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But I felt him still.

Outside. Watching.

Wanting.

Just like I was.

NINE

VoxRitual’s plan worked.

The gallery photo hit the blogs three days after dinner.

It wasn’t a full-on kiss. Not a headline-making slip of tongue or a red carpet grab. But it was intimate.Intentional. A captured moment that didn’t need context to make the timelines speculate.

Taraj, head lowered, lips brushing the back of my hand like I was something holy.

Me, angled toward him, mouth soft, eyes half-lidded, looking like I’d been seen—and touched—exactly how I wanted to be.

There were no captions.

Just that one photo.

But that was enough.

Taraj Ferrell and Sienna Ray spark dating rumors after late-night gallery exit. Could this be more than a collab?

I didn’t post a thing. Neither did he.

Our socials stayed silent. No joint photo. No wink-nudge captions. Not even a damn emoji. And still… people started watching.

Thing was—I didn’t mind the watching. What I minded was thepretending. Because every time we stepped into that studio together, the line between fiction and fact blurred a little more.

The air got tighter. The room grew smaller.

And the way his voice folded into mine during takes? That wasn’t pretend.

That was pressure. Heat. A slow unraveling.

We stayed professional. Cool. Hands to ourselves. Eyes mostly focused. Mostly.

Still, something was happening. Something neither of us had language for. And that scared me more than the headlines.

Because I’d felt attraction before. I’d felt chemistry. But this—this wasn’t chemistry.

This was gravity. And gravity doesn’t ask permission.

We flew outof Pittsburgh early. Same flight, different rows. Aisle between us. Silence filled the rest.

The label jumped on the buzz and booked us for a brand appearance—invite-only, media-heavy, full of streaming execs and tastemakers. A curated rooftop vibe. Sponsored cocktails. Hidden cameras in every corner.

We were expected to arrive together. Maybe not touch. But look like two people one sip away from a kiss.

Flights to NYC were booked—first class seats, private SUV pickups, and two luxury suites at a five-star hotel in Tribeca. Classy. Polished. The kind of place with velvet banquettes in the lobby and diffused lighting that made you feel more expensive just walking through.

We didn’t speak at baggage claim. Didn’t ride over together but somehow, when I stepped off the elevator on the penthouse floor, he was already there—keycard in hand, standing just across the hall from my door.

Of course. Of course they’d put us close. Close enough to feel him move. Close enough to hear the click of his door. Close enough for the tension to start before the event even began.