Mordred sat back, watching Nevaeh with an unreadable expression. She had asked him the one question he never allowed himself to answer—not out loud, not even in his own head.
Freedom.
The idea was intoxicating, dangerous. It felt like standing on the edge of a cliff, looking down at the life he could have but knowing the fall might kill him.
Nevaeh didn't push him for more. She just let the word linger between them, heavy, undeniable. It was unsettling, how easily she stripped away the layers he'd spent years perfecting.
He had expected her to dig, to press, to treat him like a headline waiting to be written. Instead, she just… listened.
It was terrifying.
He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling. "You ask a lot of dangerous questions, you know that?"
Nevaeh arched a brow. "You gave me permission to ask anything."
"I didn't think you'd actually take it."
She smiled slightly, but there was something knowing behind it. "You want to be heard, Mordred. You just don't know how to say it."
He chuckled, low and humorless. "And you think you do?"
"No," she admitted. "But I think you're tired of lying."
His smirk faltered. Tired didn't even begin to cover it.
Nevaeh tapped her pen against her notepad. "Tell me about your first song."
Mordred blinked at the shift. "What?"
"The first song you ever wrote. Not the first one you recorded. The first one that was yours."
He hesitated, then leaned forward, rubbing his palms together. "I was thirteen. My adoptive mom—Selene—she had this old piano in the house. I wasn't supposed to touch it, but one night, I just… did."
Nevaeh stayed silent, letting him pull the memory from wherever he had buried it.
"I didn't know how to play, not really. Just messed around until something sounded right. And then the words came." He huffed a quiet laugh. "I thought I was a genius. It was probably terrible."
She tilted her head. "What was it about?"
Mordred's fingers curled slightly against his knee. "A kid who wanted to go home."
Nevaeh's breath hitched. "Ethan."
His eyes flicked to hers, sharp but vulnerable. She had said his real name like it belonged to him.
Like he still belonged to it.
The air between them changed again—something fragile, something dangerous.
Before he could answer, a knock at the door shattered the moment.
Mordred's mask snapped back into place. "Yeah?"
Oliver's voice filtered through the door. "Mordred, we gotta go. You have a meeting in twenty."
Nevaeh glanced at him. "Another PR stunt?"
He didn't answer, but she saw the truth in his eyes.
She pressed stop on the recorder. "We're not finished."
Mordred smirked, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Somehow, I don't think we ever will be."
Nevaeh closed her notebook, standing. "I meant what I said."
He raised a brow.
She met his gaze, unwavering. "You deserve to be heard."
For a second, something unspoken passed between them. A silent agreement.
Then he was back to being Mordred—the untouchable star with the easy charm and calculated answers.
But Nevaeh had seen Ethan.
And she wasn't letting go of that story.