xoxolynn
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- Parts 35
"I hate you."
"Yeah, well, I hate you too."
Monroe Delacroix was a comet launched across the Hollywood sky, her lineage a tapestry of silver screens and couture magazines, the daughter of Sunset Crest Productions' enigmatic founder and a mother whose hands stitched magic into fabric.
She drifted at the edges of fame, yearning for the anonymity of ordinary existence: aching legs from track, the exhaustion of studying late, the promise of a life measured by merit, not magazine covers. Yet destiny twisted her path when her parents beckoned her to the 1984 Grammys.
There, beneath the floodlights and velvet ropes, Monroe became the axis of Michael Jackson's world, a gravitational pull neither could explain. Eight golden trophies in his hands, yet his gaze lingered on the solitary girl perched on the curb, her loneliness shining brighter than any stage light.
His attention set her world spinning. Not as his lover, but as a muse haunted by longing, Monroe climbed through gilded doors she once vowed to ignore, her parents' empire beneath her feet, her own ambition lit by his distant spark. In two feverish years, she became America's most coveted face, her name an incantation on everyone's lips.
But behind closed doors, their love was a tempest: beautiful, violent, and doomed. Lust coiled in the shadows between confessions, an ache that drew them back again and again, no matter how much it hurt.
They spoke in riddles and half-truths, weaving lies as both shield and shackle. Possessiveness shadowed every embrace; jealousy bloomed wild and bitter. Fights erupted like summer storms, wild, electric, and uncontainable, leaving the air heavy with words that cut deeper than silence.
No matter how fiercely they fought, their bodies remembered the magnetic pull, an inability to stay away, even when distance was mercy.