Mordred was used to moving from one performance to the next—whether it was on stage, in front of cameras, or in meetings where every word he said was carefully measured.
By the time he slid into the backseat of the blacked-out SUV, Oliver already had his phone pressed to his ear, negotiating deals, setting up appearances, ensuring Mordred stayed on top.
Mordred tuned it out.
His mind was still in that hotel suite, still trapped in the moment where Nevaeh had said his real name.
Ethan.
It had felt like a blade against the persona he had built. Because if Ethan existed, then everything he had become—everything he had endured—was a choice.
He leaned his head against the cool glass of the window, watching the city blur past.
"What's with you?" Oliver asked, barely glancing up from his phone.
Mordred didn't answer.
Oliver sighed, ending his call. "Let me guess. The journalist got under your skin."
Mordred smirked slightly. "You give her too much credit."
"Do I?" Oliver studied him. "You're quieter than usual."
Mordred rolled his shoulders. "Maybe I'm just tired."
Oliver snorted. "You've been tired for years, kid." He flipped through his messages. "Don't let her get in your head. She's here for a story, not you."
Mordred's jaw tightened. "I know that."
"Good." Oliver's voice softened slightly. "Look, just play nice, keep it surface-level, and we're golden. We don't need another scandal."
Mordred let out a breath. "Right. No scandals."
Oliver nodded, satisfied, before taking another call.
Mordred turned back to the window, watching as the neon lights of the city flickered against the dark sky.
No scandals. No truth. No Ethan.
He wasn't sure how much longer he could keep that up.
---
Nevaeh sat on the edge of her bed, scrolling through her notes.
Every interview had a rhythm—a dance of carefully worded questions and equally careful answers.
But Mordred had broken the rhythm.
She had seen the cracks.
And now she couldn't stop thinking about them.
Her phone buzzed. A message from her editor.
Harper: How's the interview going? Anything worth the front page?
Nevaeh hesitated before typing back.
Nevaeh: Not yet. But there will be.
Because she wasn't done.
And neither was he.
---
The next time they met, it wasn't in a controlled interview setting.
It was at an afterparty.
Mordred spotted her the second she walked in.
Unlike the flashing cameras and the industry vultures circling around, Nevaeh stood still—watching, waiting.
She wasn't supposed to be here.
And yet, she was.
His lips curved into a smirk.
This was going to be interesting.