Chapter Text
BEING THIRTY-ONE is never easy when you are a sex symbol acclaimed by all.
One begins to question oneself, to revisit past choices, to take stock of a glorious twenties… And when one is a celebrity, introspection becomes a crucial step in order to return stronger than ever.
It was then that the man of global success decided to travel to Egypt, seeking to initiate a spiritual retreat.
The very moment his private jet took off, Michael allowed the melancholy and buried sadness within him to surface, there was no need to pretend anymore. Resting on his lap were several brochures with elegant typography, intertwined with books devoted to Egyptian traditions, their millennia-old heritage, as well as more contemporary analyses of the country’s economic and political landscape.
He read with that characteristic intensity of his, the kind belonging to a mind that seeks to understand before it even allows itself to feel. Every fragment of knowledge became material to nourish both his soul and his art.
— We will be landing in Cairo shortly, announced the pilot over the jet’s speakers.
Upon arrival, a representative from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, tasked with ensuring his safety and the smooth unfolding of his stay, awaited him in an atmosphere where the country’s warmth contrasted with the strict formality of the reception.
— Welcome to Egypt, the minister greeted. Here, you are our guest so please, make yourself at home.
The exchange was so cordial that the cameras present did not miss a single moment. While Michael adored Africa, he felt considerably less affection for its journalists.
The day ended in the relative calm of his hotel, a space suspended between discreet luxury and isolation. Heavy curtains softened the evening light, and silence, only disturbed by distant murmurs of the city, wrapped the room in an almost unreal gentleness.
This rest, however, did not last long. Barely had he finished unpacking his welcome gifts when a knock sounded at the door.
He let out a weary sigh; he did not even feel like answering.
— Mister Jackson, called a female voice from behind the door. I am the assistant from the Ministry, she introduced herself.
What was she doing here? Reluctantly, he went to open, unwilling to be impolite to someone simply doing her job.
The door revealed a woman in her forties, her curly hair pulled back into a strict bun. Egyptian women possessed an undeniable charm, though their features often carried a certain firmness, a reflection of strong character.
— Good evening, is everything alright? the singer asked.
— Good evening. I apologize for the disturbance, but you have been invited to a charity gala you did receive the invitation, didn’t you?
The assistant, perfectly composed in her role, inclined her head slightly as she met his somewhat confused gaze.
— A charity gala? he repeated.
— Yes. It is an event organized to fund the construction of several schools in remote areas of Egypt. Many influential figures will be present. And… we have also prepared a surprise for you.
The word lingered in the air for a moment just as he had been hoping to rest after a fifteen-hour flight.
A surprise?
He said nothing at first, though a subtle shift crossed his expression. He did not particularly like surprises. Or rather, he simply was not in the mood for them.
That said, perhaps the sincerity of the welcome, along with the presence of this friend who had taken such careful, almost fraternal attention toward his arrival, was enough to soften his natural reserve.
After briefly weighing the options, he found he did not have the heart to refuse.
— Give me some time to get ready.
His voice was soft, though tinged with irritation. The woman nodded and closed the door, marking the end of the exchange.
Moments later, alone in the quiet intimacy of the room, he allowed himself to be enveloped in the texture of the traditional garments laid out for him. Yet, as his movements followed one another, a dull ache settled along his spine, his body carrying the memory of accumulated exhaustion.
His mind felt saturated. Months of creative pressure, constant control, and relentless self-expectation had led him into a block. Michael was seized by what could only be described as writer’s block. This feeling felt less like a pause and more like a temporary loss of inner breath.
— You’ll get through this. You’re the best, he murmured to himself before leaving.
The riad rose in the heart of Cairo like an enclave suspended beyond the urban chaos.
Outside, the agitation was unmistakable: a crowd held back by discreet barriers, bursts of Arabic voices, the relentless crackle of camera shutters, and that electric tension inherent to major public appearances.
It only intensified as the limousine of the global star arrived.
Michael Jackson stepped out dressed in traditional Egyptian attire, large sunglasses shielding his gaze. He wore white trousers concealed beneath a long, finely embroidered tunic adorned with golden patterns, falling elegantly to his knees.
Flashes exploded immediately, violent, repetitive and almost aggressive in their insistence. Journalists, held at a distance, shouted questions in a blend of languages, hoping to capture a word, a glance, a fragment of attention.
But he was already moving forward, guided toward the entrance, crossing this sea of demands with a distant grace, accustomed, yet never entirely indifferent.
