The spotlight price

Mordred stood in front of the mirror, his reflection staring back at him like a stranger.

His face—flawless, chiseled, unnaturally perfect—was both his greatest weapon and his worst curse.

He ran a hand through his tousled black hair, brushing it away from his sharp, symmetrical features. His golden skin, unmarred and radiant under the studio lights, was the kind that photographers fought over. The kind that made people whisper in awe. The kind that made them want him.

And the kind that made them think they owned him.

A knock on the door snapped him out of his thoughts.

"Mordred." Oliver's voice was clipped, impatient. "Hurry up. You've got a shoot with Prime magazine in ten minutes. They're expecting something bold, seductive."

Of course they were.

He stepped away from the mirror, swallowing down the familiar disgust curling in his gut. He had learned long ago that the world didn't care who he really was. They only cared about what they could take.

—

The studio was filled with blinding flashes, the air thick with the scent of expensive perfume and artificial smoke.

"Good, Mordred, good!" the photographer cheered, circling him like a vulture. "Now give me that look—the one that drives people crazy."

Mordred obeyed. He tilted his chin, parting his lips just slightly, letting his eyes smolder in the way they all wanted. The way that made fans obsess, made magazines sell, made executives rich.

The way that made him feel nothing.

"Oh, he's a dream," one of the stylists whispered, barely trying to hide her admiration.

"He's not a dream," another voice murmured. "He's a product."

Mordred's jaw tightened, but he didn't react. He had heard worse.

"Perfect, Mordred!" the photographer called. "Now, let's try something more daring. Take off the jacket—let's see more of that body."

Mordred hesitated, but only for a second. Then he slipped off the designer jacket, revealing his toned torso, the muscles sculpted through years of relentless training.

There it was.

The silence.

That charged, breathless pause where he could feel their eyes crawling over him.

His looks weren't just admired—they were consumed.

The whispers grew louder.

"God, he's unreal."

"I swear he looks even better in person."

"They should cast him in a romance film, just let him exist on screen."

Mordred clenched his fists. He had played this role for so long that sometimes he wondered if he even existed beyond it.

Was he anything more than just a face?

—

Hours later, after the shoot wrapped, he sat in his dressing room, scrolling mindlessly through his phone.

Trending again. Not because of a song. Not because of a performance.

Because of his body.

Someone had leaked behind-the-scenes photos, and the internet was obsessing.

"Mordred is literally walking temptation."

"I don't care about his music, I just want to look at him."

"I need him in a romance drama. No plot, just him looking like that."

His stomach twisted. He locked his phone and tossed it onto the table.

It never changed. No matter how much effort he put into his work, no matter how much he bled into his craft, the world only ever saw one thing.

The knock on his door was softer this time.

"Mordred?"

He recognized Jade's voice instantly, smooth and syrupy.

"Not now."

The door opened anyway. She stepped inside, her designer heels clicking against the floor. "Come on, don't be like that."

Mordred sighed. "What do you want, Jade?"

She perched on the table beside him, crossing her legs. "Have you seen the headlines? People can't get enough of you. It's… delicious."

He didn't respond.

Jade tilted her head. "You do know how lucky you are, right?" Her fingers traced the edge of his sleeve. "People would kill to have what you have."

Mordred met her gaze, his voice flat. "Yeah? And what exactly do I have, Jade?"

She smiled, leaning in. "You have the world's attention."

He leaned back, away from her touch. "No. I have the world's appetite."

Jade's smile faltered, but she recovered quickly. "Same thing, darling."

Mordred let out a slow breath. He knew this game too well. Jade wasn't just a model. She wasn't just his manager's daughter. She was a carefully placed piece on the industry's chessboard, meant to keep him in check.

She stood, brushing imaginary dust from her dress. "I just came to remind you—you have that exclusive interview with Rising Beats tomorrow."

Mordred's muscles tensed. He already knew who was handling the interview.

Navaeh.

Jade grinned, sensing his reaction. "Try not to be too charming, hmm?"

She left, closing the door behind her.

Mordred exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face.

He was exhausted. Of the industry. Of the expectations. Of the fact that no matter where he turned, someone was always trying to own him.

And tomorrow, he would have to sit across from Navaeh again.

She saw through him too easily.

And that scared him more than anything else.

The festival was alive with energy. Crowds swarmed the venue, neon lights flashed in rhythmic patterns, and the deep bass of a soundcheck rumbled through the air like a heartbeat.

Backstage, Mordred sat in his private lounge, staring blankly at the vanity mirror. His reflection was already in full performance mode—his hair styled to perfection, his skin flawless, his eyes lined just enough to make them pop under the stage lights.

Another mask. Another show.

A knock at the door.

His jaw clenched. Let me guess.

"It's time," Oliver announced, stepping inside without waiting for a response.

Mordred stood, rolling his shoulders. He could already hear the crowd chanting his name. The world wanted him on stage, flashing that effortless smirk, commanding the audience with every move.

