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 15th, 1983 Los Angeles.
After what happened yesterday, I didn't even want to talk to Monica. A random man in our house that I didn't even know? He could have hurt her. Worse, he could have killed her, but she was so comfortable bringing him over here.
I woke up early, my head still heavy with lingering anger and regret. The living room was a mess, a testament to my uncontrolled rage from the night before. Shards of glass from broken vases and picture frames littered the floor, glittering ominously in the early morning light. I grabbed the broom and began to clean up, each sweep of the bristles against the floor a harsh reminder of my own actions.
The silence of the house felt oppressive as I worked, the only sounds being the crunch of glass and the occasional scrape of the dustpan. I hadn't lost control like this in years, and the realization of how close I'd come to hurting Monica gnawed at me.
After sweeping up the last bit of glass, I tied up the trash bag and carried it down the stairs, the weight of it feeling symbolic of the burden on my shoulders. Stepping outside into the crisp morning air, I tossed the bag into the bin, the clatter of glass against metal echoing loudly. I took a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves before heading back inside.
As I entered the kitchen, I noticed breakfast on the table-a simple spread of toast, eggs, and coffee-but no sign of Monica. The food was untouched, the coffee still steaming, suggesting she had been up early too, trying to find a way to make amends.
I walked down the hall to the guest room and could hear her crying through the door, soft sobs that tugged painfully at my heart.
"Monica?" I knocked gently.
"Give me a second," she said, her voice trembling.
I stood there, the seconds stretching into what felt like an eternity. Finally, the door creaked open, revealing Monica with eyes red and puffy from crying. Her usually radiant face was etched with sorrow and regret.
"Michael, I'm sorry," she said, her voice breaking as she fell into my arms, sobbing uncontrollably. "I shouldn't have done that. I'm so sorry, Michael."
I wrapped my arms around her, holding her tightly. "It's okay. Come on, we need to talk, okay? We need to fix us for good and start over."
She nodded and wiped her eyes, then stepped back into the guest room. I followed, closing the door behind me, and sat beside her on the bed. The room was dimly lit, the early morning light filtering through the curtains, casting long shadows on the walls.
For a moment, we just sat there in silence. Monica's tears flowed freely, each one a testament to her guilt and sorrow. I watched her, my own emotions a tumultuous storm inside me.
"Michael," she finally whispered, her voice barely audible. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I was just so lonely, so angry. I needed someone, anyone."
"I know," I said softly, struggling to keep my voice steady. "I should've been there for you. I shouldn't have let my work come between us like this. But bringing a stranger into our home, Monica... it scared me."