The moment he crossed the heavy doors of the riad, the atmosphere shifted, as though the outside world had been sealed away.
A soft, enveloping music rose into the air. Deep drum vibrations intertwined with the delicate notes of an oud, weaving a slow, hypnotic melody that floated above the murmurs of conversation.
The interior unfolded in splendor: a vast central patio open to the night sky, where warm lantern light cast moving shadows across walls adorned with intricate mosaics.
Endless arabesques, patterns of mesmerizing precision, where deep blues and emerald greens echoed one another in perfect harmony, an aesthetic that immediately stirred the artist within him.
His instinct had not betrayed him. He had been right to come.
Michael paused, removing his sunglasses to let his gaze travel across the space with quiet attention. Something in the atmosphere eluded the logic of the social events he was accustomed to.
Here, luxury did not seek to impress, it sought to slow time.
— Ah, there you are!
The voice behind him made him turn. The minister stood there, accompanied by an older man.
— Let me introduce you to the director of the foundation, the minister announced with contained pride. He will be responsible for managing the schools once they are built.
Michael inclined his head slightly before extending his hand.
— It is an honor. Thank you for what you are doing.
The director, visibly moved, responded with such gratitude that he soon voiced a request Michael knew all too well: a photograph.
He accepted with natural generosity, standing beside him as a photographer, specially invited for the occasion, captured the moment.
When the exchange ended, the director stepped away, and Michael turned back to the minister, his tone lighter, almost curious.
— By the way… your assistant mentioned a surprise.
A flicker of amusement passed through the minister’s eyes.
— Ah, yes. It shouldn’t be long now. Take your time, enjoy the evening. Once everyone is seated, we will reveal it.
Michael simply nodded.
He only hoped it would not turn out to be some awkward performance, some forced entertainment. He had neither the energy nor the desire to feign amusement.
Without realizing it, his thoughts drifted.
That familiar sensation of dissociation settled in, offering him an involuntary distance from his own presence.
Wherever he went, whatever he did, he had to be flawless.
When had he last truly… let go?
Music remained his only refuge: the one place where the body replaced the mind, where control transformed into creation. But beyond that, in his interactions, in his daily life, everything felt superficial.
The world tour that had preceded this pause had left more than glorious memories. His body still bore the traces, lingering pain, an exhaustion that never fully faded.
Even at rest, something within him kept running.
He felt alone in his struggle and above all, misunderstood.
His thoughts were abruptly pulled back when the director’s voice rose once more.
— Good evening everyone and thank you for being here tonight.
The murmurs faded into respectful silence.
— Your presence here is invaluable. This donation, along with tonight’s auction, will be decisive… because together, we truly have the power to change things.
Applause rose.
— To open this gala… we have prepared a surprise.
Michael’s attention sharpened.
— Since artists from all around the world are gathered here tonight, it felt only natural to introduce them to our heritage. It is therefore our honor to present to you an Egyptian dance performance.
At once, Michael’s features softened and a subtle smile forming on his lips. This was the kind of surprise he appreciated.
Then, in a perfectly orchestrated movement, the dancers made their entrance, advancing in flawless synchronization, as though each one were merely an extension of the other.
Their costumes, striking in their visual richness, immediately commanded attention: sumptuous bedlah adorned with intricate embellishments, scattered with pearls and metallic pieces that shimmered at the slightest motion, casting golden reflections with every undulation of their bodies.
The fabrics, light and diaphanous, followed their movements without ever restraining them, revealing just enough while preserving an air of controlled elegance. Every detail seemed designed to prolong the dance itself.
A hush of admiration settled over the audience as the music intensified.
Their hips answered the percussion with unsettling precision, while their torsos, shoulders, and arms traced fluid, undulating lines through the air. They were not dancing to the music, they were the music.
The performance grew so hypnotic that even Michael found himself captivated. He recognized in it discipline, mastery but also a freedom of expression that resonated deeply within him.
As the collective segment came to an end, the formation dissolved seamlessly, giving way to a series of individual performances, each revealing a different facet of this ancestral art.
One dancer twirled a flaming staff with disarming ease, the fire carving luminous arcs around her body without ever touching her. Another, in a feat of balance, carried a wide tray of fruit atop her head, gliding gracefully among the guests while maintaining the subtle rhythm of her hips, inviting them to partake in a playful intimacy.
Then, almost without transition, a new presence emerged.
A young woman with dark skin that captured the light with softness, her thick hair framing her face with natural intensity.
Unlike the others, her approach was different: less demonstrative, more playful.
