The price of beauty

Mordred had always known his looks were a curse.

Standing under the dazzling lights of the Rising Beats Festival's exclusive afterparty, he felt the weight of every gaze on him. The air was thick with perfume, champagne, and unspoken expectations.

Women surrounded him—actresses, models, pop stars. They weren't here to admire his talent. No, their eyes traced the sharp angles of his face, the way his shirt clung to his body, the effortless way he carried himself.

He was used to this. The lingering touches on his arm, the flirtatious smiles, the whispered invitations to private rooms.

Tonight was no different.

"Mordred," a sultry voice purred.

He turned to see Celeste Rivera, a chart-topping singer draped in a silver dress that left little to the imagination. Her lips curved into a knowing smile as she leaned in too close, fingers brushing his collarbone.

"You've been avoiding me," she teased, tilting her head.

He smirked, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I've been busy."

"Mm," she hummed, her red nails tracing the fabric of his sleeve. "Such a shame. I was hoping we could... collaborate."

He knew what she meant. It wasn't about music. It was never about music.

Across the room, Navaeh stood near the bar, observing everything. She wasn't drinking, wasn't mingling. Just watching.

She had seen women flirt with celebrities before—hell, it was expected in this industry. But with Mordred, it felt different. It wasn't just attraction. It was possession.

They wanted him because everyone else did.

Her grip tightened around her glass.

Mordred caught her gaze for a split second. A silent flicker of something passed between them. Then, Celeste's hand slid down his chest.

Navaeh looked away.

"Mordred, let's get out of here," Celeste whispered.

He exhaled, forcing his signature smirk back into place. "Not tonight, Celeste."

She pouted but didn't push. She didn't need to.

She knew there would always be another night.

And Mordred knew there would always be another woman.

Another person who saw him as a prize.

Never a person.

Mordred turned away from Celeste, but the air around him still felt heavy.

The moment he moved through the party, another woman slid into his path—Vivienne Laurent, a renowned fashion designer. She ran a bold hand down his arm, her eyes gleaming with interest.

"Darling, you were breathtaking tonight," she murmured. "I've been meaning to talk to you about modeling for my next campaign. You have that... otherworldly charm. The kind that sells fantasies."

Mordred knew this game. He had played it a thousand times.

"I'm flattered," he replied smoothly.

Vivienne smirked. "Are you? You don't look it."

His jaw clenched, but before he could respond, another voice interrupted.

"He's exhausted, Vivienne. You should let him breathe."

Navaeh.

She hadn't meant to speak. The words had slipped out before she could stop them.

Vivienne turned, raising a sharp brow. "And you are?"

"Just a journalist," Navaeh said evenly, stepping closer.

Vivienne laughed. "A journalist? And here I thought you were his bodyguard."

The conversation had drawn attention. A few onlookers exchanged amused glances, sensing a moment worth eavesdropping on.

Mordred glanced at Navaeh, something unreadable in his expression.

Then he did something unexpected.

He placed a hand on the small of her back—not possessive, not playful, just grounding.

"Navaeh's right," he said, his voice calm but firm. "I need a break."

Vivienne's eyes flicked between them before she let out a soft chuckle. "Very well. But if you change your mind, my offer still stands."

With that, she walked away, the conversation dispersing like smoke.

Navaeh exhaled, turning to him. "You don't have to do that."

"Do what?"

"Use me as an excuse."

Mordred studied her. "You think I needed an excuse?"

She hesitated.

He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "You really don't understand how exhausting this is, do you?"

Navaeh met his gaze, searching for something—maybe honesty, maybe frustration. She wasn't sure what she expected, but what she found wasn't the carefully crafted mask he showed the world.

For a second, she saw him.

The man behind the fame.

The man who was tired of being wanted for all the wrong reasons.

Before she could respond, Martin called out from across the room, reminding her she had work to do.

She gave Mordred one last look before walking away.

And for the rest of the night, he felt her absence more than he felt anyone else's presence.

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