Page 12 of Siren (The Enigma Affairs #1)

TEN

A s my SUV slipped into lower Manhattan traffic, I stared out the tinted window and let the skyline press into me like a slow inhale.

New York always carried a certain hum—restless, expensive, already watching. And tonight, we were the show.

My phone buzzed before I could even settle. Brielle.

They want subtle PDA, lots of eye contact. Keep the story tight.

You’re the music and the muse. Let them see it, even if you don’t say it.

Let them see it.

Even if I was still trying to understand what it even was.

I thumbed open my messages to send some of my own.

Me: Almost there. Traffic is hell.

Jas: If he shows up in black again, just take me out.

Me: I’m tryna stay focused.

Jas: Girl. You already feel him. It’s not about focus anymore. It’s about what now.

I stared at her words. They echoed louder than she knew. Because what now was the question I kept dodging.

The car pulled to a soft stop. Dre’s voice, warm and steady, came from the front. “We’re here, Ms. Ray. I’ll open the door for you.”

I slipped my phone into my clutch and exhaled.

Black satin hugged every line of me. Off-the-shoulder. Fitted. A slit that whispered filth if you knew where to look. My hair hung full and soft over one shoulder, curls thick and defined. Skin dewy. Eyes lined in smoke.

I stepped out like I belonged to the night.

Flashes cracked from across the street—paparazzi, even though this wasn’t supposed to be that kind of event. I didn’t flinch. Let Dre shield me through the entryway.

And there he was. Standing by the glass elevator.

Slate gray suit. Collar open, no tie. Gold gleaming at his wrist. Hair pulled back, clean .

That quiet, lethal kind of fine.

His eyes found mine the moment I stepped in. And just like that—my pulse stuttered. That soft, traitorous flutter low in my belly.

He didn’t smile. Just nodded once and somehow, even that made something clench between my legs.

He crossed the space and offered a hand to help me into the elevator. I didn’t need it. But I took it anyway.

The doors closed behind us.

Silence wrapped around our bodies like tension in silk.

“You look?—”

His eyes swept the length of me, slowly. “You wear that dress like it owes you something.”

I let a smile curl at my lips. “That supposed to be a compliment?”

I couldn’t help but bite with my words a bit. He disarmed me and I didn’t know what to do with that.

His gaze didn’t waver. “It’s truth. You already know that.”

I did.

The dress was a slip of black satin, thin-strapped and bias-cut, gliding over every curve like it had been poured.

Slit up the thigh, dipped low in the back.

It clung in all the right places and moved like water with each step.

I’d paired it with my favorite stilettos and a soft nude lip—but I knew it was the skin that made it sing.

Golden brown. Soft sheen. Collarbone kissed with just a whisper of highlight.

The kind of skin that caught streetlight and candlelight the same way—slow and seductive.

And the way he looked at me?

Like he wanted to touch every inch.

With his mouth. With his voice. With something deeper than either.

I tilted my head. “You’re late. ”

He stepped in just a little closer. Barely an inch. Still—it landed.

“Nah. I’m exactly on time.”

The elevator pinged.

Just before the doors parted, I glanced at him, voice low, steady. “This the part where we flirt for the cameras?”

He looked straight ahead. “Nah. This the part where I make sure you decide what’s real.”

And there it was again.

That quiet danger. That smooth, unhurried unraveling.

He wasn’t rushing me.

He was letting me come undone in my own time and we hadn’t even reached the rooftop yet.

The rooftop looked like wealth dressed in restraint. Gold lights strung like fallen stars. A jazz quartet tucked in the corner—upright bass, brushed snare, a sax that moaned low and slow.

Cocktails shimmered in tall glasses. Executives sipped. Influencers hovered. Designers posed without posing. And all of them… watching. So we gave them something to see.

Taraj and I stood close—like we knew how to share air.

No rehearsals. No cues. We moved like we belonged in each other’s gravity. Every now and then, he leaned in, murmured something low.

And I laughed. Sometimes soft. Sometimes real. I didn’t mean to but it happened.

