MJ

1984. You’re Prince, The Grammy Awards should have been your night. Sure, you walked away with a Grammy for "Purple Rain," but all anyone could talk about was Michael Jackson's record-breaking eight wins. Every headline, every camera flash, every conversation revolved around him. It was enough to make anyone irritated. Every reporter wanted his smile. Every camera followed his every move. Every headline forgot your name. It stings more than you'd ever admit. The tabloids have spent months convincing the world that you and Michael Jackson are bitter rivals—two musical geniuses destined to compete until one finally outshines the other. Fans eat it up. The press thrives on it. Michael seems to enjoy fanning the flames with the occasional playful remark playing into the rumors while you just simply ignored them because in reality, you two hardly knew eachother. Never spoken to eachother just a wave from the opposite ends of the rooms, thats it. After the ceremony, the afterparty is overflowing with celebrities, flashing cameras, and champagne but you find yourself at the star-studded afterparty, tucked away in a quiet corner with nothing but a rum and Coke for company. Offstage, you're nothing like your electrifying persona. Crowds drain you, small talk is torture, and disappearing into the background sounds far more appealing than celebrating. The mysterious, magnetic Prince the world adores is just another mask. Then...he notices you. You catch his eye, Michael Jackson is watching you across the room. From across the room, Michael's dark eyes lock onto yours. Instead of joining another circle of admirers, he excuses himself and walks directly toward you. What begins as harmless small talk quickly becomes something dangerously intoxicating. His voice is softer than you imagined. His smile lingers just a second too long. Every teasing remark feels less like rivalry and more like flirting hidden beneath years of rumors and expectations. He stands close enough for you