Page 23 of Siren (The Enigma Affairs #1)

TWENTY

T he next morning, before I’d had a chance to shower, my phone lit up with Brielle’s name.

“You free?”

“Define free. ”

She laughed softly, but I could hear the undertone. That edge. “I just got off a call with Jalen and the rest of the suits. They want to move.”

I sat up. “Move how?”

“The song, Sienna. The one Amir recorded. They think it’s… transformative. They said it sounded like your soul grew wings and flew through the speakers.”

I was quiet.

“You don’t sound excited,” she added.

I leaned my head back against the headboard. “Because it wasn’t supposed to be for them.”

“I know. But it’s already done. It’s on their radar, and they’re salivating. They’re talking campaign visuals, a deluxe release, a roll-out with Taraj standing behind you in a damn silk shirt like y’all just woke up in love.”

I let out a low groan.

“They’re serious,” she added. “The whole ‘romance’ thing? They want to run with it hard now. Because they want to connect this sound that you released in Echo with this budding thing you got going on with him. I mean, girl, your bare feet were caught in that video still. Somebody zoomed in.”

I sat upright. “What video?” I didn’t know there was video!

Brielle exhaled. “The hallway footage. You leaving Raj’s room. It’s got over 800k views already on one of those gossip accounts.”

That was me. So damn dick drunk that I tiptoed out of his suite with my pumps in one hand, and my coat in the other.

I closed my eyes. “This is spiraling.”

“It is. But you’ve always known how to center yourself when shit spins. I trust you to do that now.”

“I’m not sure I can.”

“You can,” Brielle said. “And Sienna?”

“What?”

“I think what’s scaring you isn’t that they know. It’s that you do. That what you sang, what you gave him—what y’all shared—was real. And the truth is, real makes better art.”

I couldn’t even argue.

She was right. Even if I hated that she was.

“Are we locked in for that breakfast meeting tomorrow?” I asked, needing to pivot before I unraveled.

“Yep. Eleven. The execs want to talk packaging. You, Raj, the song, the moment.”

“Perfect,” I said, sarcasm sharp. “Because nothing says love like product placement.”

Brielle laughed under her breath. “Welcome back to the industry, baby.”

We hung up.

And I sat in the stillness, my thoughts racing, my body still aching faintly from the imprint of him. The truth was, I had let something go in that booth. And now it was everywhere.

A song. A look. A door caught on camera.

I was an artist. But tonight, I felt like a woman laid bare. And I didn’t know how much longer I could pretend those two things were separate.

The café was all soft gold light and polished wood, the kind of place meant to feel warm and disarming—like good coffee could make you forget the sharp edge of the industry.

It didn’t work. Not on me.

I adjusted my sunglasses and scanned the room as the hostess led me toward the back. Our table was near the window, tucked just enough to feel like we might be able to talk without being watched. But I felt watched anyway. That wasn’t new .

They’d started showing up again—the eyes. The whispers. The camera phones lifted just high enough to capture something they could make into something else.

I smoothed a hand over my dress—simple, black, sleeveless. My hair was up in a loose twist, soft curls framing my cheekbones. I hadn’t worn this for them. I’d worn it because I needed armor that didn’t look like armor. Something that let me feel good in my skin.

Brielle was already there, tapping through her phone with the kind of tight smile that told me she’d been fielding messages all morning.

She looked up when I approached. “You’re late.”

“I’m right on time.”

“Fashionably,” she muttered, but stood and gave me a quick hug anyway. “You good?”

I hesitated before answering. “Define good.”

She exhaled, sliding back into her seat. “You look good.”

I sat across from her. “That’s not what you asked.”

“No,” she said, glancing down at the table. “But I figured we should start with a lie we can both agree on.”

I didn’t laugh. Couldn’t. Not when everything felt like it was teetering on the edge of something I hadn’t planned.

A server came by. I ordered something light—fruit, jasmine tea. My stomach was tight. Brielle ordered coffee, then locked eyes with me.

“They love it,” she said.

“I know.”

“The footage, the song, the vibe of you two together. The way it’s caught fire? It’s doing something. And the label wants to throw fuel on it.”

I looked out the window. Cars passed. People walked. Life was happening. And yet, mine felt paused. Spun into something glossy and shaped by other hands.

“They want more,” Brielle said, watching me. “More appearances. More ‘candid’ moments. They want a joint interview.”

I shook my head slowly. “We agreed to pretend. To make it believable. But this?”

“They believe it.”

I looked at her then. Really looked. “Do you?”

She didn’t blink. “I believe something happened. I believe it’s bigger than what the label cooked up.”

A breath caught in my chest.

“I believe you care about him.”

I didn’t answer.

Because I didn’t know how to explain the way his voice lived in my skin now. The way he looked at me like I was more than a story told in fading headlines. The way he’d held me. Eaten from me. Sung to me.

The way he’d listened.

“I think you need to decide if you’re scared of them seeing the truth,” Brielle said gently, “or if you’re scared of seeing it yourself.”

