Mariah Carey

Back to time please because we are missing one important thing.

March 15, 1990

Five days since PAC and Michael song , and already, Pac could feel the shift. This wasn't just some local hit—this was worldwide. And now, Universal Music Group had locked in the international deal with death row record. Japan. Africa. Europe. Pac wasn't just making music for the block no more. He was stepping into a different league.

To celebrate, he made an appearance at an industry event—one of those high-profile functions where suits and artists linked up, all business and politics. Not really Pac's scene, but it was part of the game. If you wanted power, you had to move in these rooms.

But after an hour of shaking hands and listening to people talk in circles, he was ready to leave. That's when he saw her.

Sitting on the curb, clutching a cassette tape like it was the only thing she had left. Her friend sat beside her, whispering something, but she just shook her head, wiping her face.

Pac slowed his stride.

Something about her felt familiar—not her face, but the frustration in her body language. That look of knowing you got something special, but nobody giving you a damn chance.

Pac walked over, hands in his pockets, cool but curious.

"Damn, what's got a pretty girl like you sittin' on the sidewalk like you just lost everything?"

Her friend's head snapped up first, eyes going wide.

"Oh shit! Mariah, that's Tupac!"

Mariah lifted her head, breath catching for a second.

She had been drowning in disappointment all night, but now, looking up at him, it was like everything else faded.

Pac wasn't just some dude. His presence hit before he even spoke. That confidence, that smooth energy—and that damn smile. It was warm, real, with just the right amount of trouble behind it.

The friend, already hype, grinned. "Pac! Can I get an autograph?"

Pac smirked, dapped her up, and signed a napkin. "What's your name, ma?"

"Stephanie," she grinned. "And this is Mariah."

Pac turned to Mariah, studying her for a second.

"What's the story?"

Mariah hesitated, gripping the cassette tighter. "I been tryna get someone to listen to my demo all night. Nobody cared."

Pac exhaled, shaking his head. Same industry bullshit. He knew the game. If you ain't got a name, they don't even hear you.

Stephanie leaned forward, smirking. "Hey, Pac, we need a ride. You mind droppin' us off?"

Pac shrugged. "Hop in."

Mariah hesitated, still processing how fast everything was happening. But Stephanie nudged her, whispering, "Girl, get in the car."

Once inside, before Pac even touched the ignition, he held out his hand.

"Lemme see that tape."

Mariah blinked. "What?"

"The tape. That the one you been tryna get people to hear?"

She nodded, a little stunned, and passed it to him.

Pac popped it into the deck.

Then he heard it.

Smooth. Powerful. Like silk, but with depth.

He expected just another singer, but nah, this was different. It wasn't just talent. It was soul.

Stephanie peeped his reaction and smirked. "Hey, Pac…" she said, leaning forward. "You can drop me off first."

Pac side-eyed her. "Oh, you slick, huh?"

Stephanie laughed. "I'm just sayin'."

He shook his head but didn't argue. He dropped her off first, leaving just him and Mariah in the car.

For a while, neither of them spoke. The music played. Pac nodded along, eyes focused on the road, catching every note, every run, every emotion behind the voice.

When the last song ended, he turned to her.

"You serious about this?"

Mariah sat up straight. "More than anything."

Pac nodded. "Aight."

That was all he said at first. He put the car in drive, started heading toward her drop-off, but then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, he added—

"Come sing for my label."

Mariah turned to him, eyes wide. "You mean…?"

Pac kept his focus on the road, but his smirk said everything.

Mariah felt her heart race.

She had already started liking Tupac—his energy, his confidence, the way he just knew things. He wasn't like the other men she had met in the industry, the ones who saw her as just another pretty face. Pac was looking at her like she was an artist. Like she had value.

She couldn't help it.

She leaned over and kissed him.

It wasn't planned. It wasn't something she thought through. It just happened.

Soft. Slow. A moment frozen in time.

Pac didn't flinch, didn't pull back. Just grinned, licking his lips, finally looking at her.

"Oh, you feelin' me like that, huh?"

Mariah felt her face heat up, but she didn't regret it. She bit her lip, looking at him through long lashes, her breath still caught in her throat.

Pac tilted his head slightly, watching her like he was trying to read her mind. But he already knew.

He could feel it in the air—the shift, the tension, the pull.

Mariah wasn't just some girl in his car. This was different.

She was looking at him like he was more than Tupac the artist. More than Tupac the rising star.

She saw him.

Pac exhaled, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter.

For the first time in a minute, he wasn't the one in control.

Mariah leaned in again, this time slower. Testing.

Pac didn't stop her. Didn't want to.

When their lips met again, he felt it. That rush. That spark.

She tasted sweet—like cherry lip gloss and possibility.

Pac smirked against her lips before pulling back just an inch, whispering, "You tryna distract me or what?"

Mariah giggled, her fingers lingering on his jaw, tracing the line of his face.

"Maybe."

Pac chuckled, shaking his head. "Aight then."

He started to drive again, but before he could even ask where to drop her off, Mariah's voice was soft but certain—

"Take me to your hotel."

Pac's grip on the wheel tightened. His smirk deepened, but he didn't say a word.

Didn't need to.

He just made a smooth turn, heading exactly where she wanted to go.

Because when a beautiful fish jumps into your net on its own, you don't say no.