Page 3 of Siren (The Enigma Affairs #1)

TWO

T he beat was rolling low—thick bass, chopped guitar, nothing too polished yet.

Amir stood behind the board, nodding slow, head tilted like he was listening to something the rest of the world hadn’t caught up to yet.

Myles was half-asleep in the corner chair, hood up, tapping his pen against the edge of the soundboard like a metronome.

I leaned back on the leather couch, one leg stretched out, water bottle sweating in my hand. The room was dim, the way I liked it. No distractions. Just sound and space.

The track looped again.

Amir glanced over his shoulder. “You hear it now?”

“I been heard it,” I said, my voice low. “You finally caught up.”

He smirked and cut the sound, rubbing a hand over his beard. “So that’s what we on today?”

“You asked.” I twisted the cap back on my bottle. “I told you it needed something dirty. Some soul. You tried to fight it.”

Amir grunted. “Man, whatever.”

The studio settled into our kind of quiet?—

Not silence, just sound nobody needed to name.

My phone buzzed in my hoodie pocket.

Jalen’s name flashed across the screen.

Amir clocked it with a tilt of his chin. “That your manager?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Solid dude. Doesn’t blow smoke.”

I stood and slipped out of the booth, walking slow down the hallway toward the small lounge. I hit answer, let the silence breathe a beat.

“Yo,” I said.

“Raj,” Jalen replied, voice as upbeat and polished as ever. “You got a minute?”

“You already got it.”

“Cool, cool. So, update on that intro we discussed.”

I didn’t say anything.

“It’s on for this weekend,” he said. “Gallery event in East Liberty. Nothing flashy—just art, a little press, and a quiet introduction.”

A pause.

“Sienna Ray,” he added .

I didn’t say anything right away. I couldn’t. If they were pulling out Sienna for this collab, then they wanted more than good music out of us. She was huge…

“She’s game to meet. Just a conversation. If the vibe’s right, we move forward with the studio collab.”

I looked out the window, jaw set. I thought this was just music.

No need for warm-ups and roundtables just to get in the booth. I was ready to work. Always had been. And if Sienna Ray was who I knew her to be, she’d show up, hit her marks, and leave the mic smoking. Same as me.

“I thought this was only about music,” I said flatly, already clocking the angle.

He exhaled like he’d been waiting on that. “It is. But you know how this goes. Perception feeds attention, and attention feeds everything else. This ain’t a media circus. Just chemistry. Organic moments. You do what you do. She does what she does. And if it clicks?”

I sighed, pacing slow.

I’d seen it before. Labels setting up little love story illusions to push the project. Add a few curated visuals, some smirks across the studio, and boom—everybody eating off a narrative that wasn’t even real.

But this time something about it felt different.

Maybe it was her name.

Sienna Ray. The kind of name you didn’t just hear—you felt it. Like a hook that stayed in your chest long after the song ended. She was the Sienna Ray. A voice that could break a man down to the bone, all wrapped in honey and hurricane. She didn’t need a storyline. Neither did I.

So why now?

“Raj,” he said again, voice dropping like he was trying to speak to the part of me that still gave a damn, “it’s a powerful pairing.

Two real artists. Both private. Both respected.

It’s not about pretending—it’s about letting people wonder.

That curiosity creates gravity. And the music will speak louder because of it. ”

I didn’t answer right away. Because as much as I hated the game, I understood it. And if there was one person I might be willing to walk that line with, it was her.

“This meeting is just the warm-up. You good?”

A beat passed.

“Yeah,” I finally said. “I’m good.”

He hung up.

Back in the studio, Amir looked up from the board. “All set?”

“Gallery meet-up Friday. Studio Saturday.”

He raised an eyebrow. “With who?”

“Sienna Ray.”

Amir let out a low whistle. “Well damn.”

I dropped back onto the couch, elbows on my knees.

“Thought you was gonna clown it,” I muttered.

“Man, I was—if it was one of those TikTok acts with two singles and a brand deal,” he said, adjusting the fader without even looking. “But Sienna?” He nodded slow, like the name alone grounded the room. “She’s serious. Legendary.”

“I know.”

And I did. Knew it in the way her voice hit like scripture. Knew it in the way her lyrics carried weight and heat and ache.

And yeah—knew it in the way her presence stayed in your bloodstream long after the screen faded to black. But this wasn’t about being starstruck. This was about finally meeting someone who moved through music the same way I did?—

Like it was blood.

Like it was breath.

Like it was prayer.

Still, my chest was tight. Not from nerves. But from the pressure to deliver .

To match her energy. To be worthy .

“This the kind of thing careers pivot on,” I said quietly.

Amir looked over. “Yours already pivoted. This just widens your options.”

I didn’t respond right away.

He grinned. “And you already think she fine, don’t you?”

I didn’t say a word. Because yeah. Of course I did.

What man in his right mind didn’t?

But it wasn’t just that. Her beauty didn’t smack you in the face—it lingered . Stayed in the corners of your memory, soft and unbothered, like the last note of a chord that still vibrated through your chest.

And that voice? It wasn’t just her gift—it was the way she looked when she sang, like something holy passed through her.

So yeah, I’d struggle not to look at her. But I wasn’t here for that.

Still… I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t already pictured what it’d be like to hear her voice live, close enough to feel it in my bones.

Later that night, I was in my apartment with the lights off—except for the soft glow under the kitchen cabinets. The city buzzed through the windows in pulses—distant sirens, the roll of tires on wet asphalt, someone’s laugh breaking the stillness, then fading.

I sat at the edge of the bed, laptop balanced on my thigh, scrolling through old clips of Sienna.

One caught me.

A stripped-down set from six, maybe seven years ago. Small venue. Tight frame. Just her, a mic, and a stool.

She wore all black—fitted pants that hugged the curve of her hips, a cropped knit top that clung to a body slender but thick in the right places. Not overdone. Natural. Like she was carved from honey and heat.

Her curls fell around her face in loose, full spirals, brushing her collarbone, gold hoops catching the low light as she moved.

And her eyes...

Closed at first, like she had to shut the world out to pull the truth from wherever she kept it.

Her voice was raw. Gut-deep.

Not pretty for pretty’s sake—but powerful. Like she bled with elegance. Like the pain had been distilled into song.

But then…

Then she opened her eyes.

And it wrecked me.

Dark, milk chocolate—rich and endless, framed by thick lashes and soft smoky eyeshadow. She didn’t look at the camera. Didn’t have to. But something in the way she saw the room—how still she was in those final notes—landed deep in my chest.

I felt my dick harden before I even noticed the tension in my shoulders. Had to shift in my seat. Had to shut the laptop fast like it hadn’t just baptized me in want.

I dropped back on the bed, one arm over my forehead, her voice still curling in my ears like smoke from a fire I hadn’t meant to start.

She was too much. Too real . Too damn good. And I was supposed to meet her tomorrow.

Couldn’t walk into that gallery stiff and fully affected.

So I laid there in the dark, trying to get my heart and body to calm down. That didn’t work. Her voice stayed with me.

So did her mouth. And that body. And those eyes.