs his 'Billie Jean.' Despite his claims of not loving her, his life spirals into obsession. One night, he meets Ebony Porter at a club, leaving his fiancée Monica at home. As Michael g...
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December 14th, 1983 New York City
This past week has been a whirlwind, promoting "Thriller" nonstop. It's been exhausting, leaving me with barely any time to talk to Monica. The one night I did call her and the brief conversation the next morning were the only moments we had. My schedule has been relentless, and even my nights have been packed. At least I've been able to wind down and have a few relaxing conversations with Ebony at the bar.
As I was packing my bag to leave, the phone started to ring. I folded the last shirt and placed it into my bag, then walked over to pick up the phone. "Hello?"
"Hey," said the voice on the other end. It was Monica.
"Oh god, baby, hi. I'm sorry I haven't called you, I tried calling the other night but you didn't pick up, I've just been so busy with work and-" I paused, hearing her start to cry.
"Baby, what's wrong? Why are you crying?" I asked, worry creeping into my voice.
"I miss you. I've tried calling you after you gave me the number to the hotel, but you never answer the phone. Where the hell have you been?" she yelled, her voice cracking with emotion.
"Monica, calm down. I've been busy, okay? I'm sorry I haven't called you, I really am, I told you I tried the other night but you didn't pick up. You know how busy I get, okay? Please don't be upset with me, I'm sorry," I pleaded, feeling the weight of guilt.
"Yeah, yeah, Michael," she sniffled. "I'm tired of this. You're lying to me and I know it."
"Baby, I'm not lying to you at all. I have been busy, okay? And when I do come back to the suite, it's already late," I explained, trying to soothe her.
"Time difference, Michael. Time difference," she shot back, her frustration palpable.
"Don't you think I'm tired? I'm not staying up late just to wake up at the crack of dawn and do it all over again," I said, my own frustration starting to bubble over.
"You know what? Forget I said anything. Bye, Michael," she said, her voice cold and distant.
"Monica, wa-" The line went dead before I could finish.
I stood there, the silence of the room pressing in on me. The argument replayed in my mind, each word echoing with regret. I put the phone down and took a deep breath, trying to steady myself. The tension from the call clung to me, adding to the exhaustion already weighing me down.
I zipped up my suitcase and set it by the door. I really needed a drink now, maybe even a couple. All this nagging and fussing Monica had been doing for the last few months was really starting to push my nerves more and more each day. Her possessiveness was worse than mine, and I never understood it.
It was the same routine for the last week. As I reached the bar, Ebony had already poured two glasses of whiskey for the both of us. I sat down at the bar and sighed deeply, taking off my aviators and setting them on the counter.
