Page 34 of Siren (The Enigma Affairs #1)

THIRTY-ONE

Weeks later…

I was in the booth, headphones on, laying a scratch hook over a beat Amir had flipped—something moody, minor key, full of space to bleed. But my voice?

It wasn’t bleeding.

It wasn’t doing a damn thing.

Every take came out flat. Too clean. Like it didn’t hurt enough. And it did hurt. Just not the way it needed to—loud and honest and cracked open.

I pulled the headphones off and rubbed both hands down my face.

“You good?” Amir’s voice cut through the glass.

I gave him a half nod I didn’t mean, already reaching for my phone like it was second nature. Muscle memory. Desperation.

I hadn’t heard from her in two days.

Texts were brief. Voice notes even shorter. The last time we FaceTimed, she smiled like someone trying to hold a wall up with a paper spine.

Still beautiful. Still brave. But something behind her eyes had gone dim.

And I missed her. Missed the sound of her breath when I kissed her neck. The way her hips moved when she was half-asleep and clinging to me. The last time I touched her, she trembled—and I could still feel that shiver in my hands.

We’d tried to have FaceTime sex once since she left.

Tried to make it feel like something close to what we had.

But the reception kept dropping. Her image pixelated half the time.

Her moans skipped. I came with her name on my lips and a mess in my hands, and it didn’t feel like victory. It felt like the ache got worse.

My phone lit up.

Sienna.

I swiped so fast I nearly fumbled the screen.

“Hey.”

Silence.

Then her voice—cracked, soft. “Hi.”

That "hi" wrecked me.

I sank back in the chair, heart thudding like it wanted out of my chest .

“You okay?” I asked, already knowing.

A pause.

Then, “I don’t think I am.”

My breath caught. “Talk to me.”

She sniffed. Again.

“I sang the song tonight. Our song. More Than a Moment. And I gave them everything, Raj. Every drop of me. And when the last note faded... I was alone again.”

I closed my eyes.

“You’re not alone,” I said.

“You’re not here.”

And there it was. The silence between our sentences finally filled in.

“I know,” I whispered. “I know, baby.”

She didn’t say a word, but I could hear her breathing—shaky, low, like she was holding on with both hands and still slipping.

“Listen,” I said, already on my feet, pacing. “I hear you. Even the parts you ain’t saying. And I’m not waiting for you to spell it out.”

A sound left her then—part sob, part sigh.

“I’m coming to you,” I said. “Tomorrow.”

“Raj…”

“No more time zones. No more pretending distance doesn’t bruise us. I want you. Real time. No filters. No countdowns.”

Another breath. Then the softest, most broken “Please.”

And that was all I needed.

I stood there for a beat, staring into space like I could replay her voice in the air. Still hearing the ache in it. Still feeling the way it cracked something open in me.

Falling for her hadn’t been a choice. It was a slow descent—one I never tried to stop. And somehow, I’d learned how to breathe underwater.

Amir’s voice cut through the quiet. “She okay? ”

I swallowed. My throat tightened. “Not really.”

He didn’t need more than that.

“Then go to your woman,” he said, firm, like it was the only answer. “I’ll handle the label. Blame me if you need to.”

“You sure?”

“You think they’ll argue with me after I gave them Night Things ?” he snorted. “Nah. But if they do, I’ll just say your vocals were trash and you needed to go get your heart back.”

I let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “Appreciate you.”

“Go fix that shit, man.”

And I did.

12 Hours Later — Madrid

Her hotel was a palace tucked behind a wall of ivy and quiet elegance. Marble floors. Gold-trimmed elevators. The kind of place you only stayed when the label wanted the press to whisper about the opulence and the star they’d built.

Security—not the guys we had in Pittsburgh—stopped me at the door.

“I’m on her list,” I said, wondering why the fuck they didn’t know who I was. I might not be Sienna, but I wasn’t no chump. Still, I got it. They had jobs to do.

One of them checked the iPad and nodded. “Suite. She hasn’t left all day.”

They escorted me to the top floor, then stepped back.

I knocked once. The door opened slowly.

She stood barefoot in a robe, curls loose, eyes swollen from sleep—or tears. Maybe both. Her mouth parted like she wasn’t sure I was real.

“Raj…”

“I’m here.”

She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around me, face pressed to my chest. And then she broke .

No sobs. Just that soft, bone-deep trembling that happens when someone finally stops pretending they’re fine.

I carried her inside, set my bag down, and held her on the bed. Clothes still on. Shoes still tied. Just holding her. My hands moved in slow, steady circles across her back until her breathing evened out.

She looked up, lashes wet.

“I’m so tired.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want to do this alone anymore.”

“You don’t have to.”

She searched my face like she needed to be sure.

“What now?”

I reached up, brushed her loose hair behind her ear.

“Now we stop surviving around the life we want. We build it.”

“Even if the label doesn’t understand?”

“They don’t have to,” I said. “We do. Plus you and me are the stars. They’ll figure it out.”

She leaned in. Kissed me soft. Long. Her hands cradling my jaw like she was afraid I’d disappear again.

We undressed each other without urgency. No rush, no hunger. Just reverence.

It wasn’t sex. It was sanctuary.

Skin to skin. Breath to breath. We curled under the covers like the quiet itself was ether. Her body fit against mine like it had been waiting for this stillness.

She fell asleep first.

Curled up against me, her breathing soft again.

I stared at the ceiling, one hand on the curve of her back, thinking about all the ways this industry takes without asking.

The way it turns light into labor. Passion into product. The way tours stretch time and fame steals privacy. How the very thing that makes them love you is what keeps you away from the people you love .

She’d been carrying it. Performing through exhaustion. Smiling through isolation. Holding herself together in interviews and on stages and hotel beds while I convinced myself she had it handled.

But I knew better now.

Love doesn’t ask for perfection. It shows up. In real time. And tonight, so did I.