Page 1 of Siren

ONE

The morning light in Philly hit different.

Softer somehow—even in early spring, when the air still held a chill but the breeze carried the promise of bloom. It slipped through the bay windows of my West Philly rowhouse like it belonged there, casting gold across the hardwood floorsand warming my bare feet as I moved from the kitchen to the front room, coffee in hand.

I’d lived everywhere—hotels, rented lofts, even a house in L.A. that looked good on paper but never held any peace. I’d walked through spaces full of marble and mirrors and still felt invisible. But here… here felt like mine.

Cedar Park didn’t try too hard to be anything it wasn’t. You could still hear kids playing on the block, the vibration of the trolley a few streets over, someone’s uncle watering his porch plants in a do-rag and house shoes. It was real. Steady. Familiar.

And this house—the wide windows, the iron grates, the creaking stairs that had lived through somebody else’s love and loss before I ever found it—it held me. Quietly. Without asking for anything back.

This was the place I came home to when I needed to remember who I was. Before the stylists and the strategies. Before the press junkets and the algorithm audits. Before I learned how to smile through exhaustion and keep my voice warm even when my heart was cold.

This space didn’t need Sienna, the brand. It only neededme.

The phone was already buzzing, lighting up with texts and threads and scheduled calls. I ignored them. If it was urgent, Brielle would call. And I knew better than to open group chats before caffeine.

I curled into the couch and pressed the mug to my lips. Black. No sugar. No cream. No nonsense. That’s how I liked my coffee… and, lately, how I preferred my life. Stillness had become its own kind of luxury.

A notification lit up my lock screen. A photo—Mariah, all cheeks and joy, flashing that gap-toothed grin like it was her superpower, holding up the glittery T-shirt I sent from Paris. Her frizzy curls were pulled into two puffballs, one slightly crooked like always. She was my goddaughter—one of two—my baby girl without the birth certificate. Fierce and funny, soft around the edges, sharp when she needed to be. She and her sister Savannah kept me whole when the world punched holes in me.

I tapped out a reply with a smile tugging at my lips:

You wear it better than me, baby. Tell your mama I love her.

I didn’t have kids, but I had love, and I’d made sure of that. Because in this industry, if you didn’t fight for softness, you’d forget what it felt like.

Outside, Philly was shaking itself awake—horns, delivery trucks, the rhythm of somebody yelling up the block. I could see the corner store from here, the mural on the side faded from sun and time, but still bold. Still beautiful. My spot. My heartbeat.

I set the mug down and ran a hand over my hair—pulled up high today, curls soft and wild at the crown. My voice felt good this morning. Rested. I’d woken up humming one of the old ones—“His Eye Is on the Sparrow”.

“I sing because I’m happy… I sing because I’m free…”

That line used to carry me through nerves back when I was eight, trembling behind the mic on Youth Sunday. Singing it wrapped around my chest like armor and light—like I had a right to take up space. It still did.

Funny thing about nerves. You don’t outgrow them. You just learn how to lace them in gold.

There was a time I was afraid I’d lost my voice. Not just the sound—the center. That part of me that knew why I sang. Why it mattered.

I’d gone so long letting other people shape the sound, I forgot what it felt like when the melody came from somewherereal. Somewhereraw. But I was finding it again. Not in arenas.Not in charts.

In these quiet mornings. In Philly light. In the beat behind my ribs that still belonged tome.

My phone buzzed again.

Brielle: You up? Label needs us at 10. Don’t be late.

I smirked. She knew I was never late. Being early was respect. For the engineers. The background vocalists. The interns. My mother taught me that.Don’t let them call you a diva unless you’re paying their bills,she used to say, laughing as she kissed my cheek.Then, baby, be the best damn diva they ever met.

I rinsed my mug, padded back to the bedroom, and stood in front of the closet. Velvet. Silk. Worn denim. Designer everywhere. Flashy—muted—casual-chic. Stacks of sneakers. A career’s worth of reinvention. I chose soft black jeans, a cropped orange jacket, and gold hoops big enough to say don’t try me.

No shows today. No soundcheck. Just another strategy meeting, where people in suits would explain how to make my music “trend” again.

Like five albums and two world tours could be undone by a slow quarter on Spotify. I didn’t let it get to me.

Not too much.

But I carried my boundaries like armor. No drugs. No alcohol. No pretending I could run on fumes and love from strangers. I’d seen too many girls I started with lose themselves trying to stay seen.

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