Chapter Text
February 28th, 1984, Los Angeles
It was a generally known truth that a pop star in the 80s was not born, but rather manufactured in wood paneled boardrooms by calculating men who traded human souls for platinum records. They belonged to the black vinyl spinning at forty five revolutions per minute on a teenager’s turntable, to the neon lit billboards displaying their airbrushed faces, and to the ruthless corporate executives who demanded they sign their names in blood. Jules knew everything by heart. From the endless contracts, and the rising numbers, to the money-hungry leeches that were latching onto her ever since she was young. They had been there for as long as she can remember, flashing their dazzling predatory smiles and promising her the world, while calculating in exactly how many ways they could split her royalties. Because the 80’s scene was a battlefield at the end of the day. A brutal, multi million dollar war between lyrics, record selling and synthetics, and not breaking through meant you were left behind. Jules couldn’t let that happen, especially since Ignition had become the second best selling album of the year, dominating the charts and radios world wide.
The air inside the dressing room smelled of scorched hair, expensive lacquer, and the distinct, intoxicating smoke of cigarette after cigarette just to watch them burn down to her fingertips. She didn't mind the smoke. It was cleaner than the dirty corporate oxygen waiting for her outside of the corridor. While sitting motionless beneath the harsh glare of lightbulbs glued to her vanity mirror, her stylist was texturing her dark, sculptural coils, that had been drowned in enough aerosol finishing spray to withstand a tornado. Beneath her eyes, she had dragged a stick of charcoal kohl, deliberately smoking the margins until she looked less like a nominee and more like a soldier preparing for a midnight raid. Hugging her frame tightly, her gown was a far cry from the predictable sequins the label had begged her to wear. The bodice was an armored, heavily rhinestoned corset, with black glass crystals that caught any light like shattered ice. Where the bodice ended at the hip, the fabric transformed into a waterfall of liquid obsidian satin. The heavy, midnight black silk was draped with dramatic precision, gathering in deep, sculptural folds across her hips before cascading down into a pooling train that swept the floor like spilled ink. But the true element of shock laid beneath the draped satin skirt. A high, daring split exposed a cascade of long, swinging strands of crystals, tumbling down from her waist like a frozen curtain of rain, catching every movement and clinking with a sharp rhythm every time she took a step.
The Grammys were a scandal market, and tonight, Julianne Montgomery was the prime target. Ignition had shattered every projection that Epic Records had statistically generated. It was a record built on her own blood and sweat, a guitar amplifier, and a vocal delivery that felt like an open wound. For thirty two consecutive weeks, the three lead singles from the album had been permanently fixed on the charts, leaving such an impactful footprint that almost no one could erase. Almost. Sitting at number two with Ignition and going back and forth between the top singles on the annual chart wasn't victory. Not when the gap between her and the top spot was defended by a fortress of musical perfection.
Across the room, a portable nineteen-inch Sony Trinitron television flickered with a low, hummed static. The volume was turned down, but the colors were impossible to ignore, blinding hues of electric midnight blue as a backdrop across the screen. It was a Grammy’s live pre show retrospective, briefly synopsizing the most awaited artists before the actual event would start. Jules’ eyes drifted to the screen, her fingers tightening around the cold silver casing of a lipstick tube. The video footage transitioned from a high budget clip of choreographed dancers moving zombie-like with terrifying precision, to a live interview clip from earlier that week.
There he was, sitting on a minimalist leather sofa in a Los Angeles studio. The epitome of untouchable, calculating royalty, Jules thought. Every detail of his appearance was engineered to project absolute, effortless dominance, masked by sweet, gentle politeness. His dark curls were styled flawlessly to fall across his brows, his neat black shirt was adorned with white piping and buttons, that caught the studio lights without a single thread out of place. He didn’t slouch. He didn’t sweat. He sat with his hands loosely clasped, his posture straight, radiating with a polished perfectionism of a man who had grown up behind the gates of a massive industry. A tight knot coiled in the pit of Jules’ stomach. It wasn't fear of him, not at all. Rather, it was the fury of recognizing a person who reached for the peak every single day, much alike her. The screen cut to a close-up of the interviewer, a frantic man holding that microphone in his hand like his life depended on it. The subtitle graphic flashed at the bottom of the glass tube:
“MONTGOMERY’S ‘IGNITION’ GOING FOR ALBUM OF THE YEAR?”
Julianne reached over, her gold bracelet clattering against the vanity table as she twisted the small plastic volume knob on the television. The low hiss of the audio filled the room.
