michael jackson

Today is your twentieth birthday.

As the Pharaoh’s daughter, it’s a day of celebration throughout the entire palace, and your name is passed from mouth to mouth like a sacred blessing. Lively music ripples through the halls in bright, looping melodies, and it seems to echo off everything: gold pillars, painted ceilings, the polished stone beneath your feet. Servants glide past with trays of exotic fruits jeweled with golden syrup and cups sweating cold wine into their palms. Lanterns hang overhead like captured fireballs, casting a honeyed glow that makes everyone look softer, warmer, almost kinder.

Almost. Because beneath the sweetness of it all, there’s something weighing heavy on your heart: you're twenty. Old enough to be married.

Great.

You’ve known this day would come for years. In fact, you've always known. It’s been sitting quietly at the edge of each celebration, every “You’ve grown so beautiful,” like a shadow that elongates the closer the sun gets to setting. Your father has spoken about your marriage the same way he speaks of taxes and treaties ever since you were a kid; an inevitable duty, something to be dealt with, to be operated.

“It’s a matter of politics,” he says. “A necessary sacrifice to strengthen the kingdom’s alliances.”

And his voice stays with you still, weaving itself through the music like an echoing chorus. In spite of it all, you smile when you’re told to smile, accept the gifts placed in your hands, let strangers kiss your knuckles, let them look at you like you’re a prize to be won.

Undeniably, the palace is magnificent, but also grand enough to make you feel small. The air is warm with incense and body heat and spilled wine, and the more lively the festivities become, the more you feel the walls closing in. Outside these gilded gates is a world you’ve only ever touched in fantasy stories.

But knowing what's coming doesn't make it any easier to stomach. In fact, it makes it worse, because you don’t even get the mercy of surprise.

Michael is stood by the sidelines, where entertainers are meant to stay until sent for, and he's been watching you greet guest after guest for the past fifteen minutes, with something pained and aching in his expression. Tonight, he’s done everything in his power to coax laughter from you. He's cracked the same silly jokes you always think are hilarious, made coins appear from behind children’s ears, danced with that reverent, effortless grace that entices you. His usual antics.

But you’re... unusual.

You’re still so beautiful (heartbreakingly so) but there’s a distant sadness behind your eyes, like you’re already somewhere else, like you’re already drifting away from him.

As the palace’s entertainer, Michael has the honourable duty of amusing the royals whenever boredom settles in. It’s a job he actually enjoys. Well, mainly cause he gets to mess around and irritate the nobles without repercussions, and in return he’s given a place beneath a grand roof of gold.

But in his eyes, not even the rarest jewels in the palace, nor the most passionate poetry, nor the sweetest honeycomb could ever compare to your beauty. More than that, he loves you. He loves you and the way you still look startled by even his most overused jokes, as if the world is allowed to surprise you. You’re so sheltered, so shy and careful beneath your parents’ watchful gaze, that it’s endearing how his silliest teasing can still fluster you, can still make the princess slip for a moment and become simply a girl.

He loves watching your practiced modesty surrender into laughter; adores the way a pretty, betraying blush climbs over your ears when he leans in too close and softly murmurs something only you are meant to hear.

That's why it hurts him now when all he can do is watch from the sidelines, as one suitor after another approaches and tries to flirt with you. Each attempts to charm you with rehearsed compliments and pathetic displays of affection. They praise your beauty, they boast about their wealth, they tell you exactly what they think a princess wants to hear. Michael feels something hot and bitter twist in his stomach. Jealousy.

None of them understand you. None of them can draw that real smile from you, the one that slips past duty and decorum like sunlight through curtains. And, selfishly, Michael wants to keep it that way.

But he won't ask for much. No, Michael is a gentleman. He only wants to be the man who makes you laugh: quiet and helpless beneath the hushed twinkle of the stars until your breath breaks into soft, bubbling giggles, and the only thing that stops you is the need to breathe... or the dangerous temptation to close the distance and seal that ecstasy with a kiss hot enough to make you forsake your own royal name.

So, when the last heartbeats of daylight spill across the horizon in tangy shades of orange and gold, Michael makes a decision. He’s going to see you, no matter what it takes. He’s going to tell you not to accept any of those men as your husband. He’s going to tell you how he really feels. But most importantly... he's going to make you smile.

It’s evening, and the sun is sinking fast. After the feast, you manage an excuse—something polite and obedient—and slip away to your chambers.

You stand at your balcony in a flowing white nightgown, letting the desert breeze worry at the thin fabric. Below, the celebration has begun to quiet; the palace is still glittering, but the noise is thinning out, fading into the warm dark.

For the first time all day, you’re alone.

You lean against the balcony railing, the bare skin of your arms pressed to cool metal, and watch the last light surrender—gold to amber, amber to bruise-purple. The nightgown stirs against your knees. You stare into the fading sky, saying goodbye to a freedom you never even had.

Then, you hear a faint sound behind you, like tiny bells.

You spin around abruptly. Gold dust glitters across the stone floor of your bedroom, scattered as if someone spilled a handful of sunlight. It begins to stir and spiral like molten sunlight when it gathers itself, as though pulled by an invisible hand, and in the space of a breath, it forms a familiar frame.

"Michael!" you gasp. "What are you doing here? How did you get in? Didn’t the guards see you?"

Michael only grins, cheeky as ever, and strolls closer to your place by the balcony like has all business being there.

"No, darling," he chuckles. "I have my ways." His smile turns knowing. "I’ve told you before..." he tilts his head, dark curls catching the last of the light, "a magician never reveals his secrets."

"What? But—still, we can’t let anyone see you! You can’t be in the private chambers at this time, especially not mine—"

"Shh." Michael lifts a finger, stopping just shy of your lips. "You don’t want me to get caught, do you?"

His expression softens as he glances over his shoulder, ensuring there are no prying eyes, before he leans in towards your face.

"There’s something I need to tell you."