Page 5 of Siren (The Enigma Affairs #1)

FOUR

T he plane touched down in Pittsburgh just after noon.

I didn’t unpack—because I wasn’t staying long—just long enough to lay the vocals down. Or longer, if I felt like pretending to care about the city beyond this meeting. I’d lived in places like this before. Cities that dressed like underdogs and moved like they had something to prove.

It reminded me of who I used to be. Before the award shows and the playlists. Before people knew my name but still knew my lyrics by heart.

I checked into the hotel, took a hot shower, and sat in silence for twenty minutes—robe on, hair pinned, legs folded beneath me on the edge of the bed. I wasn’t nervous.

But I wasn’t still, either.

I’d called my mom the night before. Jasmine too. Two different kinds of wisdom, same message.

Jasmine was warmth and honesty, always coming at me like a mirror I could trust.

“Don’t overthink it,” she’d said, voice soft with pride. “You’re the moment. You’ve always been. Walk like it.”

My mother—who used to stand at the foot of the church stage mouthing every lyric back to me—had that quiet steel in her voice.

“You know how to evolve, baby,” she said. “Just don’t forget who you are.”

She never let me forget it. The early morning rehearsals, the studio nights she sat through with a paperback in her lap. The times she shielded me from small-minded critics and reminded me, “Your voice is an inheritance. Use it well.”

I wanted to believe what they both saw in me.

I wanted to walk into this opportunity like it was just another track, another session, another step in a career I built with intention and sacrifice.

But part of me knew… this was more than that.

This was the beginning of something new.

But the truth was… I was thinking about legacy more than I’d ever admit. Maybe because I didn’t have children. Maybe because I didn’t know if I ever would. But the music? That was mine. The one thing I’d leave behind.

I needed to be proud of it.

By the time I stepped outside again, the sun had shifted—lower now, warmer, sliding between the buildings like it knew something I didn’t.

My driver waited at the curb. Six-foot-two, solid, quiet—the kind of man you hired when you didn’t want questions, just presence.

His name was Dre. He’d been with me for the last year.

Always my driver stateside—sometimes he flew ahead, sometimes with me—but no matter the city, he was the one behind the wheel.

Drove like he’d been born behind tinted glass and could spot a threat three blocks out.

He opened the back door before I reached it, nodded once, then settled behind the wheel without a word.

The ride to the gallery was smooth. Silent. My kind of peace.

When we pulled up, he stepped out first, scanned the sidewalk, then gave a subtle nod toward the door. I followed. No paparazzi. Not yet.

Just the quiet click of my heels and the weight of the moment waiting for me inside.

The man at the door was waiting—dark suit, earpiece, gallery face. I didn’t ask questions. Just handed over my coat and let him usher me into the space like clockwork.

It smelled like fig and leather inside. Not strong—just subtle enough to feel expensive. Like time and quiet and something deeper happening beneath the surface.

Brielle glanced up from her seat near the bar and gave me that look. The one that said, Don’t kill me yet.

“Private gallery,” she said, gesturing to the empty room. “Owner’s a friend of Jalen’s. We’ve got it for the hour.”

The lighting was low and golden—the kind that kissed your skin just right, like you were already being photographed.

I wore high-waisted black trousers that hugged the curve of my waist, a deep olive corset top with delicate boning and thin straps, and a cropped leather jacket that hit right above the hips.

My heels were pointed and sharp—same shade as my lip.

Hair swept up but soft at the edges. Gold hoops.

One gold ring, thick and heavy on my right middle finger. Everything else? Skin.

Intentional. Effortless. Like I had somewhere better to be but chose this instead.

Brielle stood and gave me a quick hug. “You look good. Like you’re about to host a press conference and ruin somebody’s career.”

I smiled. “That’s the energy.”

“You ready for this?”

I lifted a brow. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

I’d been telling myself it was just business. That the setup didn’t matter. That I could navigate anything if the art was honest.

But still… there was this pull inside me.

A low, restless thrumming I couldn’t silence.

And I had no idea where it came from.

Before Brielle could respond, the door opened behind me.

And I felt it.

Not the air shift. Not the sound.

Taraj Ferrell didn’t walk in—he arrived . Like the room bent to make space for him. Like silence followed him on instinct.

All black. Jacket, jeans, hoodie layered underneath.

A single gold chain caught the light at his collarbone.

His skin was a smooth, deep chestnut—rich and warm even under the gallery lights.

