Page 1 of Siren (The Enigma Affairs #1)

ONE

The morning light in Philly hit different.

S ofter somehow—even in early spring, when the air still held a chill but the breeze carried the promise of bloom.

It slipped through the bay windows of my West Philly rowhouse like it belonged there, casting gold across the hardwood floors and warming my bare feet as I moved from the kitchen to the front room, coffee in hand.

I’d lived everywhere—hotels, rented lofts, even a house in L.A. that looked good on paper but never held any peace. I’d walked through spaces full of marble and mirrors and still felt invisible. But here… here felt like mine.

Cedar Park didn’t try too hard to be anything it wasn’t. You could still hear kids playing on the block, the vibration of the trolley a few streets over, someone’s uncle watering his porch plants in a do-rag and house shoes. It was real. Steady. Familiar.

And this house—the wide windows, the iron grates, the creaking stairs that had lived through somebody else’s love and loss before I ever found it—it held me. Quietly. Without asking for anything back.

This was the place I came home to when I needed to remember who I was. Before the stylists and the strategies. Before the press junkets and the algorithm audits. Before I learned how to smile through exhaustion and keep my voice warm even when my heart was cold.

This space didn’t need Sienna, the brand. It only needed me.

The phone was already buzzing, lighting up with texts and threads and scheduled calls. I ignored them. If it was urgent, Brielle would call. And I knew better than to open group chats before caffeine.

I curled into the couch and pressed the mug to my lips. Black. No sugar. No cream. No nonsense. That’s how I liked my coffee… and, lately, how I preferred my life. Stillness had become its own kind of luxury.

A notification lit up my lock screen. A photo—Mariah, all cheeks and joy, flashing that gap-toothed grin like it was her superpower, holding up the glittery T-shirt I sent from Paris.

Her frizzy curls were pulled into two puffballs, one slightly crooked like always.

She was my goddaughter—one of two— my baby girl without the birth certificate.

Fierce and funny, soft around the edges, sharp when she needed to be.

She and her sister Savannah kept me whole when the world punched holes in me.

I tapped out a reply with a smile tugging at my lips:

You wear it better than me, baby. Tell your mama I love her.

I didn’t have kids, but I had love, and I’d made sure of that. Because in this industry, if you didn’t fight for softness, you’d forget what it felt like.

Outside, Philly was shaking itself awake—horns, delivery trucks, the rhythm of somebody yelling up the block. I could see the corner store from here, the mural on the side faded from sun and time, but still bold. Still beautiful. My spot. My heartbeat.

I set the mug down and ran a hand over my hair—pulled up high today, curls soft and wild at the crown. My voice felt good this morning. Rested. I’d woken up humming one of the old ones— “ His Eye Is on the Sparrow ”.

“I sing because I’m happy… I sing because I’m free…”

That line used to carry me through nerves back when I was eight, trembling behind the mic on Youth Sunday. Singing it wrapped around my chest like armor and light—like I had a right to take up space. It still did.

Funny thing about nerves. You don’t outgrow them. You just learn how to lace them in gold.

There was a time I was afraid I’d lost my voice. Not just the sound— the center . That part of me that knew why I sang. Why it mattered.

I’d gone so long letting other people shape the sound, I forgot what it felt like when the melody came from somewhere real . Somewhere raw . But I was finding it again. Not in arenas. Not in charts.

In these quiet mornings. In Philly light. In the beat behind my ribs that still belonged to me .

My phone buzzed again.

Brielle: You up? Label needs us at 10. Don’t be late.

I smirked. She knew I was never late. Being early was respect.

For the engineers. The background vocalists.

The interns. My mother taught me that. Don’t let them call you a diva unless you’re paying their bills, she used to say, laughing as she kissed my cheek.

Then, baby, be the best damn diva they ever met.

I rinsed my mug, padded back to the bedroom, and stood in front of the closet.

Velvet. Silk. Worn denim. Designer everywhere.

Flashy—muted—casual-chic. Stacks of sneakers.

A career’s worth of reinvention. I chose soft black jeans, a cropped orange jacket, and gold hoops big enough to say don’t try me.

No shows today. No soundcheck. Just another strategy meeting, where people in suits would explain how to make my music “trend” again.

Like five albums and two world tours could be undone by a slow quarter on Spotify. I didn’t let it get to me.

Not too much.

But I carried my boundaries like armor. No drugs. No alcohol. No pretending I could run on fumes and love from strangers. I’d seen too many girls I started with lose themselves trying to stay seen.

