Page 28 of Siren (The Enigma Affairs #1)

TWENTY-FIVE

T he room smelled like shea butter and warm brilliance.

Not the usual stifled air of hairspray and half-eaten pastries. Not the stiff chill of professionalism dressed up in politeness. This place breathed. It lived . Every corner of it told a story I wanted to remember—one built with care, detail, reverence. For me.

A wall of soft linen curtains diffused the afternoon sun, giving the space a golden wash. Gold mesh and dark velvet caught the light, flickering back at you like memory. The set was layered—lush, elegant, Black as jazz. Somewhere between a Harlem parlor and a dreamscape.

All around me, the room moved like a rhythm.

Stylists in braids and bright nails adjusted drapes and shadows.

A photographer in sneakers and bamboo earrings calibrated her lens like it was an extension of her heartbeat.

An assistant fixed lighting while nodding along to a playlist you couldn’t find on Spotify—jazz threaded into soul, drumless and rich.

The kind of music that moved your bones before your brain caught up.

Everyone here was Black. Beautiful. Vibrant. Intent on capturing me in the softest, strongest light. I could feel their belief in me before the first flash went off. And still… something in me lingered at the edge.

I sat at the mirror as a makeup artist smoothed something golden along my cheekbones, her hands confident and gentle, a quiet magic in every stroke. She didn’t ask many questions. Didn’t need to. The look was already happening.

Hair swept up. Neck bare. My collarbone catching light like it had something to say. The gown they chose curved down my body like liquid dusk—wine in shadow, shadow in silk. It changed color depending on how you looked at it.

Like me.

“You good?” Brielle asked from just behind me, holding a tablet in one hand and an espresso in the other.

I nodded, slow.

She tilted her head. “You look it.” Her voice softened, something like awe riding the edge of her breath. “Like… unbothered goddess realness.”

A slow smile curved my lips, though it didn’t quite reach.

“Is that the look we’re going for?” I murmured .

“For you?” She grinned, scrolling. “We’re not going for anything. You already are it.”

I should’ve felt proud. Centered. Seen.

And I did… mostly.

But underneath the pride was a ripple. A shift.

Because I could feel it—the difference. This was no longer about us . Not the duet. Not the shared chemistry that once sparked so loud it shook the room. Not the storm we unleashed when we made the kind of song that wasn’t meant to go public but did anyway.

This was about me.

My cover. My moment. My story.

The light belonged to me now. And somehow, I missed sharing it.

I held my own gaze in the mirror a moment longer.

Took in the woman I’d become—the one who told the label no when it mattered. Who demanded more and got it. Who loved a man in a kitchen, then stepped into the spotlight like she hadn’t just come apart in his arms the night before.

But something had changed and it started with GMA.

Taraj hadn’t come back to my suite after. Said he was tired and maybe he was. But it felt like more than exhaustion.

Since then…he’d been quieter. The texts had thinned out. The calls stopped altogether.

We weren’t broken, not officially. But there was space between us now. Unspoken. Unnamed.

And widening.

We were still smiling for cameras. Still singing like we belonged to one mic. But at night, he wasn’t there. And that silence—the kind only lovers feel in the chest—had started curling around the edges of everything.

Still, I felt him everywhere.

In the demo I looped just to hear his voice catch on the second verse .

In the scribbled lyrics I couldn’t finish because his presence wasn’t in the room to pull them from me.

In the ache in my jaw from holding back everything I wanted to say when we were alone for just a breath too long—and he looked away first.

I didn’t want him for clarity. Didn’t even want answers.

I just wanted him… near.

I wanted him because he quieted something in me.

Because I could be fire, and he wouldn’t flinch.

Because he looked at me—not the fame, not the voice, not the image—but me … and still leaned in.

Taraj didn’t complete me. He reminded me I was whole, even when I felt hollow. The man who laid me down like I was a hymn.

Who said, “I’m not pretending,” like it was scripture.

Who made love to my doubts and left them breathless.

And now he felt like a dream that hadn’t disappeared—just dimmed.

The photographer’s voice cut through my thoughts.

“Ready when you are.”

I stood, smoothing the silk over my hips. Bare feet on warm white flooring. They walked me toward the arch they’d built—drapes of velvet, soft golds and lived-in browns. Everything lush. Everything soulful.

I reclined on a chaise, found my light, and let them shoot.

Click.

Another angle. Another breath.

Click.

I shifted, let my mouth part. Tilted my head and held something back in my eyes—just enough to make the mystery feel earned.

Click.

And in that stillness, I realized they were capturing something sacred. Not a woman selling a story. Not a comeback. Not an image .

They were capturing a woman who had finally let herself be held . Not by hands. But by belief. Her own.

And by a love she didn’t want to fix. Just stay close to.

Between setups, I reached for my phone and snapped a mirror pic—hair perfect, skin gleaming, the gown catching shadows like they were secrets.

I sent it to him.

Me: Styled by Black women. Shot by a Black woman. On my terms.

Wish you were here.

The dots appeared almost immediately.

Paused.

Then came his reply.

Raj: Wish I was too.

You look like power wrapped in silk.

My breath caught.

He was still there. Quiet, but present. Still watching. Still proud.

I bit my lip and tucked the phone away. Then stepped back into the frame, spine straightening as I exhaled slow.

I wasn’t half of anything.

But God, I still wanted him beside me.