“...unprecedented momentum behind Julianne Montgomery this year,” the interviewer’s voice could be heard, an edge of provocative excitement in his tone.
“Some insiders are speculating that Ignition is going head to head for the win with Thriller at the ceremony tonight. Does that make you nervous?”
Jules held her breath, her gaze locked onto his pixelated face. She watched the subtle, microscopic shift in his expression, the way his eyelids lowered just a fraction of a second. It was a tell. For all his untouchable persona, she knew the industry machine he was. She knew his father’s legendary empire wouldn't tolerate second place. He wasn't just defending a record, he was defending a throne built by a man who most probably achieved this level of fortune through inexplicable ways. Defending out of spite or out of fear, Jules didn’t know. When he spoke, his voice came through the small television speaker smooth, calm, high pitched and deliberately measured.
“Julianne is an extraordinary energy,” he said, but only Jules could hear the brief pause on the word 'energy' to minimize its compliment. The regular person watching wouldn’t catch on, because of his overly polite, shy and gentleman imagine. Although for Jules it was a straight jab at what he had thought of as her lack of discipline.
His lips curved into a flawless smile that didn't reach his doe eyes. “What she’s doing with her dance pop and electronic mix sound is very spirited, very unique. It’s wonderful to see our label supporting projects that appeal to… sub-cultures.”
A quiet sigh escaped Jules’ mouth. Sub-cultures? Dance Pop and Electronic? He had just dismissed eighty thousand seat stadiums as a niche market. Moreover, her latest music was specifically synth-pop, pop-rock and R&B. Did he ever listen to her music at all? Did Quincy never put him through the agonizing pain of listening to Jules’ music just like he was doing with her, almost every recording session?
“But as for tonight,” he continued, leaning back slightly, his hand moving in a small, elegant gesture that dismissed her entire year's work with a flick of his wrist, “the Voting Academy will speak for itself, won’t it? We’re very confident in what we’ve built with Thriller. I wish her the absolute best of luck tonight. Truly.”
The snarky remarks were wrapped in diplomacy, perfectly executed for the cameras, but to Jules, it was a personal attack on her entire work. He hadn't just come for her music, he had belittled her in front of millions of viewers. She reached out and slapped the power button on the Sony. The screen collapsed into a single, blinding white dot of light before dying into total blackness. The silence in the dressing room felt heavy, vibrating with the lingering of his smooth, arrogant voice. Jules’ heart was hammering against her ribs, a wild, irregular rhythm that defied anatomy. He thought she was a temporary trend. He thought her lyricism, her sound, everything were just noise compared to his level of success.
The silence was broken only by the plastic click of Rebecca’s comb resuming its work. Jules stared at the black television screen, her own reflection looking back at her through the dark glass, framed by the blinding lights of the vanity.
"Don't let him get under your skin, Jules," Rebecca murmured, her fingers pinning a structured coil into place. “He plays the saint, you know that. Although… I get his appeal to women. Polite, sweet, shy, gentleman.” she defensively put her hands up, as Jules stared in shock at her.
"I'm not mad,” Jules said, though the lie tasted very bitter on her lips. “Besides, it’s a façade. Becca, I’ve known you forever, don’t tell me you can’t see through it.”
Jules stood up, the long, swinging strands of crystals beneath her satin skirt clinking like heavily, while the weight of the black corset felt like pulling her down. She adjusted the velvet lined straps on her shoulders, looking at her sharp silhouette against the white walls of the dressing room.
“Regardless of what happens tonight, I am the proudest of you, Jules,” Rebecca hugged her loosely, making sure not to mess up her freshly styled hair. “I always was and always will be.” she had the most sincere, soft smile on her face and Jules couldn’t be more grateful to have her best friend by her side at this time.
With one last reassuring look, Rebecca ushered Jules out of the dressing room, like a mother sending her child on their first day of school. It felt like that at least. As she stepped outside, Jules probably felt more nerve-wracked than the child on their first day of school. The transition from the quiet atmosphere of the dressing room to the chaos of the Shrine Auditorium was a sensory assault. The backstage corridors of the 26th Annual Grammy Awards were an overbearing excess, smelling of expensive colognes, spilled champagne, and the distinct faces of the industry's stardom. Paparazzi were lurking already behind the curtains, their flashbulbs exploding in a blinding rhythm that turned the tunnel into a nightmare. Executives in oversized tuxedos with silk ties shouted over the noisy corridor, checking clipboards, while rock stars with bloodshot eyes and models by their side walked down the hall like wired robots.
