Chapter 1: The Interview That Changed Everything
The tape recorder felt like a brick in Milly’s lap. She checked it for the third time, the red record light a tiny, accusing eye in the dimness of the library. The room was a cavern of quiet, a stark contrast to the sunny, frantic drive up through the California hills. It smelled of old paper, polished wood, and something else—something clean and subtle, like sandalwood and rain, that she couldn’t place.
Towering shelves held more than books. Gold records winked in the candlelight. Framed sketches of cartoon characters leaned against leather-bound volumes. Piles of sheet music, handwritten notes crawling up the margins, were stacked precariously on a grand piano. It felt less like a library and more like the inside of a singular, brilliant mind.
Her editor’s voice hissed in her memory: Don’t blow this, Lynch. It’s a profile, not a fan letter. Get the story no one else has.
Right. The story. She smoothed her black dress—too funereal, she thought now—and tucked a strand of dyed-black hair behind her ear. Her natural brown roots were showing. She hoped he wouldn’t notice.
Then the door opened without a sound.
He seemed to flow into the room rather than walk. Dressed in crisp black trousers and a red jacket with military detailing, he was both smaller and more vivid than she’d anticipated. The posters and magazine covers didn’t capture the stillness he carried, a profound calm that somehow magnified his presence. His dark eyes found hers immediately.
“Hello,” he said. His voice was softer than in songs, higher, almost whispery. “You must be Milly.”
“Mr. Jackson.” She stood up too fast, the tape recorder clattering to the thick Persian rug. “Oh, god. Sorry.” Heat flooded her cheeks as she bent to grab it.
He was there before her, kneeling with a fluid grace. He picked up the recorder, his long, slender fingers examining it with a curious tilt of his head before handing it back. “It’s okay. I startle easy, too.” A shy smile touched his lips. “And please, call me Michael.”
“Michael.” The name felt foreign, too intimate for this context. “Thank you for seeing me. I know you don’t do many interviews.”
“I liked your questions,” he said simply, gliding over to a large, plush armchair and curling into it. He gestured for her to take the seat opposite. “The ones you sent over. You asked about the orchestration on ‘Stranger in Moscow,’ not just who hurt my feelings. You asked about the key change in ‘Human Nature’ as a narrative device. Most people… they don’t ask about the work.”
He’d actually read them. He’d liked them. Milly felt a jolt of professional pride that momentarily overrode her nerves. She clicked the recorder on. “It’s the most interesting part. The how. The why behind the choices.”
He nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving her face. They were liquid and deep, holding a universe of thought. “The why is everything.” He paused. “Your accent… New Zealand?”
“A small town you’ve definitely never heard of. It has two sheep for every person.”
His laugh was sudden, a bright, gleeful sound that transformed his entire face. It was utterly disarming. “I like sheep. They’re peaceful.”
The interview began. He was thoughtful, pausing for long moments before answering, shaping each sentence with care. He spoke about music as color, about hearing full arrangements in his head as a child, complete with string sections and choirs. He talked about the lonely joy of the recording studio at three in the morning. Milly found herself leaning forward, forgetting to glance at her notepad, just listening.
“Can I play you something?” he asked abruptly, an hour in.
“Of course.”
He rose and moved to a wall of vinyl, his fingers dancing over the spines before pulling out a worn record. He handled it like a sacred object, placing it on a turntable across the room. The crackle of the needle was prelude to a soaring, wordless vocal line—a trumpet impersonated by a human voice.
“That’s Syllart Records,” he said, watching her reaction. “African jazz. The rhythm… listen to the space between the beats. It’s not empty. It’s breathing.”
Milly closed her eyes. The music was complex and joyful. She could feel him watching her, studying her face as she listened. It was intensely private.
“You hear it,” he said, his voice quiet with wonder. It wasn’t a question.
She opened her eyes. “It’s like a heartbeat. Irregular, but alive.”
A look passed between them—a flash of profound, mutual recognition. It was more intimate than a touch. The air in the room changed, grew thicker, charged. The professional distance she’d been clinging to dissolved. He wasn’t a icon; he was a man in a red jacket, showing her a piece of his soul through a jazz record.
The song ended. The silence that followed was heavy.
