Page 27 of Siren (The Enigma Affairs #1)

TWENTY-FOUR

T he lights were hot. Too hot. I could feel sweat building beneath my collar, heat crawling up the back of my neck like a silent warning.

The set was all clean lines and commercial gloss—soft blue walls, a white lacquer desk, and the glowing GMA logo pulsing behind the hosts like a halo. Cameras glided across tracks. Stagehands whispered into headsets, signaling five seconds until the segment went live.

Sienna stood beside me in a plum silk dress that hugged every inch of her. Her makeup was flawless. Hair pulled into a soft twist that revealed the long line of her neck. She looked effortless, even under all that light. Even with the pressure rising.

I kept waiting for the nerves to settle.

They didn’t.

“You’re watching Good Morning America,” Robin Roberts said, smiling directly into the camera. “And this morning, we have an exclusive with the duo behind the rising hit, 'Dangerous Love.' Please welcome powerhouse vocalist Sienna Ray and the breakout singer-songwriter and producer, Taraj Ferrell!”

Applause. Lights up. Cue the close-up.

We both smiled. Said our hellos. Sat close on the white couch they used for musical guests. But from the first question, I knew the tone was off.

"Sienna, this new era you’re stepping into is incredible—the vocals, the visuals, the story behind the album. It feels like a rebirth. What inspired this next chapter for you?" Robin asked warmly.

She lit up. Voice polished. Confident. Her hand brushed mine gently as she spoke, and I nodded along like I was part of it. Like I wasn’t fading from the center of the room.

Every question pointed to her. Her rise. Her evolution. Her voice. Her control.

Then Michael Strahan chimed in, flashing a grin. “Taraj, your production is amazing. What was it like working with someone as iconic as Sienna?”

I cleared my throat. Sat forward. “She brought the kind of energy that demands something honest. We wrote from a place that wasn’t safe. That’s where 'Dangerous Love' came from.”

They smiled politely. Pivoted.

She was radiant. Her voice lifted the room when we transitioned to the live performance. A stripped-down version of the track. Just a mic, some keys, a subtle bass line. The air shifted when we started.

She took the first verse, her tone honeyed and aching:

"You don’t ask for nothin’

But your eyes say too much

And I’m scared of the rush

Of believing in us..."

I followed:

"Got my hands on the edge

But I dive when it’s you

You say we could crash

And I hope that we do..."

Our harmonies met in the hook, that tension curling between us:

"You do Dangerous Love to my peace

And I love how you ruin me sweet..."

Her eyes found mine and stayed there.

She smiled like it was everything we wanted.

But inside, I was drifting. I didn’t know where I fit anymore. If this was still mine too.

She didn’t notice. Didn’t see the weight behind my smile.

After the show, we stepped off set into a flurry of PR chatter and producer praise .

"We’re gonna send car service for the next thing," someone said.

Sienna turned to me, glowing. “Come back to my suite? We can order food, decompress a little before the press junket tonight.”

I hesitated. Not because I didn’t want her.

Because I didn’t know if she still saw me.

I kissed her warm cheek gently. “I’m wiped. Gonna lay low for a minute.”

She searched my face for something. Didn’t press.

“Okay. I’ll text you.”

I nodded. Let her go.

Back in my suite, I poured a drink. Sat on the edge of the bed. The curtains were still drawn, the room dim except for the TV casting soundless color across the walls.

I pulled out my phone.

Sienna was everywhere.

Clips of the performance. Screengrabs of her smile. Tweets about her voice, her dress, her glow-up.

And under one photo from a selfie she posted after i fucked her senseless:

@DarianMontrose: Didn’t know you still had that look in your eyes, Songbird. Miss it.

No comment from her. But she’d liked it.

I sat there, thumb hovering. Swiped to my messages. Texts from women I hadn’t opened.

Come see me tonight. You know I keep it quiet.

Miss that mouth.

You in the city or nah?

I stared at them. One tap and I could feel wanted again. Loud. Visible. But it wouldn’t be real. And it wouldn’t be her.

I put the phone face down. Finished my drink. Let the silence stretch. Because the truth was loud as hell: I was falling for a woman who didn’t even realize I was slipping into the background.

And I didn’t know how to ask her to see me again.