Mordred let out a slow breath, the echo of the door slamming still lingering in the silence. He didn't know if it was anger or exhaustion weighing heavier on his chest, but the need to clear his mind sent him straight to the bathroom.
The warm glow of the vanity lights cast a soft hue over the space as he turned the faucet, letting water fill the bathtub. Steam curled into the air, a false promise of comfort. He undressed with slow, mechanical movements, stepping into the hot water and sinking down until it lapped at his shoulders.
He closed his eyes.
Tried to shut everything out.
Jade's voice still echoed in his mind.
"Are you even human? Do you feel anything at all?"
Mordred clenched his jaw. He wanted to believe he was unaffected, that her words held no weight. But as the heat seeped into his skin, loosening his muscles, the truth settled deep inside him.
He wasn't emotionless.
He wasn't numb.
He just... couldn't afford to feel.
After what felt like an eternity, he sat up, the water rippling around him as he reached for a towel. He stepped out of the bath, wrapping it around his waist before looking up at the mirror.
And then he stopped.
For a long moment, he simply stared at himself.
The world saw Mordred, the superstar. The perfect face. The flawless body. The man every woman desired, the man every man envied.
But the man staring back at him was different.
His dark eyes held a hollowness he couldn't hide.
His lips, once curved into charming smirks for the cameras, were pressed into a thin line.
He looked like a soul trapped in a beautiful cage, a man who had everything—except the one thing he truly craved.
Love.
Care.
Something real.
He let out a bitter chuckle.
"As if that's possible."
Love was a foreign concept in his world. His past had taught him that people didn't love him—they desired him, used him, needed him for their own gain. His parents had sold him for money. The industry had molded him into a product. Women wanted him for status, for pleasure, for the illusion of being with someone untouchable.
But him? The real him?
No one had ever wanted that part of him.
Yet, standing there, dripping water onto the marble floor, he had a reckless thought.
Maybe... maybe he should give a real relationship a try.
Maybe, just maybe, he could be lucky.
His fingers grazed the edge of the sink as he whispered to himself, "But who?"
Who would that girl be?
He had spent so long keeping his personal life hidden behind a professional facade that he had never even shown interest in anyone before. Not genuinely. Not without it being a scripted part of his image.
His life was too controlled. Too managed. Too unreal.
Yet, somewhere deep inside, there was a flicker of longing.
And for the first time in years, Mordred let himself wonder—who, if anyone, could see past the spotlight and into the shadows of his soul?
And more importantly…
Would he even let them?
The next day, Mordred found himself studying the women around him in a way he never had before.
It wasn't that he was suddenly interested in them—far from it. But after last night's realization, he wanted to see if there was even a single woman who looked at him differently.
The stylists giggled behind their hands whenever he walked by.
The makeup artists stole lingering glances at his reflection in the mirror.
The female dancers whispered among themselves, their eyes trailing him with unmistakable hunger.
Desire.
That's all he ever saw in them.
It was exhausting.
He was about to give up on his ridiculous idea when something—or rather, someone—caught his eye.
Nevaeh.
She had just walked into the studio, her posture straight, her expression focused. She wasn't here for him—she was here to work.
She had a camera bag slung over her shoulder and a notebook in hand as she made her way toward his backup dancers. Today, her task was to record their rehearsals and interview them about their experiences working with Mordred. Meanwhile, her co-worker, Martin, was assigned to interview Mordred himself.
Mordred should've been preparing for his own interview. He should've been running through the scripted answers his manager had prepared.
But he couldn't stop looking at her.
Nevaeh didn't glance his way. She didn't sneak peeks at him like the other women did.
She didn't have that usual look—one filled with burning desire, with hunger, with expectation.
She just… existed.
For the first time in years, he saw a woman who didn't see him as an object of lust or an untouchable superstar.
She saw him as just another person in the room.
And that, somehow, made her the most intriguing woman he had ever met.
Mordred leaned back against the wall, his arms crossed as he watched her work. She asked questions with a calm, professional demeanor, nodding at the dancers' responses and jotting down notes. Occasionally, she smiled—just a small, polite one, nothing exaggerated.
She wasn't trying to impress anyone.
She wasn't trying to get his attention.
She was just doing her job.
Mordred felt something stir inside him.
Not desire.
Not lust.
But curiosity.
Maybe… just maybe, she was different.
And for the first time in a long while, Mordred wanted to know more.