The industry would drain you dry if you let it.

I laced up my boots, grabbed my phone and keys, and walked out into the buzz of the city. The air kissed my face like a blessing—cool, rich with the scent of roasted coffee, rain- slick pavement, and somebody burning incense in an upstairs window.

It smelled like survival. Like home.

I drove to NYC in silence, no music playing. Just humming melodies that I couldn’t escape. Melodies of untold stories.

The VoxRitual conference room was already buzzing when I got there—glass walls, matte black furniture, the soft thump of some unreleased instrumental bleeding from a speaker in the corner.

Brielle was pacing by the window, phone to her ear.

Tailored pants, vintage tee under a hot-pink blazer, chunky gold chain and new kicks—she was always half music exec, half culture curator.

Her hair was pressed bone straight, swinging as she talked.

She hung up as soon as she saw me. “You’re early.”

I dropped into the chair next to hers. “Always.”

“Good. I don’t need you mad at me this morning. These people…” She trailed off, rolling her eyes. “You want coffee?”

“Already had it. Black.”

“Of course.” She smiled—real, not just label-deep. “You look good, Enna. Paris agrees with you.”

I shrugged, tugging at my curls. “I’ll take Philly over Paris any day. You know that.”

Brielle nodded, glancing at the glass wall as more suits filed in. “We’ll make this quick.”

She was lying. But I let her. Not because I believed her—because I believed in her. She was one of the few who could sit at the table and still have a spine. And when it came to protecting me, she didn’t blink .

People talk about loyalty in this business like it’s a punchline. But Brielle? She’d bled for mine.

The white guy in the navy suit sat across from me, tapping an iPad like it owed him something.

Greg Sellers, SVP of A&R. Been in the game longer than me, slick hair and a reputation for signing acts he didn’t understand and dropping them the second the heat cooled.

We’d clashed before. Quietly. But I knew how to keep it professional.

A woman from marketing—Charli, young, eager, always smiling too much—slid in beside him, talking engagement rates and “cross-demo buzzwords” before I even settled in.

Another chair scraped nearby. A third man. Bald, mocha skin, well-cut suit. He didn’t speak right away. Then I saw the badge clipped to his lapel. Jalen Ross.

Then a fourth voice entered the room—calm, measured, unmistakably in charge. Barry Holmes, the label’s VP of Strategy and Branding. One of the few who didn’t waste words. Behind him, Keesha Atkins, Creative Director of Visual Content, followed with a tablet already glowing.

They didn’t need introductions. Not to me. Because if Greg was the one who moved the machine, Barry and Keesha were the ones who decided how it looked and sounded while doing it.

Brielle leaned in as the room’s volume rose. “Label wants to do something different this cycle. Shake things up, bring in a new energy.”

I crossed one leg over the other. “Define different.”

She exhaled, careful. “You’ve been holding it down. A household name. But the market’s shifting. They want younger ears.”

I arched a brow. “Translation: I’m getting old.”

“You’re getting seasoned,” Brielle shot back. “Icon status. But the suits don’t know how to sell that unless you’re dying or doing Vegas.”

I didn’t laugh .

Didn’t even blink.

Because part of me had already felt this coming. The quiet pull of the tide rolling back without me in it. The way meetings had been postponed, the sudden lack of press coverage, the strange hush that fell after my last single—no push, no calls, just silence padded in politeness.

Honestly, I was more surprised they greenlit the mini tour to Paris and London. Maybe it was a final gesture. A slow bow out dressed up in glamour. Let her shine one last time.

I let the silence sit a beat too long, then said flatly, “Cute.”

Charli’s voice cut in, a little too eager. A little too rehearsed.

“You still trend—especially post-tour. And the Paris drop gave us great metrics. We just need to convert that buzz with a more active, visible rollout. Keep you in the cultural conversation.”

I didn’t turn to face her right away. Just blinked.

So they’d been listening.

Of course they had.

This wasn’t just a side conversation. It was bait. They’d let Brielle soften the field, lull me with honesty, only to swoop in with their curated next move.

I tilted my head slowly, gaze steady. “Am I not already in it?”

Greg cleared his throat like he’d been waiting for a cue. “You are. But we have to sustain that visibility. With streaming, visuals, social?—”

“Say the rest,” I cut in, voice even but sharp. Eyes locked on him like I already knew.

He blinked. Hesitated.