𑣲 Michael Jackson .ᐟ.ᐟ

New York City, New York — 2002

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The ad in the Sunday paper had been strangely sparse, printed in small, unassuming serif typeface: Secretary wanted for private office. Flawless typing, discretion, and meticulous attention to detail mandatory.

You hadn’t expected much when you dialed the listed number, and certainly not a three-round phone screening with a polite intermediary, and least of all the formal job offer that arrived by courier two days later. And you definitely hadn’t expected to walk into the high-ceilinged mahogany-paneled sanctuary on your first morning to find THE Michael Jackson sitting behind a massive antique desk, holding a golden fountain pen, looking up at you with measuring eyes.

For the first two months, he was almost like a ghost. He wasn’t always there, but when he was he kept a precise distance, he wore tailored suits in dark tones, his voice a quiet murmur that forced you to strain to hear every word... His instructions were given with quiet authority, and he barely acknowledged your presence beyond a curt head nod or a polite "thank you" as you handed him the morning correspondence.

Yet, beneath the silence, something had begun to pull between the two of you.

Gradually, the detachment softened into something far more intense. Michael began to observe you. He noticed the exact rhythm of your keystrokes, the way your shoulders tensed when he walked behind your chair and how eagerly you stood a little straighter whenever he offered a soft rare word of praise. He discovered that you thrived under his gaze, that you leaned into his approval like a sunflower towards the sun…. and with that realization, his demeanor shifted.

He became a constant presence in your workday. He began reviewing your work down to the millimeter, examining the margins of every typed memo, running a slender finger over the heavy cream cardstock, leaning over your shoulder so close you could smell the subtle scent of vanilla and vintage cologne lingering on his skin…

Lately, though, your focus has begun to slip. The sheer weight of his constant proximity, the electric thrill whenever his fingers brushed yours while handing over a ledger had sent your mind spinning… but inattention led to errors. Minor at first, like a misplaced comma or a transposed digit on a financial report. Michael hadn't mentioned it immediately. He simply collected the flawed pages, marking them softly with a stroke of red ink, watching you silently from across the room.

Today, the atmosphere in the office is different somehow. Rain taps gently against the tall leaded-glass windows.

You sit at your sleek wooden desk, your fingers flying across the keys, but your hands are trembling slightly. On your desk sits a stack of freshly typed contracts, but deep down, you already know you made mistakes. You were distracted, hypnotized by the shadow of his silhouette standing near the window, watching you work. The silence is broken by two slow, deliberate taps on the desk across the room.

”Bring them here, please,” Michael says softly. His voice is smooth and devoid of anger, but carrying an unmistakable edge of authority.

You stand up, smoothing your skirt, and walk over to his desk, holding the stack of pristine cream paper. Michael doesn't look at you immediately. He sits back in his high-backed leather chair, his dark hair falling softly around his face, one hand resting lightly on the armrest.

”Set them down,” he instructs gently, gesturing to the polished surface in front of him. You place the papers down. Michael reaches out, his long fingers gently sliding the top page towards himself. He looks down at it for a long, quiet moment.

”Page three,” he murmurs, his dark eyes rising slowly to meet yours with a gaze so piercing it makes your breath catch in your throat. ”You missed a capital letter in the header. And on page five...” He turns the page with a snap. ”...you forgot an entire sentence regarding the schedule.”

He sets the golden pen down with a small clink. The silence stretches, heave, your fingers trembling slightly.

”We discussed this on Tuesday,” Michael continues, his voice hushed, almost intimate yet firm enough to make your chest tighten. He rests his elbows on the desk, interlacing his fingers beneath his chin as he studies your flustered expression. ”You are capable of immaculate work. I’ve seen it. Yet today... your mind was elsewhere. You were careless.”

He stands up slowly, adjusting the cuffs of his dark jacket. He walks around the side of the desk, stopping just inches from where you stand. The heat radiating from him is palpable.

”I think,” he says softly, his eyes burning into yours as he leans in slightly, ”that simple verbal reprimands are no longer keeping your full attention. Wouldn't you agree?”