She invited the female guests to dance with her. Laughter rippled through the crowd as some of them blushed, attempting to mimic her hip movements. Several women allowed themselves to be drawn in, joining her with delight, while a radiant smile never left her face.
And then, gradually, she shifted toward the singer.
Michael felt the moment before he fully understood it.
She approached him with effortless fluidity, her arm unfolding in a wave-like motion until she extended her hand toward him.
Her gaze, accentuated by a bold line of liner, held his with calm intensity, while her playful smile invited him to join. Carried by the spontaneity of the moment, he obliged.
A smile spread across his lips as their hands met and already she was pulling away, circling him with a light, teasing grace, her precise steps contrasting with his more instinctive attempt to follow the rhythm.
He tried a few movements, a soft laugh escaping him before he surrendered entirely, letting go of any need for control.
She, agile and assured, traced small circles around him, punctuating her dance with amused glances, as though testing his limits without ever pushing him too far.
Around them, the guests watched with visible delight, charmed by the unexpected interaction, both lighthearted and full of life.
Then, in a final gesture, she raised her hands.
Her fingers came together, forming a delicate shape of an ephemeral flower blooming in the air before gently closing.
The movement held Michael’s gaze.
Something in it lingered.
Before he could grasp it, applause erupted, filling the space with vibrant energy. She inclined her head slightly in a restrained, graceful acknowledgment, then withdrew without attempting to prolong the moment.
One by one, the dancers returned to their initial formation, their silhouettes regaining that perfect unity. They offered a final synchronized bow before disappearing with the same quiet elegance that had marked their entrance.
— Thank you to our dancers, who have worked tirelessly for this performance, the director announced as he returned to the stage. Now, we will proceed to dinner.
Servers dressed in traditional attire entered the room, spreading gracefully among the guests as dishes began to appear, plated with refined generosity.
As the guest of honor, Michael was naturally guided to a table set slightly apart, close enough to remain at the heart of the reception, yet secluded enough to preserve a sense of intimacy between himself, the director, and the minister.
No sooner had he taken his seat than the minister turned to him, a barely concealed satisfaction in his smile.
— So, Michael… what did you think of your surprise?
A genuine light brightened the singer’s expression.
— I loved it. It was incredible to watch.
The director nodded, visibly relieved.
— I’m delighted to hear that. They trained for months to be worthy of this moment. They were especially nervous about performing in front of you. They admire your work deeply.
A soft, almost shy laugh escaped Michael.
— It was truly remarkable… honestly, I’m not even sure I could dance like that one day. He joked.
A knowing glance passed between the minister and the director, a quiet pride settling in their expressions. Impressing someone like him felt like an achievement in itself.
Then Michael leaned in slightly, his tone shifting into something more personal.
— I wanted to ask… do you know them personally?
The minister raised an eyebrow.
— The dancers?
Michael hesitated for a fraction of a second.
— There’s one… whose dancing particularly intrigued me. I’d like to ask her something.
— In that case, nothing is stopping you. They’re probably getting ready to leave. You could easily join them.
The thought crossed Michael’s mind, tempting and yet, he did not act on it.
To intrude on that space would have broken something. It would have felt like a violation of their privacy.
The conversation resumed naturally.
— By the way, when does the auction begin? the minister asked.
— At dessert. Answered the director. The furniture and jewelry being sold tonight belonged to Oum Kalthoum.
At the mention of her name, Michael’s expression shifted instantly. His eyes widened slightly, recognition flashing through them. Oum Kalthoum was a monumental figure in the history of Arabic music, he could hardly believe her belongings had been recovered after her passing.
The director added, with quiet reverence:
— Her family agreed to part with some of her personal effects. All proceeds will go directly toward funding the schools.
A thought surfaced in Michael’s mind:
What if, one day, he too had to decide what would become of everything he owned?
It was not a new question. The fate of the vulnerable had always moved him deeply, a sudden empathy overtaking him whenever he watched the news.
At that precise moment, the minister’s assistant returned to their table, holding a large mobile phone.
— Michael, someone is asking for you.
He thanked her with a nod, rising discreetly before stepping away toward the riad’s inner courtyard. It was the perfect place to retreat from the gala’s noise, the moonlight bathed the space in a soft glow, and only a few guests lingered there, talking or smoking.
His manager was on the other end, simply checking in, exchanging updates. Whenever he was on the phone, Michael found himself pacing unconsciously, walking as the conversation unfolded.
And so, by pure chance, he drifted toward the pool.
