Mordred sat on the edge of the couch, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the armrest. The suite was quiet except for the faint hum of the city outside. He should have been used to interviews by now—rehearsed answers, fake smiles, scripted charm. But this one felt different.
Because it was her.
Nevaeh.
She had walked away from the story before, but now she was back. And he had no idea why.
The knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts. He straightened, masking his curiosity with indifference. Oliver opened the door, and there she was—standing in the doorway, a stark contrast to the swirling chaos of his world.
"Nevaeh," Oliver greeted with an easy nod. "Right on time."
Mordred's eyes swept over her, searching for any sign of hesitation. But there was none.
She stepped inside, her gaze steady. "Shall we begin?"
Oliver smirked. "Straight to business. I'll leave you two to it." He shut the door behind him, leaving them alone.
Nevaeh pulled out her recorder and set it on the coffee table. "No staged moments. No filtered soundbites. Just the truth."
Mordred leaned back. "That supposed to scare me?"
She met his gaze, unflinching. "I think you've had enough people tell your story for you. This time, you get to tell it yourself."
He studied her, searching for an agenda. A hidden angle. But all he saw was quiet determination.
A slow smile tugged at his lips. "Alright then."
Nevaeh pressed record.
"Let's talk."
Nevaeh kept her eyes on Mordred as the recorder's red light blinked steadily. The air between them was charged—not with the usual manufactured tension of a celebrity interview, but with something unspoken, something real.
Mordred leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Where do you want to start?"
Nevaeh didn't hesitate. "Your past."
His jaw tensed slightly, but he didn't look away. "Which part?"
"The part people don't know."
A humorless chuckle left his lips. "That's a long list."
She tilted her head. "Then let's start with something simple." She paused, watching his reaction. "Your real name isn't Mordred, is it?"
His fingers curled slightly against his knee. "No," he admitted. "It's Ethan."
Nevaeh nodded, already knowing that from her research. But hearing him say it out loud made it real. "Why did you change it?"
Mordred—Ethan—smirked, but there was no amusement behind it. "Because Ethan Deval was just a kid no one wanted. Mordred is someone they do."
She studied him, her grip tightening around her notepad. "And who are you?"
He exhaled through his nose, a trace of something vulnerable flashing across his face before he masked it. "That's the million-dollar question, isn't it?"
Nevaeh let the silence stretch, refusing to fill it with meaningless reassurances. This wasn't about making him comfortable. It was about the truth.
Finally, he spoke again. "I was four when my parents sold me."
Her stomach twisted, even though she had suspected as much. "Sold you to who?"
His gaze darkened. "To people who saw potential. Industry people and the people who are my parents now, the Martin family.They gave my parents just enough money to take care of my siblings and then wiped their hands clean."
Nevaeh swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. "Did they ever reach out to you?"
A cold laugh escaped him. "Not once."
The weight of his words settled between them. Nevaeh had interviewed public figures before, had seen the polished masks they wore, but Mordred wasn't giving her a mask. He was giving her the pieces of himself no one had dared to ask for.
She softened her tone, just slightly. "Do you ever think about going back? To them?"
He shook his head. "There's nothing to go back to."
Nevaeh scribbled down a few notes, even though she knew she wouldn't need them. She would remember every word of this conversation.
She looked up again. "You weren't just sold to the industry, were you?"
Mordred's entire body went still.
She had hit something deeper. Something raw.
His voice was quieter when he finally spoke. "No. I wasn't."
A beat of silence.
Then, just as she was about to speak again, he smirked. "You're good at this, you know."
She arched a brow. "At what?"
"Making me talk."
Nevaeh didn't smile. "That's because I'm listening."
For the first time in a long time, Mordred believed it.
Mordred reached forward and stopped the recorder with a firm press of his fingers. The red light blinked off.
Nevaeh frowned. "Why did you—"
"Take that part out." His voice was calm, but there was no room for argument.
She blinked. "What?"
"You heard me." He sat back, running a hand through his hair. "If my family or the company hears that, they'll sue you. Your company, too."
Nevaeh's grip tightened around her pen. "So, you want me to pretend it never happened?"
Mordred let out a breath, looking at her—really looking at her. "I want to tell the truth, but there are some things I can't let the world know. Not yet."
She studied him, frustration burning beneath her ribs. "But this is your truth, Mordred. Isn't that the whole point of this interview?"
A muscle in his jaw twitched. "Yeah, well, truth gets people killed in this industry."
Silence stretched between them.
Nevaeh's mind raced. She could fight him on this, push for the story that no one else had, the one that would shake the industry—but at what cost? If he wasn't ready, if he was afraid…
She exhaled slowly. "Fine."
Mordred's gaze softened slightly, as if he hadn't expected her to agree so easily. "Thank you."
She hesitated, then asked, "Will you ever be ready to talk about it?"
His eyes flickered with something unreadable. "Maybe."
Nevaeh nodded, reaching for the recorder again. She pressed record, her voice steady. "Let's continue."
This time, she would tread carefully.
For now.
Then....
The recorder was running again, but the energy in the room had shifted.
Nevaeh adjusted her posture, forcing herself to refocus. If Mordred wasn't ready to expose everything, then she'd have to approach this differently.
"Alright," she said, her tone measured. "Let's talk about something you can say."
Mordred arched a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching. "You mean something safe?"
She didn't smile. "I mean something real."
He exhaled through his nose, studying her like he was trying to decide if she was an ally or another vulture circling above him. "Fine. What do you want to know?"
She tapped her pen against her notepad. "Your music."
Mordred relaxed slightly. This was familiar ground. "What about it?"
Nevaeh met his gaze. "What do you really want to say in it? Not the polished, industry-approved version. The real version."
For a moment, he didn't answer. Then, after a beat, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "I want to write about things that matter. Not just the 'bad boy pop star with a tragic past' crap they sell."
"Then why don't you?"
He scoffed. "You think I have a choice?"
She tilted her head. "You're Mordred. You're one of the biggest names in the industry. If anyone has a choice, it's you."
Mordred let out a quiet laugh, but there was no humor in it. "You'd think so, wouldn't you?"
Nevaeh frowned. "So they control what you release?"
"They control everything." His voice was quiet, but there was weight behind it. "The image. The sound. The brand deals. Even the scandals are planned." He shook his head. "Everything is a product. Including me."
Nevaeh tightened her grip on her pen. "Do you ever think about walking away?"
His expression flickered—just for a second. "Every damn day."
Her breath caught, but she kept her voice steady. "So why don't you?"
He leaned back, gaze lifting toward the ceiling. "Because I don't know who I am without this."
Nevaeh's heart clenched at his honesty. This wasn't the cocky, untouchable star the world saw. This was someone trapped in a golden cage, too used to the bars to imagine life outside of them.
She cleared her throat. "If you could release one song—just one—without anyone interfering, what would it be about?"
Mordred didn't hesitate.
"Freedom."
The word hung between them, heavy with meaning.
Nevaeh let the silence stretch, allowing him to sit with it. Then, softly, she said, "Then maybe that's where you start."
Mordred met her eyes. And for the first time since the interview began, he didn't look like Mordred the star.
He just looked like Ethan.
And Nevaeh knew—this was the story she needed to tell.