She could hear the booming symphonies of the live orchestra tuning up through the auditorium walls. The air inside the main room was thick, heavy with the collective breath of thousands of people dressed in millions of dollars worth of clothes. Jules could smell the egos from the entrance she was standing in. When she took her seat in the third row, the corporate hierarchy of Epic Records was on full display next to her, as well as a few other artists under their label. Right in front of her in the second row, closer to the main stage, his entourage was seated. He hadn't arrived yet, but his presence hung over the empty center seats like an incoming storm. Quincy was frantically looking around, most probably waiting on his appearance. A couple days before the event, Quincy had made sure to ask Jules if it were okay to be seated next to him instead of her.
“The label insisted, Jules. You know I would always choose my favorite girl,” Quincy apologized, a sincere half smile on his face.
Jules had to admit, she felt a little betrayed and jealous but she knew Quincy meant what he said. He always treated her like his little daughter, looking out for her and trying his best to protect her from the scrutinizing industry they were apart of. On the other hand, he was Quincy’s ‘golden boy’. Jules hoped for the day the label would stop comparing the two, pitting them against each other, and selling this image to the media. But at the end of the day, where would the media get their money from?
Suddenly the house lights dimmed, as the opening theme of the broadcast erupted from the massive stage speakers, and the event officially opened.
The first half of the ceremony passed in a blur of gold plated category presentations and awards, and polite applauses every other five minutes. As the ceremony was coming closer to the ‘grand categories’ everyone was waiting for, her heart abruptly felt like it would explode out of her chest. It was inevitable to have these kinds of emotions at the most important award ceremony in the history of music, but Jules tried to keep her composure and calm down her nerves. As the event hit the two hour mark, she was beginning to feel impatient. So were other artists as she could sense around her. Her manager was sitting beside her the whole time, always checking in to make sure Jules wasn’t going to inexplicably evaporate into thin air from her nervousness.
“Jules, I promise it will be alright,” Andrea, her family’s lifelong manager, put her hand on top of Jules’ to stop her trembling. “It is your first Grammys after all, don’t be so hard on yourself.”
Jules nodded, barely smiling at Andrea, who was one of the few people who knew her background and childhood, but she could never understand the pressure Jules always felt to make her dad proud. Everything she ever did, it always for her dad. Every song, every beat, every note, every lyric, every dance move, it was all to honor her dad. And tonight was Jules’ first chance to have him looking down at her with pride, embracing his daughter’s dedication.
As the presenter read the nominees for Best Pop Vocal Performance, Female, the screen behind the podium flashed a clip of Jules belting the bridge of Ignition, the current lead single, her raw, raspy vocals cutting through the atmosphere of the auditorium like a knife. Before the presenter even opened her mouth to announce the winner, Jules thought she would vomit her insides out, right on the bright red carpet in front of her.
"And the Grammy for Best Pop Vocal Female Performance goes to…,” the woman on the stage made sure to stall the winner until she opened the white and gold embroidered envelope.
“… Ignition, Julianne Montgomery!”
The world stopped. Applauses were explosive, a deafening wave of screams shaking the auditorium as well as Jules’ mind in the process. Jules doesn’t remember how but she managed to stand up, probably ushered by Andrea, the liquid obsidian satin of her dress sweeping behind her as she ascended the stairs, everything around her remaining a blur. When she took the heavy golden gramophone from the presenter's hands, she looked out over the sea of faces, all staring at her expectedly. Her speech was short, grateful, but entirely devoid of the standard industry crap she heard everyone before her speak.
“Winning your first Grammy seems surreal," she said into the microphone, her short laugh echoing off the high ceilings. "I want to thank and dedicate this to my father, the most important person in my life, because who would I be without him?”Jules looked up briefly through the ceiling, into the night sky.
“And to my fans, you are the most incredible people for making this happen,”she waved her hand in the back, as a roar of screams and applause erupted. “Lastly, I want to thank my best friend and my manager, who have supported me through everything. And, of course, Quincy. My hero, my savior, my brilliant producer.” Jules pointed through the crowd, smiling at her producer as he politely thanked her.