“I should…” Milly gestured weakly at the tape recorder, its wheels still turning. “I have enough for a whole book, I think.”
He smiled, but it was different now—softer, tinged with something like regret. “They’ll want the other stuff. The gossip.”
“I’ll write what I see,” she said, and the defiance in her own voice surprised her.
He stood up as she did. They were close now, in the space between the chairs. She could smell that subtle cologne clearly, see the fine details of the embroidery on his jacket. He reached out, very slowly, and with the very tips of his fingers, brushed aside the strand of hair that had fallen across her cheek again. His touch was whisper-light, electric.
“Your roots are brown,” he observed quietly. “Why black?”
Her breath caught. “I wanted to look… serious. Like a real journalist.”
“You are a real journalist,” he said. “The brown is beautiful. It’s honest.”
No one had ever called her beautiful before. Not like that. Not as a simple, factual statement of truth. Milly felt the world tilt.
A soft chime echoed somewhere in the house. A reminder. An intrusion. The spell fractured.
“I’ve kept you too long,” he said, stepping back, the shy host returning.
“No, not at all.” Her voice sounded rusty. She fumbled with her bag, packing the recorder and notepad with clumsy hands.
He walked her to the library door, but not to the front entrance. “There’s a garden path,” he said, pointing to a French door leading into the twilight. “It’s shorter. More pleasant.”
She nodded, unable to form a coherent sentence. Thank you. This was. I will.
“Milly?” he said, just as her hand touched the door handle.
She turned.
He stood in the pool of candlelight, a slender, solitary figure amidst the shadows of his creations. “Will you come back?” he asked. It wasn’t about the interview. They both knew it. “There’s… so much more music to play you.”
The question hung in the scented air. Every professional instinct screamed caution. But the man who heard the breathing in the silence between beats was waiting for her answer.
“Yes,” she said, the word leaving her in a rush. “I’d like that.”
A real, unguarded smile lit his face, brighter than all the gold records on the walls. “Good.”
She stepped out into the cool evening, following the gravel path. Her heart was pounding a frantic, new rhythm. She didn’t look back, but she could feel his gaze on her until she turned the corner, the scent of sandalwood and old paper clinging to her clothes, a secret she was already keeping..
keeping the tape recorder safe in her bag, like a smuggled diamond.
The days that followed were a blur of transcribing, writing, and rewriting. Her editor was pleased, but the profile felt thin to her—just facts and quotes, missing the vibration she’d felt in that room. It was just a first draft, she told herself. The real story was still being written, in the quiet spaces between their scheduled, chaperoned meetings.They became secret architects of time. A “follow-up question” delivered via a secure phone line would result in a car, anonymous and dark, collecting her from a neutral location. The drives to Neverland at night were different; the ranch was a constellation of lonely lights in the vast dark, and the library, when she entered, felt like the only warm room in the universe.
He was always waiting, often at the piano, a melody half-formed beneath his fingers. They talked about everything. His voice would drop to a hush speaking of the crushing loneliness of fame, then rise to an animated squeak imitating some old Hollywood star he’d met. She made him laugh with stories of her hopelessly normal family—her father’ obsession with composting, her mother’s battle with a particularly stubborn rooster.
The physical space between them, a careful foot or two, became its own charged entity.A brush of hands while reaching for the same book. The fleeting contact of shoulders as they peered at a manuscript.The air grew thick with everything unsaid.
One night, a storm lashed the windows. The electricity flickered, died, and plunged them into a darkness held at bay only by the fire in the hearth and a few guttering candles. The world shrank to the circle of flickering light.“Don’t go,” he said, his voice small. It wasn’t a command.It was a plea.
“I’m not,” she whispered.They were on the floor, leaning against the sofa, a shared blanket over their legs. The interview was a forgotten relic. He was telling her about the first time he’d ever sung solo, as a tiny boy in a stifling club, the fear that tasted like metal.
“You were brave,” she murmured.He turned his head to look at her. Firelight danced in his dark eyes.“I’m not brave.Not like you. You came here, all alone, not knowing…”
“Knowing what?”
“Knowing me.”