That was when he saw her, the dancer.
She had just received an envelope likely her payment which she carefully slipped into her bag.
She was no longer in her stage attire. Now, a long, flowing dress wrapped around her figure, its wide sleeves lending her movements an airy grace. A thick belt defined her waist, structuring the silhouette, while her hair, now gathered into a long braid, accentuated the elegant line of her neck.
Michael’s responses grew distracted.
— I have to go… it’s already night here.
He hung up, his attention completely seized.
Without realizing it, his gaze followed her every movement as she headed toward a side exit, a discreet passage leading out of the riad, away from the paparazzi gathered at the main entrance.
He waited a few seconds, just enough to ensure no one was watching him, then followed, quickening his pace before breaking into a light jog to catch up.
At the sound of approaching footsteps, she spun around abruptly, her lashes fluttering as she found herself face-to-face with the world-famous star.
— Wait, he called as he reached her.
She studied him, brows slightly drawn together, her expression caught between caution and curiosity.
— I’d like to ask you something, he continued.
As he caught his breath, she kept watching him. A thought crossed his mind, widening his eyes slightly.
— Oh… you don’t speak English?
— Yes, I do, she replied immediately. I speak your language.
Her voice was soft, faintly melodic, carrying the natural inflections of her mother tongue, each word tinged with an accent that rolled gently over certain consonants.
Michael couldn’t help the small smile that formed he found it unexpectedly endearing.
— When you danced earlier… you ended with this gesture.
He raised his hands, attempting to recreate it, his fingers shaping that fleeting flower he hadn’t forgotten.
— What does it mean?
At his question, something in her softened. A quiet surprise flickered in her eyes, she had performed that gesture countless times.
And yet, no one had ever asked.
She slowly lifted her hands, her fingers coming together once more to form the delicate shape.
— It represents the lotus.
The gesture lingered between them.
— The lotus…? he repeated.
She nodded gently.
— Yes. It’s a symbol of rebirth. She paused, her hands lowering slowly. But for me… it’s different.
His gaze locked onto hers, intense, unwavering, the world around them faded.
He wasn’t just listening. He was absorbing every word.
— The lotus hides in the forest.
— The forest?
— The unknown… The obstacles of life. Everything we go through without knowing where it will lead. But within it… there’s a lotus. Something beautiful, hidden.
Silence settled.
And in that silence, he understood: beauty lived within hardship. To find it, one had to keep walking even without certainty.
Their eyes remained locked while time slowed.
— You… don’t recognize me?
— I do. Everyone knows you. She said.
He exhaled a soft, ironic laugh.
— But you… don’t.
She looked away.
— I’ve seen your face on vinyl covers… some danced to your songs during rehearsals… but that’s all. I don’t listen to much American music.
For the first time in a long while, Michael Jackson found himself facing someone who did not look at him as a legend but simply as a man.
He inclined his head slightly, his gaze still resting on her with quiet intent, as though trying to understand her beyond what was visible.
— Have you ever listened to my music?
The young woman slowly lifted her head, attempting to emerge from that withdrawn state. Her eyes hesitated for a moment before settling on him again.
— Yes… there are some I listen to when I’m alone. To improve my English.
A nearly imperceptible smile brushed against his lips something between surprise and tenderness. The thought that his songs could serve as a bridge for others to learn his language touched him in an unexpected way.
— Which one?
She took a moment, searching carefully for the exact title.
— Liberian Girl.
The choice lingered in the air, unusual enough to momentarily still his expression. It wasn’t the answer he heard most often and it stirred a deeper curiosity within him. He didn’t look away, which only seemed to unsettle her further.
— That song… his voice softened, dropping into something more intimate, almost confessional… my inspiration was Egypt.
She blinked, visibly surprised, a flicker of light passing through her eyes.
— Really?
— Yes. I draw from everything I see… everything I feel. I’ve been here before.
At those words, something bright awakened in her. The idea that an artist from a world so vast, so distant, could find genuine inspiration in her country moved her more than she expected.
He noticed it, every shift in her expression, every glimmer in her eyes and quietly held onto it.
Then, without hesitation, he added:
— And the way you dance inspires me too.
Her lips parted slightly, unable to conceal her surprise. She took a small step back, almost instinctively, her hands rising to her cheeks as if to contain the sudden warmth spreading through them.
Her movements betrayed a nervousness born from the softness and intensity of his words.
Michael couldn’t suppress a genuine smile, his dimples appearing as he watched her reaction, charmed by a spontaneity he found as rare as it was precious.