Jules felt every eye in the arena locked onto her face as she descended the stairs. Her hands were still trembling from the shock of her first win, completely unaware that the night was only getting started. The evening quickly turned into a blur of gold, and before she could even fully process her first win, her name was called again. Then again. And again. She found herself rushing back up on the stage for winning Best Female Rock Vocal Performance for the song Blissed Out, followed shortly by Best Female R&B Vocal Performance for Memories Of Rain. By the time she was handed the trophy for Best New Artist, her arms were literally full, and her speeches had reduced to breathless and tearful acceptances. It was a historic run, Jules thought at least, the kind of night that will fortify a lifelong career. Never in her life had she felt so overwhelmed, disbelief running through her thoughts.
But as the night moved on, the historical magnitude of Thriller began to shake the entire ceremony. The album and its singles weren’t just winning, they were sweeping absolutely every award that was left in their categories. Jules had been so focused on her own achievements that she almost had missed each time a presenter opened a white envelope, his name was inside it. Best Pop Vocal Performance, Male. Best Rock Vocal Performance, Male. Best R&B Vocal Performance, Male. Record Of The Year. Seven Grammys so far. Winning this many Grammy Awards in one night hasn’t happened in a long time, breaking every barrier that had been settled before. Every time he walked up the stairs, his navy blue, military style sequined jacket with gold epaulettes, and his single white crystal glove gleamed under the spotlight. His dark aviator sunglasses made him look more and more like an untouchable deity. He accepted each award with that same soft, dreamy humility, bowing his head and clasping his hands, as he continuously thanked his family and his fans. He had even insisted that his sisters join him on stage to share this milestone together. How thoughtful.
“I made a deal with myself if I win one more award…” he paused, glancing down at the golden trophy with a soft, boyish smile before looking back at the crowd. “…which is this award… which is seven… which is a record.”
A fresh wave of cheers rippled through the audience almost every moment he uttered a word. He shifted his weight, his fingers tracing the rim of his sunglasses, as Jules watched from her seat, noticing the deliberate, teasing delay. He knows exactly what he’s doing, she thought. He was playing them beautifully.
“I would take off my glasses,” he announced, though he immediately ducked his head, a bit of shyness breaking through his stage presence. “I don’t want to take them off, really.”
The crowd roared in protest. He let out a breathless laugh, holding up a hand as a way to quiet them.
“Well, Katharine Hepburn, who is a dear friend of mine, she told me I should,” he said, a touch of pride warming his voice as he slowly touched the rim of his glasses. “And I’m doing it for her.”
The crowd roared, practically begging him to do it. Suddenly, that sweet shyness melted into pure showmanship, as he tilted his head, pointing a playful, cocky finger toward the nosebleed seats.
“And the girls in the back.”
Jules couldn't help but roll her eyes at the sheer charm of it. Of course, she thought, even as a faint smirk tugged at her lips. The man was a genius at playing the room. Right on the height of the roaring screams, he finally made his move. In one smooth, theatrical motion, he slid the dark lenses off the bridge of his nose, exposing his eyes to the flashing cameras and leaving the entire auditorium breathless.
Jules watched him soak in the historic standing ovation as he finally left the stage, her own heart suddenly hammering against her ribs. His sweeping victory was a tough act to follow, most probably never to be done again in the near future, and the night was drawing to its absolute peak. The true importance of the situation didn’t hit until the ceremony reached its most awaited categories. When the presenters stepped up to announce Song of the Year, the energy in the arena shifted. This wasn't just about a great vocal or a catchy song, this was the tiara of the night, an award to the songwriting masterpiece of the year.
As the envelope was slowly being opened, the room fell dead silent.
“And the Grammy goes to…” the presenter excitedly started. “Ignition, Julianne Montgomery.”
The roar that followed was deafening, but to Jules, the sound instantly cut out. The previous four awards had been an unbelievably unexpected thrill, but this? This was the ultimate achievement. This is what she had worked for all these years, for her art to be seen, to be recognized, to be understood. Jules had officially exceeded everyone’s expectations, including her own. Including her father’s. There was no going back anymore. She couldn’t let her father down after this. Everyone around her jumped up, lifting her in endless embraces she could not remember by that point. Andrea was screaming from enthusiasm, kissing Jules’ cheeks, while in front of her, Quincy was applauding louder than anyone in the venue. That was enough for Jules to break down in a tearful laughter, her emotions all over the place.
As she walked down the aisle, her eyes involuntarily flicked to the second row. He was standing there with his people, clapping politely, his large doe eyes perfectly unreadable. He offered Jules a small, respectful nod, somehow acknowledging her as an equal even amidst the chaos of his own historic night. She accepted her fifth Grammy, holding it tight against her rhinestoned corset. A rush of pure relief and pride hit her, understanding this was proof that her writing actually mattered, that she belonged where she was.
