Beginning of dreams

The flashing lights blinded him, yet he never blinked. The deafening screams filled his ears, yet he never flinched. His body moved flawlessly, each step of his dance perfectly synchronized with the beat, his voice smooth and unwavering. The world saw Mordred as a masterpiece—flawless, untouchable.

But behind the spotlight, he was drowning.

As the final note of his song echoed through the stadium, the crowd erupted into an uncontrollable frenzy. The speakers blared with the sound of his name. "Mordred! Mordred! Mordred!" They loved him. They worshiped him. Yet none of them knew him.

He bowed, his signature smirk in place, before exiting the stage. The moment he stepped backstage, the mask slipped. His breathing was shallow, his body heavy with exhaustion, but there was no time to rest.

"Fix your hair," Mr. Oliver's voice cut through the air. His manager barely looked up from his phone. "You have an afterparty to attend. The press is waiting."

Mordred ran a hand through his damp, dark hair. "Can I skip it?"

Mr. Oliver scoffed. "Do you even need to ask?"

Of course, he couldn't. He never could. His life belonged to the industry.

As a stylist rushed forward to adjust his outfit, another assistant handed him a bottle of water. He took a sip, but the cold liquid did nothing to quench the emptiness inside him.

"Jade will be there," Mr. Oliver added. "The media needs more pictures of you two together."

Mordred clenched his jaw. Jade—his so-called 'girlfriend'—not by choice, but by arrangement. His manager's daughter, a model who played her role perfectly in front of cameras. To the world, they were the ideal power couple. Behind the scenes, she was nothing more than a thorn in his side.

Before he could protest, Mr. Oliver's phone rang. "Ah, perfect timing. The journalist from Starline Weekly just arrived."

Mordred barely reacted, used to interviews that painted a false image of him. He never expected anything different.

But then he saw her.

She walked in with a notebook in hand, her sharp gaze scanning the room. Unlike others who swooned at the sight of him, she looked unimpressed.

"Navaeh," Mr. Oliver introduced. "She'll be covering your upcoming projects."

Her lips pressed into a thin line. "I'm not here to cover his projects. I'm here for the real story."

For the first time in years, Mordred felt a spark of something unfamiliar—curiosity.

Because for once, someone wasn't looking at him like a god. She was looking at him like a mystery she intended to solve.

Navaeh tapped her pen against her notebook, her sharp eyes locked onto Mordred. He was the kind of man who could make headlines without even trying. Every little movement—from the way he ran a hand through his dark, sweat-dampened hair to the effortless way he leaned against the dressing room counter—was designed to make people fall for him.

But she wasn't like those people.

She had interviewed politicians, CEOs, and even criminals. She had seen every kind of deception, every false persona crafted for the public eye. And Mordred was no different.

He smirked, his voice smooth as silk. "The real story, huh? And what exactly do you think that is?"

She didn't hesitate. "Something deeper than what your fans see."

Mr. Oliver stepped in, his expression tight. "Navaeh, I assume you know how this works. Stick to the script."

"I don't do scripts," she shot back. "I was told I could ask real questions, not recycle PR-approved nonsense."

Mordred's smirk faltered—just slightly. He wasn't used to people talking back to Mr. Oliver, least of all a journalist.

Interesting.

He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "Fine. Ask your real questions."

Navaeh arched a brow, surprised that he was giving her control. She flipped open her notebook. "Alright, let's start easy. What's the biggest misconception people have about you?"

Mordred chuckled, shaking his head. "That I have a perfect life."

"And do you?" she pressed.

He met her gaze, his smile fading. For a split second, something unreadable flickered in his dark eyes—something raw, something almost broken. But then it was gone, replaced by the charming mask he always wore.

"Of course," he said smoothly. "I have everything anyone could ever want."

Liar.

Navaeh knew a deflection when she heard one, but she let it slide. For now.

Before she could ask her next question, the dressing room door swung open.

Jade.