He leaned in, so slowly it was agony. She could feel the warmth of his breath, see the perfect bow of his upper lip. The kiss, when it came, was impossibly soft, a question whispered against her mouth. It was tender, tentative, achingly sweet.It shattered her completely.
When he pulled back, searching her face, she saw pure, unfiltered fear.Fear of rejection.Fear of her.
“Michael,” she breathed, and it was all the answer he needed.The second kiss was different. It was a dam breaking. A low groan escaped him as his hands came up to cradle her face, his thumbs stroking her cheeks. His lips parted hers, and the taste of him—mint and something uniquely, devastatingly him—flooded her senses. Her own hands slipped into his hair, silky and cool against her fingers.
He pulled her into his lap with a startling strength, her legs straddling his thighs.The blanket fell away. The heat from the fire was nothing compared to the heat building between them. She could feel the lean hardness of his body, the evidence of his desire pressing against the fly of his trousers, a firm, urgent pressure against her core.
“Milly,” he gasped between kisses that moved from her mouth to her jaw, her throat. “Oh, god, Milly.” His voice was ragged, stripped of its usual breathy control.
He found the zipper at the back of her dress and drew it down. The sound was loud in the quiet room.He peeled the fabric from her shoulders, exposing her simple bra. His large, elegant hands, hands that created miracles, trembled as they cupped her breasts, his thumbs circling her nipples through the lace until they hardened into aching points.
“So beautiful,” he whispered, his voice full of wonder, before lowering his head to take one taut peak into his mouth, dampening the lace, then pulling it aside to lick and suck at her bare skin. The sensation was so sharp, so exquisite, it drew a sharp cry from her. Her hips ground down against his erection instinctively, making him shudder.
His hands slid down her back, over the curve of her ass, gripping her through her underwear and pulling her tighter against him, rocking her against the stiff denim. The friction was maddening, not enough. She was wet, she could feel the slickness soaking through her panties, and she knew he could feel it too.
“Please,” she begged, not knowing what she was asking for.He understood. With deft movements, he unfastened his own trousers, freeing himself.She looked down, her breath catching. He was long and slender, perfectly formed, the tip flushed and already glistening. He guided her, his eyes locked on hers, holding her hips as she lowered herself onto him.
There was a moment of breathtaking fullness, a slight, burning stretch that made her gasp. He went perfectly still beneath her, his face a mask of agonized ecstasy.“You’re so tight,” he breathed, his fingers digging into her flesh. “So fucking tight and wet for me.”
Then he began to move. Slow, deep thrusts that filled her utterly.She rode him, finding a rhythm, her breasts swaying above him. He sat up to capture one in his mouth again, suckling deeply as his hips pistoned upwards. The pace quickened, became less controlled. The polite, gentle man was gone, replaced by a raw, needy being.His grunts were animalistic, pure.
“Fuck, yes… take it, take all of me,” he growled, his hands slapping against her ass, urging her to go faster, harder.The crude words from that angelic voice sent a new bolt of lust through her. She was close, a coil tightening low in her belly. He felt it, changed the angle, hitting a spot inside her that made her see stars.
“Come for me, baby,” he commanded, his voice hoarse.“Come on my cock.”
It broke her. A violent, crashing wave of pleasure tore through her, milking him, pulling a guttural shout from his throat as he followed her over the edge, his own release pulsing hotly inside her. She collapsed against his chest, both of them slick with sweat, breathing in ragged, torn gasps.
For a long time, there was only the crackle of the fire and the sound of their hearts slowing. He held her as if she were made of glass, his lips pressed to her damp hair.
The outside world, with its cameras and questions and vicious hungers, waited beyond the walls. But here, in the intimate dark, they were just Michael and Milly. And the secret they now shared was the most dangerous, beautiful thing either of them had ever created.
And the secret they now shared was the most dangerous, beautiful thing either of them had ever created.
In the quiet aftermath, Milly traced the line of his collarbone, the reality of him still a shock to her system. The storm had passed, leaving a dripping silence outside.The fire had dwindled to embers.
“You’re thinking,” he murmured, his lips moving against her temple.
