Page 26 of Siren (The Enigma Affairs #1)

TWENTY-THREE

I wasn’t supposed to be here.

Not in a stadium with thirty thousand people and her leg brushing mine every time she shifted in her seat. Not laughing at dumb shit about overpriced pretzels.

Not watching her tilt her face to the sun like she wasn’t the hottest topic on every gossip blog this morning.

I was supposed to be at the crib. Writing. Hiding. Playing the role. But she pulled me into this moment like gravity. And I didn’t want to fight it.

Said she used to go to baseball games with her dad when she was little—just the two of them, bundled in hoodies, splitting soft pretzels, booing the players who couldn’t run.

So when she saw the Pirates were playing the Phillies, she looked at me with that glint in her eye, the one that made it hard to say no.

“We have security… why not?”

Her voice was bright, hopeful. Like a memory remade in real time. So we called our managers. Cleared the air. Set it up. Shit, if we were gonna out ourselves, might as well do it in daylight.

She looked good—too good.

Hoodie loose. Lips glossy. Hair tucked under a black fitted like she wasn’t one of the most recognizable voices and faces in the game. She leaned close to whisper something wild about a player’s tight pants and cracked up when I gave her a look.

That laugh—that shit did something to me. Not just because it was beautiful. But because it was free. Like she’d peeled herself out of the headlines and just decided to be here. With me. No tension. No lights. Just us.

I used to think the most dangerous thing about her was her voice.

I was wrong.

It was this— us . Out in the open. No booth, no dim lights, no fake flirting for the label. Just her shoulder pressed to mine, and that familiar ache in my chest building again.

I took a slow sip of my drink, tried to focus on the game, but her hand brushed my thigh and I flinched.

“You alright?” she asked, grinning.

“Define alright.”

She bit her lip like she wanted to say something slick, but then she caught it—someone’s phone lifted two rows ahead of us. The subtle angle. The slow zoom. The shake of a hand trying to steady excitement.

“They see us,” I muttered.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “They do.”

She didn’t shrink. Didn’t pull away. Just sat a little straighter, adjusting her sunglasses and linking her fingers in her lap.

I felt it again—that pull toward her. Not fear. Not the urge to run. Just the quiet ache to protect what was mine… and let the world see it.

I leaned in a little. “We can dip if you want.”

She shook her head, eyes never leaving the field. “Nah. Let ’em watch.”

I studied her for a beat. The way her jaw was set. The glint in her eye. The calm in her body. She wasn’t shaken.

She was done hiding.

And maybe that was what made something ease in my chest. Because I’d spent most of my life keeping things close—staying quiet, staying low. But this—Sienna Ray beside me, smiling like the sun had always favored her first—that, I could live with. Hell, I could let the world see it .

I nodded, voice low but sure. “Then we’ll let ’em.”

She turned her face toward me, slow and deliberate. And when our eyes met, I saw it. Not the curated version. Not the image they pushed. But her . Bare. Steady. Choosing me in real time.

That look was intimate. Unapologetic.

And it felt like the softest kind of spotlight. Before I could speak, the stadium erupted around us—not in noise, but in light.

The jumbotron lit up above the field, and there we were—caught on the screen, side by side in Section 123. First the image. Then the text.

SIENNA RAY & TARAJ FERREL L

Gold font. All caps. Centered like a headline the world had been waiting for.

Gasps. A beat of silence. Then the swell of recognition as the crowd caught on. Cheers started in pockets, then spread like a wave.

Phones rose. Fingers pointed. Sienna’s eyes never left mine and I knew what she was asking without saying a word.

So I gave her the answer. I leaned in and kissed her.

Right there, under that massive screen, in front of thousands of strangers and one woman I didn’t want to hide from.

Our lips met—soft, deliberate, and so damn sure. Her hand found my jaw. My fingers brushed her thigh. It was more than affection. It was ownership. Not of each other, but of the truth between us.

When we pulled apart, the crowd was still reacting—shouting, clapping, a few standing just to see us clearer. The buzz around us blurred into a haze I didn’t care to translate.

Because right then, I wasn’t Taraj the mystery. Taraj the marketed. Taraj the voice behind the track. I was hers . And she was mine.

Two weeks later.

Echoes of Your Flame had crossed six million streams.

Six. Million.

For a song that wasn’t even supposed to exist. No rollout. No marketing plan. No hook. Just her voice in a dark room, and my lyrics laid bare like an open wound.

Now it was everywhere.

Clips of her runs stitched into reels with captions like the gospel of the gut. Tweets called it soft rage in sonic form. Edits of her face and my pen, layered together like the internet had finally cracked the code on us. Some fans knew the lyrics better than I did.

And maybe that made sense.

Because the truth was… that song wasn’t just a track.

It was a confession. And not mine.

What nobody was saying, though—what was beneath all those think pieces and perfectly cut viral clips—was that Dangerous Love was done too.

Finished. Mixed. Ready to move. But instead of launching my solo project, it had quietly become ours —a duet that no one planned but everyone wanted now.

The label had already started seeding it.

Behind-the-scenes footage. Studio b-roll.

That final shot of her leaning into the mic, mouthing touch me again and I’ll burn you down —yeah, they’d clipped that for TikTok.

