Bound By Contract

Chapter Twenty Three

Michael’s P.O.V.

Today’s testimony was more than unbearable. The mother of my accuser was on the stand today. She lied through her teeth as usual, that witch. Almost all of the things she said weren’t true, and what was true was grossly exaggerated.

This trial has left me overwhelmed physically, mentally and emotionally. The noise of my family’s post-trial commentary doesn’t help my situation either. I know they’re trying to comfort me, but honestly it just gets on my nerves.

This is what I get, though, for letting people see me as weak. After the Bashir humiliation, things got bad; but this? This is a million times worse! I had my plan, it was going to fix things, but I got my emotions too entangled in it. That was my fault. But I couldn’t help it! Damn you Christina! Why did you have to come to me at a time like this? Why do I have to love you now? Things could have been so much simpler!

Our limo pulls up to the front door of the house and the chatter of my mother, Jermaine and Janet is background noise and is drowned out by my thoughts. My heart drops as I notice Christina’s silver Mercedes parked by the side of the house. That means she is here, and that dreadful chauffer is here with her.

I rush into the house and at once I perceive it to be unusually quiet. That’s odd; she’s usually here waiting to receive us. She must be in her room. As usual, I make my way towards my room, having to pass by Christina’s on the way. But as I do, I notice her door wide open, which is unusual when she is inside it.

She’s not here. Where is she?

I hear a faint voice calling my name while punching in the code to my bedroom. Maybe its mother, maybe it’s Janet, I don’t care. Feeling the heat of anger burning my face, I slam the door behind me.

Christina’s P.O.V.

Tossing the ham and cheese omelet in the frying pan of the makeshift kitchen in my bedroom, I hear a knock coming from my door across the room.

Please don’t let it be him. Please don’t let it be him.

And him it is. Michael walks into the room and delicately shuts the door behind him. His face is serious, his black curls are tied in a low pony tail, and he’s looking as striking as always in his blue button up shirt and black slacks. I have to look away, just seeing him is painful; being alone with him is plain agonizing.

“It smells good in here,” he says politely, scratching his nose, his eyes not leaving the floor.

“Thank you.” I respond dryly, placing my omelet in a white plate and sitting down at a table next to the window overlooking the vast expanse of Neverland’s lands. I look down to my plate disparagingly. For as hungry as I was five minutes ago, suddenly my appetite seems hundreds of miles away.

“What do you want Michael?” My gaze remains on my omelet; I can’t bear to look at him.

He exhales noisily. “I want to know where you were yesterday.”

“Yesterday?” I spin around in my chair, and fold my arms. “Why?” I probe, narrowing my eyes.

“You weren’t here yesterday, so where were you?” He demands.

“I was having a picnic on the grounds,” I respond, standing up and walking towards him until I am only three feet away, arms still folded.

“Oh really,” he says cynically, now folding his arms himself.

“Really.”

“And with whom might I ask? No, let me guess; that vile driver of yours.”

“Ha! And if I told you I was with Jared? Why? Are you jealous?”