“Thank you,” Jules breathed, gripping the microphone a little tighter to stop her hands from shaking. She looked out at the massive crowd, her eyes shining.
“I wrote this song in a tiny room, back in my home in Detroit, when I felt completely invisible. So to be standing here holding this… it doesn't even feel real. But more than anything, I want to dedicate this award to every single woman in this room, and every young girl listening at home.”
Jules’ voice grew stronger, as joyful tears poured from her eyes.
“We are so often told to sit quietly, to play nice, or to let others tell our stories for us. It takes a lot of guts to speak up, to write your own truth, and to demand to be heard. This isn’t just my win. It’s a reminder that our voices matter, our stories are powerful, and we belong at the top. Thank you so much.”
The overwhelming applause followed her all the way back to her seat, but the proudness of her speech seemingly dimmed down as the final, most important award of the night was just about to follow. Album Of The Year. Jules kept her chin up, staring straight ahead. Deep down, she felt a strange, quiet calm wash over her. Whatever name was inside that envelope didn't actually matter anymore. She knew what impact she had just made, she was proud of her music, and for the first time all night, she was completely at peace with herself.
"And the Album of the Year goes to... Thriller!"
The auditorium exploded into a standing ovation that felt like an actual shockwave. It was his eighth win of the night, a historic, record breaking moment. Jules stood up with the rest of the crowd, her hands clapping in a slow, deliberate rhythm. She watched him ascend the steps one last time, surrounded by his producers and executives, the absolute ruler of the music industry this decade. He stood on the stage like a flawless statue of perfection, thanking the academy, thanking his family, his voice smooth as silk over a wire.
“You made history tonight, Jules," Andrea whispered in her ear over the roar of the crowd. "You will break barriers for women in music with this.”
Jules turned her head slightly, offering a small, genuinely tired smile.
"I just hope they don't have to fight as hard as I did," Jules whispered back, her voice soft but steady.
The real nightmare began after the telecast cut to black. The press room backstage was a blinding swirl of flashbulbs and screaming journalists. The professional photographers were frantically maneuvering through the crowd, desperate to capitalize on the historic night. Jules had stayed after the ceremony to do a few shots for the press, embracing her awards proudly.
“Julianne! Julianne, over here!" a woman in a sequined dress gasped, grabbing Jules by the elbow just as she was trying to exit toward the limousines. "We need the joint shot. The press is demanding it. The two biggest winners of the night. It's the front page of every newspaper tomorrow."
Before Jules could object, she was pushed onto the small, raised platform in front of the massive grey background. The light was blinding, a continuous, white glare that made her eyes feel dry. And there he was. He was already standing in the center, his arms cradling a mountain of golden gramophones stacked against his chest like a collection of armor. He looked completely immaculate, not a single dark curl out of place, his jacket remaining flawless despite hours under the stage lights. Jules stepped onto the platform, her five Grammys held firmly in her hands. The photographers went into a complete state of agitation, the sound of their clicks deafening the area.
"Closer! Get closer together! Hold them up!" the media yelled.
Jules slid next to him, the black satin of her dress brushing against his trousers. The physical closeness was aggravating, as she smelled his cologne, expensive, subtle, and completely clean, a direct contrast to her bourbon, rich amber, vanilla perfume. Without looking at her, his lips curved into a flawless, camera ready smile.
"Congratulations, Julianne," he said softly, leaning in just enough to be heard over the clicks of the cameras. His expression was perfectly pleasant, the picture of a gentleman. "A beautiful win tonight. You must be incredibly proud."
Jules kept her smile fixed for the flashing lights, her posture straight. She leaned in just enough so her shoulder brushed his, her gold bracelet clattering against his jacket.
"Thank you, Michael.” she replied, her tone smooth and entirely professional as she looked straight ahead. “It’s always reassuring to know that even sub-cultures are still appreciated.”
It was a quiet, direct hit, using his own phrasing from earlier to remind him how bitterly wrong he was about her. He didn't flinch, but his eyes narrowed by a fraction of a second. So he does remember, Jules thought.
"Of course," he murmured, his smile never wavering as the cameras continued to flash. "Enjoy the moment. It’s a wonderful milestone."
"I intend to," Jules said quietly, her heart hammering a steady rhythm.