“I’m wondering how many other journalists you seduce in your library,” she said, aiming for lightness.It came out thin.He went very still. Then he shifted, rolling her onto her back so he could look down at her. His expression was solemn, the shadows carving his face into a renaissance painting of anguish and desire. “There has never been anyone else in this room.Not like this. Not ever.”
The weight of his words settled on her chest.She believed him.His hand, which had been resting on her stomach, began a slow descent. His eyes held hers, a silent question in their dark depths. She gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod.
His fingers trailed through the faint dampness on her inner thigh, a delicate exploration that made her breath hitch. He watched her face as he found her pussy, his touch feather-light at first, just brushing her swollen lips.She was still sensitive, still slick from their first joining.
“You’re so wet again,” he whispered, a note of awe in his voice. His middle finger slid along her slit, gathering the evidence of her arousal, before circling her clit with a deliberate, practiced pressure.“Michael,” she gasped, her hips twitching off the floor.
“Shh, let me.” His voice was a low command. He increased the pressure, his thumb now working her clit in tiny, devastating circles while one long finger, then two, pressed slowly inside her.She was tight, and the stretch was a bright, full ache. He watched his own hand disappear into her, his lips parting in fascination. “God, you feel incredible.”
He began to move his fingers, a smooth in-and-out rhythm that matched the circles on her clit. It was overwhelming, a direct line to every nerve ending she possessed. He leaned down, taking her nipple into his mouth, sucking hard as his fingers drove deeper.
“Spread your legs wider for me, baby,” he breathed against her skin, his voice thick. “Let me feel all of you.”
She obeyed, hooking her ankles behind his back, opening herself completely.The new angle was devastating. He curled his fingers inside her, hitting a spot that made her cry out, a sharp, broken sound. He focused there, a relentless “come here” motion, his thumb grinding her clit.
“I can feel you getting tighter,” he groaned. “You’re gonna come for me again, aren’t you? Gonna squeeze my fingers?”
She was incoherent, lost in the building tsunami of sensation. It wasn’t like her first orgasm; this was sharper, more concentrated, a coil of pure tension winding impossibly tight in her lower belly. His rhythm never faltered, his gaze locked on where he was connected to her.
“Let go, Milly,” he urged, his own breathing ragged.“Come on.I want to see it. Soak my hand.”
The crude permission shattered her last bit of control. The coil snapped, but not with a silent, inward clench. A gush of warm release flooded his hand, a surprising, uncontrollable torrent that left her shuddering and gasping, her vision whiting out at the edges. She heard his sharp intake of breath, felt his fingers work her through the intense, pulsing waves until she was weakly pushing his hand away, over-sensitive and spent.
Before she could even come down, he was moving over her.There was a frantic, hungry energy to him now. He slicked himself with the wetness from her and his hand, and then he was pushing into her, burying himself to the hilt in one solid, claiming stroke. She was so open, so sensitive from the fingering and the squirting, that the fullness was almost too much.He didn’t wait. He set a brutal, driving pace, fucking her with a desperate intensity. The library was filled with the wet, slapping sound of their joining, his choked grunts, and the creak of the floor beneath them.He hooked his arms under her knees, pushing her legs back, going deeper still.
“This is mine,” he gritted out, his face a mask of primal focus. “This sweet, tight little pussy is mine. Say it.”
“Yours,” she whimpered, the word torn from her.
“Fuck yes.” He pistoned into her, his thrusts losing all finesse, becoming pure, raw need.“Gonna fill you up. Gonna come so deep inside you.”
He reached between them, his thumb finding her clit again, and the dual sensation of rough friction and deep penetration sent her spiraling into another, sharper climax. Her inner walls clenched around him, and with a broken shout, he followed, his body jerking as he spilled into her, hot and endless.
He collapsed on top of her, his weight a welcome anchor. They lay there, a tangled, sweaty mess on the Persian rug, the only sound their ragged breathing slowly returning to normal.
After a long while, he shifted to the side, pulling her against him.He didn’t speak. He just held her, his fingers gently combing through her hair.It was Milly who broke the silence, her voice small in the vast room. “What happens tomorrow?”
He was quiet for so long she thought he might not answer. Then he pressed a kiss to her shoulder. “Tomorrow,” he said softly, “the world tries to take this away from us. So tonight, we don’t think about tomorrow.”