Page 2 of Siren (The Enigma Affairs #1)

“We’re pairing you with someone. A collab. Something visual-forward. Possibly viral.”

I exhaled. Slow. Already bracing.

“Let me guess. A barely legal rapper with his tongue out on the cover art? ”

“Actually,” Brielle said, stepping in like she was smoothing the edges, “it’s Taraj Ferrell.”

I paused.

Let the name settle. Taraj. The mystery man. Quiet. No gimmicks.

That track— Night Things —had lived in my chest for weeks when it dropped. There was pain in it. Not the kind you fake for Spotify playlists. Real ache. Layered. His eyes in those promo shots had said everything he didn’t. And that voice…

I remembered the way it curled around a lyric like smoke.

“He even do collabs?” I asked.

Jalen finally spoke. “He doesn’t. But he’s open to this.”

His voice was calm, even. Professional. But there was curiosity behind it—like he was watching to see if I flinched.

I didn’t.

I looked at Brielle, who made the introductions.

“Jalen is Taraj’s manager, and he wanted to sit in during this meeting to make sure Taraj’s interests were aligned with ours.”

“And his interests are?” I tried desperately to keep my cool, but I felt as if I were being railroaded.

“To grow as an artist while maintaining his authenticity.”

“If that’s the case, why would he want to work with me?”

“Because he’s talented and wants to work with the best in this industry.”

“He’s talented,” I said, slowly. “But what’s he doing for me?”

Greg jumped in again, smooth. “He brings new energy. Younger fanbase. Relevance.”

I locked eyes with him. “I am relevant.”

“You are,” Jalen cut in, almost apologetic. “But the timing lines up. Your album’s in early development, and his numbers are climbing. We’ve got a window.”

“And you want me to crack it open.”

Brielle leaned in closer. “He’s got the heat. You’ve got the catalog. The pairing makes sense. Real music heads will love it. And if you play it right? So will everyone else.”

Charli jumped in, voice too cheerful. “We’re thinking behind-the-scenes content. Studio snippets, a few visuals. Maybe even some… spontaneous moments. Keep it organic but, you know… curated.”

My jaw tightened.

I sat back slowly, folding my arms. “Spontaneous.”

Brielle’s smile thinned, but she didn’t break.

“You want to say it, say it,” I said, eyes locked on Charli now. “Y’all want them to think we’re fucking.”

The room stilled.

Even Greg shifted in his seat.

“I’m not stupid,” I said. “I know how this works. A few close-up shots, a little leaning in, maybe a candle-lit performance where the lights are low and our mouths almost touch. Let the internet do the rest, right?”

Brielle tried to cut in. “Enna?—”

“I’m not mad,” I said, standing now. “I’m insulted.”

Because this wasn’t just strategy—it was calculated. Another repackaging of a woman like me. Not just an artist. Not just a voice. But a body. A fantasy. Something to make numbers move.

And it cut deeper than I wanted to admit. Not because I couldn’t carry the moment. But because I’d been carrying it for years. Alone.

Every award, every late-night flight, every tear-streaked makeup wipe and press junket smile—I’d given this industry everything. I’d missed birthdays. Grieved losses in greenrooms. Sacrificed so much of myself in the name of art. And now?

Now I was being told I needed help to be seen again.

“You think I got here by accident?” My voice was quiet, but it cut. “You think I gave up relationships, holidays, my damn twenties, just to become a trending topic tied to some man’s jawline? ”

Nobody answered. Jalen looked like he wanted to. But he didn’t. Smart man.

I reached for my bag. And then Brielle stood too, fast, hand out like a stop sign.

“Enna. Wait.”

I paused.

Her voice dropped to a whisper only I could hear. “I would never sell you like that. And you know it.”

I stared at her.

“This isn’t about making you his. It’s about making sure the world doesn’t forget you.”

My throat burned. I didn’t want it to. But it did.

“He’s not the story,” she said. “You are. He’s just the spark.”

I stayed quiet.

Brielle stepped closer. “You don’t have to fake a thing. Just show up. Do the work. Let the energy do what it does. Whatever the internet wants to believe, let them.”

“They always do,” I muttered.

“Exactly. So let it work for you this time.”

I looked around the room again. Greg was already pretending to read something on his screen. Charli was biting her lip. Jalen’s expression was unreadable.

I sat back down, slow. My body stiff, heart still thudding.

“I’ll do the music,” I said. “But I won’t be paraded.”

“You won’t be,” Brielle said. “I promise.”

A beat passed.

Then she slid her phone across the table, the contact open.

Taraj “Raj” Ferrell.

No emoji. Just a number.

“I’ll let him know you might reach out,” she said.

I didn’t reply. Just stared at the number like it might reveal something.

The meeting wrapped quickly after that.

The suits retreated with smug nods and silent back-pats. Marketing buzzed on about virality and rollout strategy. Jalen gave me a nod before slipping out, his expression neutral—but not cold. Just… cautious. Like he knew I had fire sitting just behind my teeth.

When we stepped into the hallway, Brielle reached for my arm.

“You’re going to kill this,” she said, low and firm. “Don’t let them box you in.”

I gave her a look. “They never could.”

But my jaw was tight.

Too tight.

Because part of me still felt cornered—scooped and served like a product instead of a person. And I hated that Brielle had let them lay the trap that way.

Still… I couldn’t forget what she did for me that night in Houston.

When the label wanted me in latex and auto-tune. When their rep threatened to pull the set. And Brielle stood flat-footed in the green room and said,

“She’s not your puppet. Fix the lighting or we walk.”

We walked. They scrambled.

And she caught hell for it after—but she never flinched.

So yeah. I was mad now. But I knew where her loyalty lived.

Still, I didn’t breathe right until I was in my car. Until I made it back to Philly and the buzz of my city wrapped around my shoulders like a favorite coat.