Page 11 of Siren

“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 hadshifted—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 goldring, 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.

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