Page 7 of Siren (The Enigma Affairs #1)

FIVE

M y dad’s place sat on a private acre in the South Hills.

Not flashy on the outside, but inside it was quiet luxury.

Rich brown leathers and earth-toned fabrics layered against deep mahogany wood.

Heated marble floors gleamed in the foyer, giving way to plush, custom rugs in all the right places.

The sunken living room boasted tailored furniture and lighting that adjusted tone depending on the hour—warm in the morning, golden by dusk.

He never called it a mansion. Said that was too “new money.” But the square footage, staff rotation, and three-car garage said different.

I’d been here more times than I could count, but something felt… different tonight. I could feel it the second I stepped through the door.

The place was too still. Not empty—but expectant. Like it had just exhaled. Then I heard it. Music. Soft, old-school slow jam floating down from upstairs. Something warm. Familiar.

I paused near the bottom of the staircase. Almost followed the sound. Almost climbed the steps to see who had my father’s playlist in rotation.

But I didn’t. Because I knew better.

My father had women over the years. Quiet, careful ones. None of them stuck. None of them could touch what he had with my mother—even after everything that went down between them. She had betrayed him, and he’d never fully recovered. Not really. Mena and I knew that and felt it.

So I stayed put. Called out instead.

“Yo, Dad!”

For a moment, the music kept playing. Then I heard giggling. Light. Familiar. The music stopped. And then—footsteps.

He appeared at the top of the stairs, robe open over a bare chest and silk boxers. His skin gleamed with a fresh sheen, beard lined, eyes still low-lidded like he wasn’t quite done with whatever was going on upstairs.

“Everything okay?” he asked, voice rough.

I raised a brow. “Yeah. Just wanted to talk.”

“You picked a hell of a time.”

Behind him, my mother emerged .

She wore a baby-pink babydoll gown, satin clinging to curves she’d never apologized for. Robe hanging open like she forgot—or didn’t care—to tie it. Her honey-brown hair was a mess, falling around her shoulders in thick, loose curls. Lipstick smudged. Cheeks flushed.

She met my eyes and gave a satisfied, sleepy smile. "Hey, baby," she said, voice husky and unbothered. "Didn’t know you were stopping by."

I nodded slowly. "Didn’t exactly plan it."

She laughed under her breath. "Still your daddy’s son. Always popping up when it counts."

Then, without waiting for more, she turned and drifted back down the hallway.

Dad ran a hand over his face. The face like I stole. Same skin tone, eyes, lips, just older. “Give me a minute, Raj.”

I nodded and turned for the study, trying to avoid feeling sick about walking in on them being…grown.

Fifteen minutes later, he walked in dressed in charcoal lounge pants and a dark tee, barefoot but pulled together. He looked more like himself. Less like a man I’d just caught mid-tryst.

He didn’t say anything about what I’d seen. Neither did I. But as I sat there, waiting, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

About them. About how strange it was to see them in the same space again. Together. Laughing. Touching.

Divorce doesn’t end with signatures. It lingers. In the quiet. In the way you watch your parents become strangers. In the questions you stop asking because the answers hurt more than silence.

For a long time, I carried the distance between them like it was mine to manage. And now… they were back under the same roof. Acting like it hadn’t taken years to get here.

I didn’t know what that meant. But I knew it mattered.

He settled into his usual leather chair, glass of bourbon already in hand .

“Still let yourself in like you pay the bills,” he said, sipping once before nodding to the seat across from him.

I sat.

He watched me over the rim of his glass. “What’s up?”

“I met with Sienna Ray tonight.”

I came to him because I always did when something sat heavy in my chest. When I needed clarity I couldn’t find on my own. My father wasn’t the kind to meddle, but he understood women. Understood power, timing, the stuff people didn’t say out loud. And when he gave advice, it hit. Always had.

His brows lifted. “Already?”

“Gallery downtown. Brielle and Jalen set it up.”

He nodded. “She sound as good in person as she does on them live clips?”

“Better.”

“Hmmmm.”

I went on. Told him the label’s plan. The optics. The fake rollout. The way the flashes went off like someone knew exactly when to pull the trigger.

He didn’t say much. Just swirled his whisky.

“She fine?”

I looked up.

He smirked. “I mean… since you ain’t said it yet, I’ll assume it’s messing with you.”

I shook my head. “She’s beautiful. But this ain’t about that.”

He leaned back with an unconvincing look. “You sure?”

“Yeah.”

He just sipped again.

Then said, “I ever tell you how I met your mother?”

“Pool hall,” I muttered, already knowing.

He smiled. “Not just a pool hall. Spot called Smokie’s off Chartiers. They sold single joints and liquor. Had wood floors, neon lights, slow cuts in the speakers—vibe was lowkey but smooth. I was mostly there on business, checking on product. Then she walked in.”

I said nothing. I’d heard it before—but never like this.

“She showed up with her girl, Shalonda. Claimed she wanted to learn to shoot pool. Came straight over to me like she already knew I’d teach her. Tight dress, perfume like sweetness and nerve. But it wasn’t how she looked that caught me. It was the way she looked at me—like she had a secret.”

He chuckled, low. “Told me she needed help lining up a shot. So I gave her the stick, came around, positioned her hands, guided her aim. Let her lean into me. Taught her just enough to keep the lesson going. She didn’t pull away. Not once.”

His eyes turned thoughtful.

“She wanted to see if I’d rush. If I’d push. I didn’t. I let the night stretch out. Gave her time to feel me without me pressing. That’s what made the difference.”

I raised a brow. “That your move?”

“That was the lesson.”

He set his glass down. “Don’t play to win. Play to see who she is when she thinks you’re not playing. That’s how you learn who’s real.”

I nodded slowly, letting that land.

He looked at me. “If she’s got you thinking beyond the mic, beyond the plan—don’t be scared of that. But don’t move like the story’s already been written either.”

“She said she doesn’t do fake.”

“She mean it?”

“Yeah.”

“Then you might be in trouble.”

I stood after that. My thoughts moving faster than my mouth. He didn’t stop me. Just watched me the way he always did—like he already knew where it was going.

At the door, he called out.

“Raj. ”

I turned.

“You don’t gotta play the game the way they wrote it. Just make sure when it’s your turn to shoot…”

He lifted his glass.

“Make the pocket yours.”

That one landed. Hard.