"Keep it clean tonight," Oliver warned, adjusting his tie. "The sponsors are watching."

Mordred barely acknowledged him as he walked out.

—

Navaeh adjusted the settings on her recording device, making sure everything was perfect before the interview.

The Rising Beats festival was a massive event, but tonight, all eyes were on one name—Mordred.

She had seen him perform before, but watching him live was a different experience.

When he stepped on stage, the world stopped.

The music blasted through the speakers, and Mordred moved like the stage was an extension of himself. Every turn, every gesture, every smirk—it was calculated and deadly.

The audience screamed, some crying, others holding up signs begging for just one glance in their direction.

But it wasn't just admiration.

It was worship.

Navaeh felt a chill run down her spine.

She had done her research. She knew how celebrities were treated like gods, how industries fed off their fame like parasites. But standing here, watching it unfold in real-time, she understood something deeper.

Mordred wasn't just a singer. He was a possession.

And no one—not his fans, not his team, not the media—was willing to let him go.

—

The interview was set up in a private lounge, far from the screaming crowds.

Navaeh arrived first, making final adjustments. She had prepared her questions carefully—direct, professional, but layered enough to draw out something real.

When the door opened, she glanced up.

Mordred walked in, fresh from his performance, a towel draped around his neck. His black shirt clung to his frame, damp with sweat, and his expression was unreadable.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then he smirked, slow and sharp. "Miss Reporter. We meet again."

Navaeh kept her expression neutral. "You did well out there."

He raised an eyebrow. "You sound surprised."

"I'm not."

Mordred chuckled, dropping onto the couch across from her. "So, what's today's interrogation about?"

She clicked on her recorder. "Let's start with the performance. How do you feel about tonight?"

Mordred tilted his head, considering. "Like a puppet that did its job well."

Navaeh's grip tightened slightly on her notepad. "That's… blunt."

"I like being honest," he said, watching her carefully. "Makes people uncomfortable."

She held his gaze. "Then let's be honest. You don't enjoy this, do you?"

Mordred exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. "Enjoyment isn't part of the deal, sweetheart."

There it was again—that guarded edge, the bitterness beneath the charm.

Navaeh tapped her pen against her notepad. "What is part of the deal, then?"

He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "You really want to know?"

She nodded.

Mordred smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Control. Every word I say, every move I make—it's all controlled by someone else. The label. The media. The fans. Even you."

She frowned. "Me?"

"You write the stories," he said simply. "You decide how the world sees me. Whether I'm the perfect idol or the reckless bad boy. My truth doesn't matter. Only the narrative does."

Silence stretched between them.

For the first time, Navaeh felt something close to sympathy.

But she wasn't here to pity him. She was here to understand him.

She flipped to her next question. "If you had the chance to leave it all behind, would you?"

Mordred's smirk faltered—just for a second.

Then he leaned back, arms stretched over the couch. "That's a dangerous question, Miss Reporter."

"But you haven't answered it."

His eyes darkened slightly, and for the first time, he looked… tired.

Before he could speak, the door burst open.

Jade.

She sauntered in, her eyes immediately locking onto Navaeh with thinly veiled amusement.

"Oh," she purred, "this again."

Mordred's jaw tightened. "Jade. We're in the middle of something."

She ignored him, strutting toward Navaeh. "You know, darling, I have to give you credit. You've lasted longer than most."

Navaeh frowned. "Excuse me?"

Jade smiled, saccharine sweet. "You think you're different, don't you? You think you're getting through to him."

Navaeh didn't answer.

Jade's gaze flickered to Mordred. "Tell her, love. Tell her how this goes."

Mordred said nothing.

Jade turned back to Navaeh. "You poke, you prod, you act like you see him. But in the end, you're just another spectator."

Navaeh's fingers curled into fists.

Jade smirked. "Do yourself a favor, sweetheart. Don't mistake curiosity for importance."

Mordred stood abruptly, his voice sharp. "Jade, that's enough."

She shrugged. "Just thought I'd save your little journalist from the inevitable disappointment."

With that, she turned on her heel and left.

The room fell silent.

Navaeh swallowed, forcing herself to remain composed. "Is she always like that?"

Mordred exhaled, rubbing his temple. "She gets worse when she's bored."

Navaeh studied him. He wasn't angry. Just… exhausted.

She hesitated before speaking. "She's wrong, you know."

Mordred looked at her, something unreadable in his gaze.

"I'm not just watching," Navaeh said firmly. "I'm listening."

For a moment, something flickered in his expression—something raw, something real.

Then, just as quickly, it was gone.

Mordred smirked, stepping past her. "Careful, Miss Reporter."

She frowned. "Of what?"

He paused at the door, glancing over his shoulder.

"Of seeing too much."

And then he was gone.

Navaeh let out a slow breath, staring at the empty doorway.

Jade had been wrong.

She wasn't just another spectator.

And she was going to prove it.

—