He was still in that slate gray suit, still open at the collar like temptation. Still the voice that lived in my chest from the studio—rough, rich, magnetic.

I couldn’t stop remembering how he’d sounded in my ear. Or how good he was at the silences—those moments between takes when nothing was said, but everything was loud.

“Someone should be filming this,” I muttered under my breath.

“They are,” he said.

I couldn’t tell if we were playing a role… or if we’d already written something real. And the part of me that wanted it to be real? She was getting louder.

He led me to the edge of the terrace where the crowd thinned, the city stretched wide like a promise behind him—lit windows flickering like secrets.

We sat. Champagne came by twice. We both declined.

I glanced at him. The soft gold lights kissed the slope of his cheekbone, tracing that sharp, quiet beauty he carried without effort.

“You ever been to something like this before?” I asked, eyes on the skyline.

He shrugged, leaned back a little. “They tried. A year ago, while I was still in development. Another singer. Smaller fanbase, but her looks had the world hypnotized. They thought we’d sell well together.”

I didn’t respond right away. My body stayed still, but a sting bloomed somewhere behind my ribs.

Jealousy wasn’t something I wore often. But just then, it cinched tight around my lungs.

“What happened?” I asked, forcing my voice light.

He didn’t even blink. “Didn’t go for it. Wasn’t gonna start this chapter lying to myself.”

My pulse kicked.

That was the thing about Taraj. He didn’t sell fantasy. He offered truth. Raw. Uncut. Sometimes rough.

I let the silence stretch, my thoughts chasing each other in a blur of curiosity and something much hungrier.

“So why me?” I asked softly. “Why say yes to all of this with me? ”

He turned toward me, slow and deliberate. The warmth of his gaze swept over my face like fingers.

“Because your voice is honest,” he said. “And so are your beautiful eyes.”

Something trembled inside me. That was more than a compliment. That was a recognition.

The wind stirred. My skin prickled. But I wasn’t cold. I needed to address the truth since he so freely gave it.

“I know you feel it,” I said. “This.”

His eyes didn’t leave mine. “I do. It’s impossible not to.”

I drew in a breath, the world narrowing to the space between us.

“So what do we do about it?”

He leaned in just slightly, his voice a slow flame.

“Be as honest as the music. Follow the notes. Sing the song. Let the verses breathe and pulse around the thickness… and cry out when the moment catches fire.”

A pause. Then—“All we have to do is be honest.”

My panties were wet with his words.

Not just the sound of them, but the way he looked at me when he said them—like I was the melody he couldn’t stop working on.

From the far corner, the quartet played on—soft horn curling into the night like heat. We held each other’s gaze, caught between restraint and something far more dangerous.

And then, he smiled. A slow, knowing thing that made me ache.

Midway through the night, the quartet shifted.

One of my earlier tracks—stripped down, slowed to a hush—poured into the air like silk. Someone must’ve requested it.

A few heads turned. A woman in a green dress called out, “Sienna, you got a mic in you tonight?”

I was already rising. “Don’t I always?”

Soft laughter. Applause. A little hush.

I walked to the mic like I’d been born holding it .

The first line came low and breathy, just enough to catch the edge of the air.

By the second verse, I was in it—eyes closed, chest cracked open, emotion spilling like wine across velvet.

When I opened them again, he was watching me. Hands tucked in his pockets. Jaw tight. Eyes heavy like he was carrying something he couldn’t name. So I sang deeper. I sang out to him.

Let the ache burn through every word until it wasn’t just a performance—it was confession. And then… he moved.

Not to take the mic. Not to make a scene. He stepped beside me. Let the band curve around his presence, smooth and seamless. And then he spoke, his voice low but certain…

“She got a voice that don’t just sing—it remembers. Like it’s been here before. Like maybe I knew her back when I was whole…

Before the cameras. Before the pose. And now all I wanna do is match her tone.”

The rooftop held its breath.

So did I.

We stood there—just breath and tension and something bigger than either of us. And in that moment, I felt myself slipping.

Not falling. Slipping. Because falling feels like choice.

This—this felt like fate.