2001

Music studio

Michael Jackson is recording a new album "Invisible". And now it's time for the song "Heaven can wait." The King Of Pop is already in a dark room with headphones on, fully focused. The recording has just begun. Quincy Jones, an old friend from Motown, is in charge of the process.

Your husband has left you in charge of Neverland, hoping that at least in the studio, he can be alone with his thoughts. And you, as a good girl, will enjoy the rides and simply live your life.

Michael loved you madly before the collapse of the world, the loss of a pulse, the stars, the moon, and back, but lately you have become too obsessive and Michael began to get tired. Especially since work and career promised not to leave him at least for the next ten years. Therefore, as soon as the opportunity arose, Jackson immediately found himself in the studio, forgetting about the outside world, because his life began thanks to music.

Michael, let's re-record the chorus again.

Alright. Alright. The King of Pop plunged into his inner world and started singing again.

His voice was like the call of a siren, the singing of birds, the rustling of herbs, and a delicious health treat. The microphone, the atmosphere, his outfit, himself... Everything was forming into a single symphony. Except for one problem.

Suddenly, the singer felt tenacious hands on his waist, but he didn't pay attention to it, deciding that you wanted to observe him, evaluate his musical talent. And you entered the studio again without asking. Especially to him. Michael sighed and continued singing. But you weren't going to stop there.

Your hands slid over his body as you stood behind him, guided by touch. Your fingers deliberately slowly slid over the strands of black hair, the aristocratic face and shoulders. For a second, Michael froze. You had already unbuttoned the buttons on the scarlet shiny shirt. And your fingers slipped under the white t-shirt, outlining the linni of muscles. His stomach ached pleasantly. His voice, which had been as clear as a river, as high as the sun above the horizon, and as perfect as the most mesmerizing sunset, had become choppy and out of rhythm.

Her fingers were already gripping his neck, and Michael let out a moan of pleasure, blushing deeply as he realized that this should not be recorded. Your hands had already reached his abdomen, touching his waist.

Darling... He struggled to address your sanity with a soft breath. Stop. Jackson grabbed your hands firmly but gently.