And it was working.

Which meant the spotlight had shifted.

Sienna was the name on every exec’s tongue. Not the washed-up star trying to claw her way back. She was back. Bigger. Brighter. On fire.

And me? I was the one who helped build the track that reignited her—but now I could barely get a call returned.

I sat at the long, overdesigned table on the thirteenth floor of the label’s headquarters, surrounded by neutral tones, double-speak, and the kind of air that smelled filtered three times over. My chair looked expensive but felt like shit. Amir sat to my left, pen tapping softly against his thigh.

The door opened.

Sienna walked in beside Brielle, her stride unbothered. Collected. Hair swept up. Soft beat. Gold hoops. Black dress hugging all the right curves without trying too hard. And somehow, still, it was her eyes I saw first—warm, familiar, sure.

When she spotted me, she smiled, just a little. Then she crossed to my side and sat beside me, not across. Our knees almost touched.

She didn’t speak, just placed a hand on the table, palm down, close enough that if I needed grounding, I could find it.

Barry, in his signature watch and polished charm, cleared his throat. “Glad we’re all here. We’re ready to talk rollout.”

I glanced at Jalen, his silence already louder than I liked.

“Rollout for what?”

Barry grinned. “ Echoes , of course. The response is phenomenal. But also Dangerous Love. The timing is perfect to drop them back to back.”

I nodded slowly. Just once.

“We’re thinking of a tandem campaign,” Barry continued. “Strategic release windows. Feature placements. Visual rollouts. That behind-the-scenes footage from the mix session? Blew up overnight.”

He said it like I should feel honored.

Like I hadn’t spent a week trying to get Jalen to clarify if my actual album was still on the table.

I shifted, jaw tight. “And my solo project?”

That’s when it happened. The first flicker of discomfort passed across Jalen’s face. Not panic—just that low thrum of guilt that says I wish I had better news. But he didn’t say anything. Just gave me the kind of look men give when they’re trying to say I’m sorry without using their mouths.

But under that guilt was something else. That memory of the last time I reminded him who I was. Who I could be if I had to be.

Brielle’s expression didn’t change, but I saw the stillness in her. The way she caught the temperature drop in the room.

A few nights ago, Sienna had warned me to play this one different. “Don’t come at them with fire,” she’d said. “Make them walk into the flame.”

So I sat back. Let them cook. Let the silence hang a little too long. Just enough to make them sweat.

Sienna’s hand shifted slightly—still not touching mine, but closer now. Her body angled toward me like she wasn’t just present for this meeting. She was here for me, too.

Another exec leaned forward. “Essence wants a cover story. If we do an exclusive, we might be able to bring in Billboard as well. The idea is to show intimacy. Real connection. You two in a warm, homey environment. Soft light. Candid but elevated.”

I exhaled. “So… fake real.”

“Curated real,” Jalen finally said, like that was any better. But his voice was softer this time. Like he was trying to keep things from boiling.

“What you two have—what you built—it’s working. This is what the people want.”

I looked to Sienna. We didn’t curate anything. From the start, our shit was real.

Her eyes said she knew what I felt but to play the game.

“I’ll do Essence, ” she said.

Barry lit up. “That’s great news?—”

“But I pick the writer,” she added. “And the setting. I’m not interested in performance. If we’re giving the public truth, it needs to come from us. Not the machine.”

The table went still.

Barry gave her a long look. “You know that’s not usually how this goes.”

“I’m not usual,” she replied, voice steady. “Neither is this.”

Barry laughed, smoothing over the silence. “Alright. That’s something we can work with.”

Barry nodded eventually, conceding. “You’ll have support. Within reason.”

Sienna just nodded once. “That’s all I need.”

They kept talking—pre-save strategy, launch windows, PR targets. Amir said something about holding Dangerous Love until Echoes of Your Flame crested at eight million.

But I wasn’t really listening anymore.

I was watching her .

The curve of her jaw as she considered their bullshit. The calm fire in her voice when she pushed back. The quiet grace of a woman who had earned this return—not with noise, but with art. With pain. With power.

I loved that woman like a vow I didn’t know I was allowed to make.

But I’d be lying if I said the moment didn’t sting.

The spotlight was warm on her shoulders.

But it cast a long shadow where I sat.

And Jalen—he hadn’t forgotten who I was.

I could see it in the looks he kept sneaking me. The twitch in his jaw. The care in his words.

That wasn’t guilt. That was memory. That was respect dressed up like caution.

But he had a label to consider. A career. Budgets. Stakeholders.

Me… I had a story nobody wanted to fund.

So I let the quiet stretch until it bent the mood.

Then I leaned forward and said, voice even,

“Just make sure the story you’re selling doesn’t erase the ones who wrote it.”

And that was it.

The rest of the meeting ran without me. Talking schedules. Features. Magazine layouts. Timelines. But my mind stayed right there—on the space between us.

Sienna reached down when no one was looking, her fingers brushing mine.

A simple touch. Reassuring. Steady.

I squeezed her hand once, then let go. Because I wasn’t bitter. I was just waiting for my moment.

And the next time I speak… they’ll listen.