Nevaeh knew she was pushing it. She loved that she was pushing it.
Mordred had dealt with obsessive fans, desperate models, and reporters who would sell their souls for an exclusive, but Nevaeh? She was something entirely different. She wasn't chasing fame or trying to impress him. No, she was just there—constantly, unapologetically, shamelessly inserting herself into his life.
And it pissed him off.
"You're worse than those fangirls," Mordred muttered under his breath when she appeared beside him again, this time pretending to browse through a magazine at the same table in his dressing room.
Nevaeh didn't even look up. "Fangirls scream and faint. I, on the other hand, simply exist in your space. Big difference."
"The difference is that they know their place," he shot back, leaning against the counter, eyes narrowing at her.
Nevaeh finally glanced up, a smirk tugging at her lips. "And I don't?"
"Not even remotely."
She clicked her tongue. "Ouch. That almost hurt."
Mordred ran a hand down his face, exhaling sharply. "Why are you like this?"
"Like what?" she asked innocently, flipping a page.
"A nuisance," he said flatly.
Nevaeh placed a hand on her chest in mock offense. "That's harsh, even for you."
Mordred groaned, pushing off the counter. "You're insufferable."
"And yet, here you are, still talking to me," she pointed out.
He stiffened. Damn it.
Nevaeh enjoyed every second of it.
She wasn't starstruck by him like the rest of the world. She didn't melt under his charm or tiptoe around his temper. If anything, she thrived on annoying him just enough to get under his skin.
And judging by the tension in his jaw, she was winning.
Mordred turned away, muttering something under his breath before storming toward the door.
"See you at lunch, then?" she called after him, barely containing her laughter.
"Over my dead body," he growled, slamming the door behind him.
Nevaeh grinned. He didn't say no.
For days, Nevaeh made it her mission to push Mordred's patience to the edge. She showed up in places she definitely had no business being, interrupted his quiet moments, and found every opportunity to invade his space with her teasing remarks.
It drove him insane.
And she enjoyed every inch of it.
But then, one day, she didn't show up.
No snarky comments. No accidental run-ins. No playful attempts to get him to have lunch with her.
Silence.
Mordred should have been relieved. In fact, he should have been celebrating. Finally, a moment of peace.
But instead, he found himself tapping his fingers on the table, distracted, his eyes flickering toward the entrance every few minutes.
By the time the afternoon rolled in, he had already glanced at his phone more times than he cared to admit, expecting some annoying text from her. But nothing came.
"Tch." He scoffed, shaking his head at himself. Why the hell do I even care?
Yet, the moment his manager, Oliver, walked into the room, Mordred blurted out without thinking—
"Did Nevaeh show up today?"
Oliver frowned. "Nevaeh? The journalist?"
Mordred rolled his eyes. "No, the Queen of England. Yes, Nevaeh."
"Haven't seen her," Oliver said with a shrug. "Why? You finally got tired of avoiding her?"
Mordred scoffed. "I don't avoid her. She's just... always there." He crossed his arms. "Until today."
Oliver gave him a long look before smirking. "You miss her."
"Shut up," Mordred snapped. "Just check if she's fine. If she's sick or something, I don't want her spreading it around when she comes back to bother me."
"Right," Oliver said, clearly amused.
Mordred ignored the knowing look on his manager's face, but as Oliver left to check on Nevaeh, Mordred leaned back in his chair, exhaling sharply.
Damn that woman.
Even when she wasn't there, she was still getting under his skin.
Mordred sat in his dressing room, arms crossed, staring blankly at his phone. The silence in the room felt wrong. Normally, by now, Nevaeh would have popped up out of nowhere, pretending to be casually passing by, throwing some snarky remark his way.
But today? Nothing.
He should've been relieved. After all, he'd spent days trying to shake her off. And yet, there was this strange, irritating feeling in his chest—like something was missing.
"Tch." He scoffed, running a hand through his hair.
She's probably just busy.
Still, the fact that she hadn't even sent one of her annoying texts made him uneasy. And before he could stop himself, he had asked Oliver to check on her.
Not because he cared, of course. Just because… well, it would be inconvenient if she got sick and then showed up later to annoy him.
Yeah. That was it.
Leaning back in his chair, he closed his eyes for a moment, but his mind betrayed him, pulling up the mental image of her smirking at him, taunting him.
"You miss me, don't you?"
He could hear her voice so clearly that it almost pissed him off. Almost.
Because deep down… maybe he didn't mind her presence as much as he claimed.