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@DarianMontrose:Didn’t know you still had that look in your eyes, Songbird. Miss it.

No comment from her. But she’d liked it.

I sat there, thumb hovering. Swiped to my messages. Texts from women I hadn’t opened.

Come see me tonight. You know I keep it quiet.

Miss that mouth.

You in the city or nah?

I stared at them. One tap and I could feel wanted again. Loud. Visible. But it wouldn’t be real. And it wouldn’t be her.

I put the phone face down. Finished my drink. Let the silence stretch. Because the truth was loud as hell: I was falling for a woman who didn’t even realize I was slipping into the background.

And I didn’t know how to ask her to see me again.

TWENTY-FIVE

The room smelled like shea butter and warm brilliance.

Not the usual stifled air of hairspray and half-eaten pastries. Not the stiff chill of professionalism dressed up in politeness. This place breathed. Itlived. Every corner of it told a story I wanted to remember—one built with care,detail, reverence. For me.

A wall of soft linen curtains diffused the afternoon sun, giving the space a golden wash. Gold mesh and dark velvet caught the light, flickering back at you like memory. The set was layered—lush, elegant, Black as jazz. Somewhere between a Harlem parlor and a dreamscape.

All around me, the room moved like a rhythm. Stylists in braids and bright nails adjusted drapes and shadows. A photographer in sneakers and bamboo earrings calibrated her lens like it was an extension of her heartbeat. An assistant fixed lighting while nodding along to a playlist you couldn’t find on Spotify—jazz threaded into soul, drumless and rich. The kind of music that moved your bones before your brain caught up.

Everyone here was Black. Beautiful. Vibrant. Intent on capturing me in the softest, strongest light. I could feel their belief in me before the first flash went off. And still… something in me lingered at the edge.

I sat at the mirror as a makeup artist smoothed something golden along my cheekbones, her hands confident and gentle, a quiet magic in every stroke. She didn’t ask many questions. Didn’t need to. The look was already happening.

Hair swept up. Neck bare. My collarbone catching light like it had something to say. The gown they chose curved down my body like liquid dusk—wine in shadow, shadow in silk. It changed color depending on how you looked at it.

Like me.

“You good?” Brielle asked from just behind me, holding a tablet in one hand and an espresso in the other.

I nodded, slow.

She tilted her head. “You look it.” Her voice softened, something like awe riding the edge of her breath. “Like… unbothered goddess realness.”

A slow smile curved my lips, though it didn’t quite reach.

“Is that the look we’re going for?” I murmured.

“For you?” She grinned, scrolling. “We’re not going for anything. You alreadyareit.”

I should’ve felt proud. Centered. Seen.

And I did… mostly.

But underneath the pride was a ripple. A shift.

Because I could feel it—the difference. This was no longer aboutus. Not the duet. Not the shared chemistry that once sparked so loud it shook the room. Not the storm we unleashed when we made the kind of song that wasn’t meant to go public but did anyway.

This was about me.

My cover. My moment. My story.