— What’s your name?
— Imaan…
Her name slipped from her lips with fragile softness. He repeated it silently, savoring its melody.
— And… do you know mine?
A timid smile ghosted across her face, her eyes briefly returning to his.
— Michael… Jackson.
The way she pronounced it, shaped by her accent, drew an even softer smile from him, something he knew he would remember.
A brief silence passed before he asked, naturally:
— Imaan… may I walk you home?
Her eyes widened in surprise, her gaze instinctively scanning their surroundings.
— But… people will recognize you if you come with me. I live near the souk there are always people at this hour.
Michael raised an eyebrow slightly.
— Really? In the middle of the night?
— There are always people in Cairo. No matter the time.
The fragile bubble they had found themselves in did not last.
In the distance, a voice began to emerge from the surrounding noise, indistinct at first then gradually clearer until it became unmistakable.
The minister was almost here.
He was calling out Michael’s name, urgency threading through his voice, slowly breaking the stillness of the courtyard.
The young woman froze.
Her expression shifted, tension flickering across her features as the footsteps drew closer. Imaan stepped back quickly, almost on instinct.
— I have to go.
Her movements became hurried as she bent down to retrieve her bag from the ground.
Michael, caught off guard, followed her with his eyes, confusion immediate.
— What? No… let me walk you home. I’m a gentleman.
The minister’s voice grew closer still, a clear sign their moment was slipping away.
Imaan shook her head lightly, her gaze now avoiding his.
— They’re waiting for you. I’m sorry… but I don’t want us to be seen together.
He opened his mouth, ready to insist but before a single word could leave his lips, she was already gone.
Her silhouette dissolved into the warm Cairo night.
Michael hesitated, tempted to follow until a hand landed on his shoulder.
— Ah, Michael! There you are!
The minister, slightly out of breath, seemed to have crossed half the riad in search of him, the rhythm of the evening still clinging to him.
But Michael barely listened. His gaze remained fixed on the direction she had taken. The courtyard, now darker, offered no trace, no clear path to follow.
Slowly, he turned away.
— Sorry… I needed some air. I got a little lost.
The lie slipped from his lips before he could think twice about it.
The minister nodded without question, too absorbed in the lively pace of the evening unfolding within the riad.
— I understand… it was quite noisy earlier. But now that the auction has begun, everyone is focused. Oum Kalthoum’s pieces are drawing a lot of attention.
He paused, then added:
— Come, I’d like you to meet someone.
Michael nodded mechanically.
They walked side by side through the courtyard corridors. Lanterns cast a warm glow against the mosaic walls, their shadows shifting softly as they moved.
Still haunted by the echo of his encounter with Imaan, Michael broke the silence, curiosity threading through his voice.
— You wanted to introduce me to someone?
The minister glanced at him as they walked.
— Yes. I was told you came here to rest. A friend of mine owns several travel agencies in Egypt he can arrange a fully private, personalized visit for you. No press, no crowds. He’s here tonight, actually I can introduce you right away.
Michael slowed, then came to a complete stop.
— That would be very kind, he said after a brief pause. I’d love to explore the country.
Then, after a slight beat, his tone shifted.
— But I have one condition.
The minister stopped as well, intrigued.
— I’m listening.
Michael took another moment.
— Your friend… is he discreet?
The minister blinked, then without hesitation raised two fingers to his lips, miming the motion of sealing them shut.
— Silent as the grave. A man of honor.
A faint smile crossed Michael’s face, satisfied.
— Because I don’t want journalists. No rumors. Nothing. I want to take this trip with a friend… so I need complete discretion.
The minister nodded immediately, without the slightest hesitation.
— Then don’t worry. Just have him sign a confidentiality agreement with heavy financial penalties in case of disclosure. That usually keeps even the most talkative people quiet.
A quiet, amused breath escaped Michael.
He appreciated the efficiency, the immediate understanding of his need for space.
They resumed walking toward the auction hall, his mind lighter now.
— Do you think Oum Kalthoum’s pieces will sell quickly?
The minister smiled with certainty.
— Oh, absolutely. The people here are among the most influential in the country. Owning part of her legacy would be an honor. I’d even say the jewelry will go first.
The moment those words left his lips, something shifted in Michael. He wanted those jewels.
No one else would have them before him.
Without warning, he broke into a run toward the main entrance.
The minister froze, eyes widening.
— Michael?!
He hurried after him as best he could, struggling slightly due to his age and build.
— Michael! Wait for me!