She waltzed in like she owned the place, her designer heels clicking against the floor. Her perfect blonde waves framed a flawless face, and her sharp green eyes flickered with irritation the moment she spotted Navaeh.

"Who's this?" Jade asked, barely masking her disdain.

"Navaeh," Mr. Oliver answered. "She's covering Mordred's upcoming work."

Jade's lips curled into a fake smile as she turned to Mordred, resting a manicured hand on his arm. "Baby, you should've told me we had company."

Mordred stiffened. "We?"

She ignored him, turning back to Navaeh. "Hope you're getting all the right information."

Navaeh forced a polite smile. "That depends. Is there anything about Mordred's life that isn't staged?"

Jade's eyes flashed, but she recovered quickly, letting out a fake laugh. "Oh honey, everything in Hollywood is staged. You're in the wrong industry if you think otherwise."

Mordred clenched his jaw. His entire life was staged. He had spent years being molded into the perfect celebrity—his relationships, his friendships, even his freedom controlled by others.

And yet, Navaeh was looking at him like she was seeing through it all.

For the first time in years, he felt exposed.

And for the first time ever… he didn't hate it.

—

Navaeh flipped to a fresh page in her notebook, keeping her expression neutral. She wouldn't let Mordred or Jade get under her skin. She was here to do a job, not to get caught up in celebrity drama.

She tapped her pen against the page. "Let's continue. Mordred, you've been in the industry since you were a kid. Do you ever miss a normal life?"

Mordred leaned back in his chair, a lazy smirk playing on his lips. "Define normal."

"Not having cameras in your face 24/7. Going to a café without bodyguards. Having friendships that aren't based on status." She met his gaze. "Things like that."

He tilted his head, as if considering the question. "I wouldn't know. Never had that kind of life to miss."

Navaeh resisted the urge to react. She had done her research—Mordred had been in the spotlight since his early teens. But there were gaps in his history. No real details about his childhood before fame.

"Would you trade this life for a different one if you could?" she asked.

Jade scoffed before Mordred could answer. "Why would he? He has everything."

Mordred's expression didn't change, but something in his eyes darkened. He let a beat of silence stretch between them before responding.

"I don't think about things that can't happen," he said.

A practiced answer. Carefully worded.

Navaeh scribbled down a note, even though she had already memorized his response. "Your fans see you as someone untouchable. A superstar. Do you ever feel like you're living for them instead of for yourself?"

Mr. Oliver, who had been silent until now, finally spoke up. "Navaeh, let's keep the focus on the music."

She expected that. Publicists hated real questions. But Mordred raised a hand, stopping his manager.

"I don't mind," he said, surprising everyone in the room. He turned back to Navaeh. "To answer your question… yes."

Jade narrowed her eyes. "Mordred—"

He ignored her. "I spend every second of my life being what people expect me to be. It's exhausting. But that's what I signed up for, right?" His tone was light, almost teasing, but there was an edge to it.

Navaeh studied him, noting the contradiction. His words made it sound like he had a choice, but everything about him—from the way he sat to the careful way he answered—told a different story.

She tapped her pen against her notebook again. "What's something about you that no one knows?"

Jade let out a dramatic sigh. "Oh, please. Are we really doing this whole 'deep and mysterious' thing?"

Mordred glanced at Navaeh, and for a moment, she thought he wouldn't answer.

Then, in a quiet voice, he said, "I don't like mirrors."

The room fell silent.

Even Jade looked taken aback.

Navaeh frowned slightly. "Why?"

Mordred leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Because when I look at them, I don't see myself. I see who I'm supposed to be."

There it was. The first crack in his perfect image.

Navaeh didn't react, didn't push. She just wrote it down.

Mordred watched her, as if waiting for a reaction. When she gave him none, he let out a low chuckle. "You're good at this."

She met his gaze. "It's my job."

He smirked. "Then let's see how good you really are."

For the first time since the interview started, Navaeh felt like he was the one studying her.

And for the first time… she wasn't sure who was in control of this conversation anymore.

—