The illusion of freedom

Mordred's words lingered in the air, heavier than they should have been. I don't like mirrors. Navaeh didn't miss the flicker of vulnerability in his voice, the way his smirk wavered before returning stronger than ever—like a mask desperately trying to stay in place.

She kept her expression unreadable, though inside, her mind was working double-time. This was what she had been searching for—the truth beneath the perfect facade.

But before she could press further, Mr. Oliver clapped his hands, the sharp sound cutting through the tension. "That's enough for today."

Mordred let out a slow exhale, standing up with practiced ease. "Guess that's my cue."

Navaeh closed her notebook, unfazed. "Convenient timing."

Jade, who had remained silent longer than Navaeh thought possible, seized the moment to step closer to Mordred. "You have an afterparty to get to, baby," she purred, looping her arm through his.

Mordred's jaw clenched. He didn't pull away, but he didn't acknowledge her touch either.

"I don't remember agreeing to that," he muttered.

Mr. Oliver didn't even glance up from his phone. "You never do, but that doesn't change anything."

Navaeh watched the exchange with quiet interest. It was almost comical how blatantly controlled Mordred's life was, yet no one even tried to hide it. He was a puppet on a stage, his strings pulled by managers, publicists, and media expectations.

For someone worshiped by millions, he seemed to have no say in his own existence.

Mordred's gaze flickered to Navaeh. "Enjoy the interview?"

His voice was smooth, playful even, but there was a sharpness beneath it—a challenge.

Navaeh met his stare without hesitation. "It was… enlightening."

Something in his expression shifted, like he was trying to decide whether to be amused or irritated. Before he could say anything, Mr. Oliver nodded toward the exit. "Let's go."

Jade tugged Mordred forward, her grip possessive. "We don't want to keep the cameras waiting."

Mordred didn't resist, but as he passed by Navaeh, he whispered just loud enough for her to hear:

"You should come."

Navaeh blinked. "To the afterparty?"

Mordred smirked. "Unless you're scared of a little fun."

Jade's nails dug into his arm. "She's a journalist, Mordred, not your date."

Mordred shrugged. "Journalists get invited to parties all the time. Isn't that right, Navaeh?"

Navaeh tilted her head, studying him. He was baiting her. But more than that… he was testing her.

She smiled—slow and deliberate. "Alright."

Jade made a sound of disbelief. "You're not serious."

"Oh, but I am." Navaeh's gaze never left Mordred's. "If I'm going to write the real story, I should see all sides of it, don't you think?"

Mordred chuckled. "I like the way you think."

Jade, on the other hand, looked like she wanted to rip her perfect blonde hair out.

Navaeh took her notebook and bag, walking past them toward the exit. "I'll see you there."

Mordred watched her go, something unreadable flickering in his dark eyes.

---

The Party: A Beautiful Lie

The club was packed. Flashing lights, deafening music, bodies pressed together on the dance floor—it was everything Navaeh had expected from a celebrity afterparty.

Security let her in without question, already aware of who she was. As she stepped inside, the energy of the place pulsed around her, but she remained detached, scanning the crowd for Mordred.

It didn't take long to find him.

He was at the center of it all, a drink in hand, surrounded by people who laughed a little too hard at his jokes and leaned a little too close, desperate for his attention.

He played the role well.

Smiling. Charming. Untouchable.

Yet… Navaeh saw through it.

His smile never reached his eyes. His posture, though relaxed, was too precise. He looked like a man who was pretending to enjoy himself rather than actually doing so.

Jade was beside him, clinging onto him like a prized accessory.

Navaeh made her way over, stopping just close enough for Mordred to notice her.

And he did.

His eyes flicked to her, and for a split second, his expression shifted—something like relief mixed with amusement.

"Navaeh," he drawled, stepping away from Jade. "Didn't think you'd actually come."

She smirked. "Told you I don't scare easy."

He chuckled, taking a slow sip of his drink before leaning in slightly. "Careful. You might end up liking this world."

She arched a brow. "Or I might expose it for what it really is."

Mordred's smirk widened, but there was something sharper beneath it. "I'd like to see you try."

Jade, who had been watching the exchange with growing irritation, finally snapped. "Why are you even talking to her? This is a party, not an interview."

Mordred didn't look away from Navaeh. "Maybe I like a little real conversation for a change."

Jade's expression darkened. "You're drunk."

Mordred tilted his head. "Am I?"

Navaeh observed the way Jade's grip tightened around her champagne flute. There was something almost desperate in her eyes—not love, but something close to obsession.

Interesting.

She turned her attention back to Mordred. "So, tell me…" She took the glass from his hand, examining it before setting it down on a nearby table. "What's the biggest lie you've told tonight?"

Mordred's smirk didn't falter, but his fingers twitched at his side.

Jade scoffed. "God, you're exhausting."

Navaeh ignored her, waiting.

Mordred exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. Then, with a deceptively easy smile, he answered:

"That I'm having fun."

Navaeh held his gaze, and for once, he didn't look away.

He was telling the truth.

She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. "Then why do you stay?"

Mordred's jaw tightened. "Because leaving isn't an option."

There it was again. That quiet confession wrapped in a nonchalant tone.

Before Navaeh could respond, a photographer approached. "Mordred, can we get a picture with Jade?"

Mordred's entire demeanor shifted in an instant. His smirk returned, his posture straightened, and he slipped effortlessly back into his role.

"Of course," he said smoothly.

Jade immediately linked her arm with his, her expression smug.

As the cameras flashed, Navaeh saw it.

The emptiness in his eyes.

And for the first time, she realized—Mordred Martin wasn't just a man living a lie.

He was a prisoner of it.

And the worst part?

He wasn't sure if he would ever be free.