unspoken questions

Navaeh sat on her bed, her laptop open before her, the glow of the screen casting shadows across her face. She had already written the opening paragraphs of her article, a well-structured piece on Mordred's performance, his presence at the party, and the industry's expectations of him.

But she hadn't touched the part that lingered in her mind the most—her conversation with him on the balcony.

His words, his guarded expression, the way his smirk had faltered when she told him he was tired of pretending.

She leaned back with a sigh, staring at the blinking cursor.

What was it about him?

Celebrities always played a role in front of the cameras, but with Mordred, it felt different. His image wasn't just something he chose to put on—it was something forced upon him.

She shook her head, closing her laptop. She wasn't here to analyze him like some tragic novel character. She was here to do her job.

Still, as she turned off the lamp and pulled the blanket over herself, his voice echoed in her head.

"You think it's that easy?"

No, she didn't.

But she wished he did.

---

Mordred lay in bed, staring at the ceiling of his penthouse.

The city lights flickered through the window, but he wasn't looking at them.

He was thinking about her.

Navaeh.

She had seen through him too easily. Too quickly. And he hated that it made him feel seen.

He had spent years perfecting his mask, smiling when expected, nodding when told, obeying every command that kept his career intact. And yet, one woman—one journalist—had unraveled it with a few words.

He turned on his side, exhaling sharply.

She wasn't like Jade, who clung to his arm like a prize.

She wasn't like the reporters who twisted every sentence into scandalous headlines.

She had simply asked him a question no one else ever had.

"You could leave."

Could he?

Mordred let out a bitter chuckle.

No.

There was no escape from a world that owned him.

---

The next morning, Navaeh walked into the newsroom, her bag slung over her shoulder and a coffee in hand. She had barely taken a sip when Martin, her co-journalist, appeared beside her with a smirk.

"So," he said, nudging her. "I saw you talking to the Mordred last night. Interesting."

Navaeh rolled her eyes. "It was just part of the job."

Martin raised an eyebrow. "Oh, really? Because it looked a lot like he was actually interested in talking to you."

She shot him a look. "Drop it, Martin."

"Relax, I'm just saying. He's not exactly known for deep conversations with reporters. Yet there you were, standing on a balcony, under the stars, having some very intense eye contact."

Navaeh sighed, sipping her coffee. "I asked him a question. That's all."

"And?"

She hesitated before answering. "And he didn't have an answer."

Martin tilted his head, intrigued. "Huh. That is interesting."

Before she could say anything else, their editor-in-chief, Mr. Callahan, stepped into the room.

"Navaeh," he called.

She straightened. "Yes?"

"You've been assigned to cover the Rising Beats music festival next weekend. Guess who's headlining?"

She already knew before he said it.

Mordred.

---

Mordred stood in his rehearsal studio, moving through the choreography with mechanical precision. The music pounded through the speakers, his body responding on instinct.

But his mind was elsewhere.

He didn't break form until Oliver's voice cut through the room.

"Mordred."

He stopped mid-step, turning to face his manager.

Oliver's expression was unreadable. "You have an interview scheduled for next week at the Rising Beats festival."

Mordred grabbed a towel, wiping the sweat from his forehead. "And?"

Oliver's eyes darkened slightly. "It's with Navaeh."

Mordred froze.

A slow smirk tugged at his lips.

"Well," he murmured, tossing the towel aside.

"That should be fun."

---