The tea came.

I stirred honey in without tasting it. My fingers trembled slightly, barely enough to notice, but enough to feel.

The truth was I didn’t know if I was scared of the lie or the love. Both could eat you alive. One just took longer.

“He makes me feel seen,” I said quietly.

Brielle leaned in, expression softening. “Then let yourself be.”

The sun shifted outside the window, sliding across the table.

And for just a second, I thought about calling him. Instead, I picked up the spoon. Stirred again. Let the silence stretch.

Let the truth simmer.

Brielle's phone lit up again.

She glanced at it, grimaced, then slid it across the table. “Look at that. ”

I took the phone. Read the message.

Jalen:

"Can we get them in the same room this week? A surprise studio drop. No press, just BTS footage. Capture some magic. Let the fans keep guessing."

I handed it back.

“Magic,” I said flatly.

Brielle sighed. “You knew this would come. That track you laid down? It opened something up. Not just for the label. For the public. They want more of you two. They want to see what that sound looks like.”

“I bet they do,” I murmured, sipping the tea finally.

It had cooled.

“We can say no,” she offered. “You still have control. But it’s a moment, Sienna. And moments like this don’t come often.”

I stared at the ripples in my cup.

My voice was trending again. My name was getting hashtags. They weren’t talking about my age or my shelf life. They were talking about how I sounded. How I made them feel.

But at what cost?

I closed my eyes for a second and saw him.

His mouth. His hands. His voice. The way he’d looked at me while I sang—like I was something rare and holy.

Was it worth making that look part of the game?

I opened my eyes. Looked Brielle in the face.

“I’ll do it,” I said. “But on my terms. No fake flirting. No pre-written talking points. If they want magic, they better not try to manufacture it.”

Her mouth curved. “Now that’s the Sienna I know.”

I raised a brow. “Then let’s remind them.”

Fifteen minutes later, a host walked the executives in—Barry, Keesha, and a younger assistant in a boxy blazer trying too hard to blend in. Jalen followed behind them, his posture less corporate, more watchful. He wasn’t here for them. He was here for Taraj —and maybe, quietly, for me too.

They offered greetings, but I stayed seated, letting them approach me. On my turf. My terms.

Barry nodded with that practiced ease. “Sienna. Thank you for making time.”

“Did I have a choice?” I murmured.

He gave a thin smile but didn’t push. “Let’s talk campaign strategy.”

Keesha remained standing, sleek tablet in hand. “We’ve got preliminary storyboards for a visual campaign,” she said. “We want to lead with the audio—no full video drop yet—but build it around the intimacy. The realness.”

She tapped the screen and turned it toward me.

The first image:

A dimly lit studio. Shadows painting the walls. A woman seated at a piano—clearly modeled after me. Hair tousled, back bare, light kissing the slope of her spine.

Slide.

A slow pan-in. Taraj behind her, shirtless, drawn close like gravity did the pulling. His hand on her back. Her lips parted. Not singing. Not speaking. Just… there. Breathless.

Slide.

Hands on keys. Not playing—just touching. His and mine. Tension in the forearms. A sticky note overlay read: “Fingers speak before mouths do.”

Slide.

A grainy black-and-white still. The hallway video. Me leaving Raj’s suite. My feet bare. His robe slipping from one shoulder. The tagline underneath: “Was it just a song?”

Slide .

A staged argument. Tension behind glass. I’m in the booth, singing like I’m breaking open. He’s at the console, gripping the mic stand like it’s the only thing holding him together.

Slide.

A long hallway, sunlit. We walk in opposite directions. Turn back at the same time. Lock eyes. Fade to black.

I stared.

They’d made it beautiful. Marketable. Memorable.

But it wasn’t real .

“This is what you think intimacy is?” I asked, voice low.

Keesha didn’t flinch. “It’s what the public responds to.”

“It’s a script,” I said. “Performance. You’re turning something sacred into a storyboard.”

Barry raised a palm, calm. “We’re not denying the realness, Sienna. We’re just… amplifying it.”

“It’s fiction,” I snapped.

Jalen, still leaning in the corner, finally spoke. “It’s not your truth. That’s what matters.”

Keesha tilted her head. “So what is your truth, Sienna? What does your version of this look like?”

I met her gaze. “Less myth. More meaning. No artificial tension. No suggestive stares. If we’re going to show people something, let it be how the music comes to life. Let them feel what we felt—without all the lace and lighting.”

They paused. Exchanged glances.

“We can work with that,” Keesha said slowly, recalibrating.

Brielle gave me a nod that said: That’s how you hold your line.

I sipped my tea again.

Still lukewarm. But I didn’t care.

Because the fire in my voice was mine again.

They left ten minutes later, promises hanging in the air like fog that hadn’t burned off yet .

I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Brielle finally broke the silence.

“You want my opinion?”

“No,” I muttered, “but you’ll give it anyway.”

She smirked. “That was some queen shit.”