Mordred leaned against the sleek bar, half-listening to the mindless chatter around him. The party was like every other—loud music, fake laughter, overpriced champagne, and people who measured their worth by who they stood next to.
But tonight, something was different.
She was here.
Nevaeh.
He watched as she moved through the crowd, her eyes scanning the room like she was searching for something. Or someone.
Him.
A slow smirk tugged at his lips. If she wanted another interview, she'd have to work for it.
He lifted his glass to his lips, watching her from across the room. She caught his gaze, held it, and then—without hesitation—walked straight toward him.
Bold.
She stopped a few feet away, arms crossed. "Didn't peg you for the type who actually enjoyed these things."
Mordred chuckled, swirling the drink in his glass. "Who said I enjoy them?"
Nevaeh tilted her head, her gaze sharp. "Then why are you here?"
"Because I'm expected to be." He took a slow sip. "What's your excuse?"
"I'm a journalist. I go where the story is."
"And I'm the story."
She didn't confirm or deny it. Just watched him with that unwavering look that made him feel like she could see straight through the carefully built persona.
He set his glass down. "You're persistent. I'll give you that."
"I get that a lot."
He exhaled, shaking his head. "You're wasting your time, Nevaeh."
"Am I?"
Mordred glanced around. Cameras flashed, people whispered, and somewhere in the back of his mind, Oliver's warning echoed.
No scandals. No truth. No Ethan.
His smirk returned, sharper this time. "Fine. Since you're here, let's play a game."
She raised an eyebrow. "A game?"
He nodded. "One question. No recorders. No notepads. Just us."
Nevaeh studied him, then slowly nodded. "Alright."
Mordred leaned in slightly. "Ask."
She didn't hesitate.
"Are you happy?"
His smirk faltered for just a second.
Of all the things she could've asked—his past, his career, his scandals—she chose that.
He let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. "You don't hold back, do you?"
She waited.
Mordred exhaled, his fingers drumming against the bar. "Happiness is overrated."
"That's not an answer."
He looked at her then, really looked at her.
"Then maybe you're asking the wrong question."
She frowned slightly, as if trying to decipher him. But before she could press further, a familiar voice cut through the moment.
"There you are."
Mordred tensed.
Jade.
She slid up beside him, looping an arm through his. Her nails dug in just enough for him to know this wasn't just for show.
Nevaeh's expression didn't change, but he saw it—the slight shift in her posture.
She thought she understood the game. But she didn't know the rules.
Jade's smile was sharp as she glanced at Nevaeh. "And you are?"
Nevaeh met her gaze evenly. "Nevaeh Carter."
Jade feigned surprise. "Oh. The reporter." She turned to Mordred, her smile never wavering. "Baby, why didn't you tell me we had company?"
Baby.
Mordred's jaw tightened, but he didn't correct her.
Nevaeh's gaze flickered between them, then back to him. "Right." Her voice was unreadable. "I should go."
Mordred smiled, but he didn't stop her as she turned and walked away.
Jade leaned in, her voice low. "Be careful who you let get too close, love. Some people don't know their place."
Mordred didn't respond.
Because for the first time in a long time, he wasn't sure if he knew his place either.
Later on that day after the party.....
The city buzzed outside, but inside Mordred's penthouse, there was only silence. The party had drained him, the fake smiles, the empty conversations, the constant act of being the man the world expected him to be. He had barely shut the door when he heard the sound of heels clicking against the marble floor behind him.
Jade.
Of course.
He let out a slow exhale, not even bothering to turn around. "What do you want, Jade?"
She smirked, sauntering further into the room as if she owned the place. "What, no 'thank you' for saving your reputation back there?" She tossed her clutch onto the couch, kicking off her heels. "Everyone loved us together tonight. We're the perfect couple."
Mordred scoffed. "We're not a couple."
Jade ignored him, stepping closer, her fingers grazing the lapel of his suit. "We could be," she whispered, tilting her head up toward him.
He caught her wrist before she could go any further. "Don't." His voice was firm, cold.
Jade's smile faltered for a brief second before she pouted. "Oh, come on, Mordred. We both know the world already thinks we're together. Why not make it real?"
Mordred dropped her wrist and stepped back. "Because I don't want you."
She stiffened. "You don't mean that."
Mordred ran a hand through his hair, frustration creeping into his tone. "I do. And you know it."
Jade narrowed her eyes, her voice turning sharp. "Are you even human? Do you feel anything at all?"
Mordred's jaw tightened, but he stayed silent.
Jade took a step forward, searching his face for something—anything—that hinted at emotion. "Seriously, Mordred, do you even have desires? Or are you just some pretty doll the industry parades around?"
Mordred let out a humorless laugh. "And what does that make you, Jade? The one trying to force herself on a man who doesn't want her?"
Her lips parted slightly, stung by his words. But instead of backing down, she masked it with anger. "You think you're so untouchable, don't you? That you can just push everyone away?"
Mordred turned away, loosening his tie. "Jade, leave."
"No." She crossed her arms, her nails digging into her skin. "You think you can keep pretending forever? That you can live without anyone?"
He clenched his fists. "I'd rather be alone than be with someone who only sees me as a prize."
Jade inhaled sharply, her eyes flashing with fury. "Fine," she spat. "Stay in your little bubble of misery. But don't expect anyone to stick around when you finally realize you need someone."
She grabbed her clutch and stormed toward the door, heels clicking angrily against the floor.
But before leaving, she turned back one last time. "And for the record," she sneered, "even dolls have more emotion than you."
The door slammed shut.
Mordred stood there, staring at the empty space where she had been.
Did he feel?
He exhaled, sinking onto the couch, staring blankly at the ceiling.
He felt too much.
And that was the problem.