Tall. Lean but strong, like his body was carved for rhythm.

That kind of quiet athleticism you only noticed if you paid attention to the way a man moved.

His hair was braided back, neat and sharp. His jawline clean. And his lips…

Full. Soft-looking. Kissable. But it was his eyes that got me. Dark brown, deep-set, and soulful. The kind of eyes that looked like they’d seen something real—and never forgot it.

Our eyes locked. Not flirty—not invasive.

Just… present .

Like he saw me. All of me. Like he was patient enough to wait for the rest.

I hated that I noticed.

I told myself it didn’t mean anything. That chemistry was just proximity and projection. That I’d felt attraction before. But not like this.

Never like this.

And definitely not with someone I was about to collaborate with—under cameras, under timelines, inside a narrative someone else designed.

Jalen, his manager, stepped in behind him and gave Brielle a quick chin nod. The two of them walked forward, launching into the pitch like we hadn’t all rehearsed this in different rooms with different words.

“This is just a vibe check,” Brielle said, placing a hand lightly on my back. “No pressure.”

“Just some face time,” Jalen added. “Let y’all feel each other out. See if it makes sense.”

“Figuratively,” Brielle said quickly, when Jalen glanced between us. “Not literally. Y’all grown.”

They both laughed. That light, easy kind of laugh people give when they’re already syncing up.

I didn’t.

Neither did Taraj.

We didn’t need to.

Brielle and Jalen disappeared into the hallway like they’d been waiting on an excuse. I clocked the shared look between them. Not romantic. But something professional was settling into place—familiar, promising. Like two people who knew this wouldn’t be their last collaboration.

And now it was just us.

Alone.

He didn’t sit across from me.

He walked beside me instead, his shoulder almost grazing mine as we moved through the gallery. Quiet. Unbothered. Like the room was his to own and I was the only one in it worth engaging.

The space held stillness—brick walls kissed by warm light, hardwood floors that carried our steps like rhythm. But the true draw was on the walls. Art that didn’t just hang. It haunted.

Nia Holloway. I’d followed her work for years. First through blog posts. Then in glossy features and curated pop-ups. Her canvases were honest. Black and woman and unfiltered. She didn’t paint what she thought we wanted. She painted what we survived.

“She’s special,” I murmured, slowing in front of one of the newer pieces—crimson and cobalt clashing across raw linen, streaks of copper and soot cutting jagged through the center.

“She is,” Taraj said beside me. His voice matched the room. Deep. Low. Intentional.

“That one’s from her Unbound series,” he added, almost casually.

I blinked and looked at him. “You know the title?”

He nodded, eyes still on the piece. “Been following her since she painted on her kitchen floor and sold prints through PayPal.”

That surprised me. And moved me.

“The indie art movement was all the rave.”

He looked over, met my gaze. “Yeah. Had one of her early pieces hanging in my studio before anything ever charted.”

A pause bloomed between us. Soft but charged.

We kept walking. One canvas after the next—each one a story written in brushstroke and breath.

“She paints like someone who’s lost things,” I said. “Things she doesn’t talk about.”

“She did,” I added, quieter now. “Cancer. Her brother. A house fire, I think.”

He tilted his head slightly, watching me like he was learning something about me too .

“You followed her story.”

“I did.”

That was the first moment we weren’t just artists forced to collaborate. We were two people with something in common.

Taraj didn’t say much as we turned the corner. Just took his time, like the air had shifted and he wasn’t in a rush to breathe again.

“You don’t strike me as the label’s idea,” I said, letting the words stretch.

He lifted a brow, faint amusement tugging at his mouth. “That obvious?”

“You carry quiet like a creed. Doesn’t usually play well on a rollout.”

“They don’t want real,” he said. “Just real-looking.”

“Smoke and mirrors.”

“Wrapped in a verse and a slow burn.”

I looked over—and there he was, already looking back. Not performing. Just… present.

“And you’re fine with that?”

“No.” His pause was soft but sure. “But I’ve learned to pick my battles.”

There was something in the way he said it. Like he’d already walked through wars and still carried the ash on his skin.

“You ever wish you could disappear?” I asked thinking about the wars I didn’t want to fight anymore.

His gaze didn’t flinch. “Already did. For a while.”

My breath caught. That wasn’t a line. That was confession . Quiet and bare.

“I don’t talk about my past often,” I said, keeping my voice low. “Too many people shape it to fit their version of me.”

He tilted his head slightly. “And what’s your version?”