Behind the fake smile

Navaeh sat at her desk, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. The newsroom buzzed around her, reporters chatting, phones ringing, and the distant hum of a television playing the morning news. But her mind was elsewhere.

Mordred.

She had barely processed her conversation with him, and now she had another interview lined up. It wasn't unusual to interview the same celebrity multiple times, but something about this felt different.

She glanced at her notes from the previous night. The words blurred together, but one line stood out:

"You could leave."

She hadn't meant for it to sound like a challenge, but it had been one. And the way he reacted—the silence, the flicker of something unspoken in his eyes—stayed with her.

She closed her notebook. Thinking about it wouldn't change anything. She had a job to do.

Martin plopped into the chair beside her, grinning like he knew something she didn't. "So, Rising Beats. A full weekend of music, crowds, and overpriced festival drinks. Excited?"

"Thrilled," she deadpanned, sipping her coffee.

"Sure, sure. And the fact that Mordred is headlining?"

She rolled her eyes. "It's work, Martin. That's it."

"Right," he said, drawing out the word. "Because it totally looked like work when you two were locked in some serious balcony tension last night."

She shot him a glare, but before she could respond, Mr. Callahan's voice cut through the room.

"Navaeh, I need you in my office."

She exchanged a glance with Martin before heading toward the editor-in-chief's glass-walled office.

Callahan gestured for her to sit, his gaze unreadable. "I assume you've heard about your next assignment?"

She nodded.

"Good. I want more than a surface-level piece this time." He leaned forward, folding his hands together. "People love Mordred, but they don't know him. Get past the rehearsed answers. Find the real story."

She hesitated. "And if there isn't one?"

"There is," he said simply. "You already started finding it last night. Now dig deeper."

She exhaled, nodding. "Got it."

As she left the office, she couldn't shake the weight of his words.

She wasn't sure what she'd uncover.

But something told her Mordred wasn't going to make it easy.

---

The festival grounds were chaotic by the time Navaeh arrived. Crews bustled around, setting up stages, soundchecks echoed across the venue, and the scent of food trucks filled the air.

She adjusted her press pass and headed backstage, her mind already formulating questions.

Her schedule had her interviewing Mordred before his final rehearsal.

Which meant she had roughly ten minutes to prepare herself before seeing him again.

A production assistant led her to a sleek black tent behind the main stage. "He'll be in here soon," the assistant said before disappearing.

Navaeh took a steadying breath. She had interviewed difficult people before. Mordred was no different.

Except he was.

Before she could spiral further, the tent flap lifted—and there he was.

Dressed in a fitted black jacket over a loose tank top, his hair slightly damp from rehearsals, Mordred stepped inside with a quiet, unreadable expression. His sharp features were accentuated by the dim lighting, his presence filling the space effortlessly.

For a moment, they just stared at each other.

Then he smirked.

"Miss Carter," he said smoothly. "We meet again."

Navaeh crossed her arms, keeping her expression neutral. "That we do."

He took a seat across from her, leaning back as if he had all the time in the world. "What's the headline this time? 'Tragic Superstar Fakes Another Smile'?"

She raised a brow. "That depends. Are you faking it right now?"

Something flickered in his eyes before he let out a soft chuckle. "I like you."

"That makes one of us."

His grin widened, but he didn't push further. Instead, he folded his hands together, tilting his head slightly. "Go ahead. Ask your questions."

She opened her notebook, steadying herself. "Alright. Last night, you said there was no escape from this world."

His smirk faltered just slightly.

"Do you really believe that?" she pressed.

Silence.

Then, his jaw tightened. "I believe that when a cage is built around you from childhood, you stop looking for doors."

Her grip on the pen tightened.

"But cages have locks," she said quietly. "And locks can be picked."

He let out a quiet laugh, but there was no humor in it. "Spoken like someone who's never been locked inside one."

For the first time, Navaeh felt like she wasn't just interviewing him.

She was challenging him.

And by the way he was looking at her—like she was the first person to ever do so—she knew she was right where Callahan wanted her to be.

Inside the real story.

Mordred held her gaze, his smirk gone, replaced by something more guarded. The tension between them wasn't just professional anymore—it was personal.

Navaeh had seen something in him, something that no headline or tabloid ever captured. And he knew it.

After a beat of silence, he leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "You want to know the truth, Miss Carter?" His voice was softer now, but still edged with something unreadable. "The real story?"

She didn't flinch. "That is why I'm here."

His fingers tapped against his knee, his thoughts clearly racing. Then, after a long pause, he spoke.

"The truth is, the industry doesn't just make stars," he murmured. "It owns them."

Navaeh's breath hitched slightly, but she stayed composed.

"You think you're free because you can buy whatever you want, go wherever you please, stand on a stage and have thousands of people scream your name." He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "But when the cameras turn off, when the doors close… you realize you don't own anything—not even yourself."

His voice was steady, but there was something deeply unsettling about the way he said it. As if he wasn't speaking in metaphors but cold, hard reality.

Navaeh tightened her grip on her pen. "Then why stay?"

Mordred let out a quiet, bitter laugh. "Because the moment you try to leave, you're worth more dead than alive."

The words sent a chill down her spine.

She had read the stories—artists trapped in ironclad contracts, careers destroyed by one wrong move, rumors of darker things lurking beneath the surface of fame. But hearing it from someone like Mordred, someone who lived it, made it all feel terrifyingly real.

And the way he looked at her then—like he was daring her to dig deeper, to see the cracks in the illusion—made her realize something.

He wasn't just answering her questions.

He was warning her.

Before she could press further, the tent flap lifted, and Oliver stepped in.

"Mordred," his manager said, his voice clipped. "Time for rehearsal."

Mordred's mask snapped back into place in an instant. He stood, stretching his arms as if the conversation had never happened. "Looks like we're done here, Miss Carter."

Navaeh stared at him, searching for any lingering trace of honesty. But he was already slipping back into his role—the untouchable superstar, the flawless performer.

As he moved past her, he paused just briefly, lowering his voice so only she could hear.

"Be careful where you look, Navaeh."

Then he was gone, leaving her alone in the dim tent, her heart pounding in her chest.

She wasn't sure what she had just uncovered.

But she knew one thing for certain.

This was no ordinary interview.

This was a story that could change everything.