Page 2 of Siren

The industry would drain you dry if you let it.

I laced up my boots, grabbed my phone and keys, and walked out into the buzz of the city. The air kissed my face like a blessing—cool, rich with the scent of roasted coffee, rain-slick pavement, and somebody burning incense in an upstairs window.

It smelled like survival. Like home.

I drove to NYC in silence, no music playing. Just humming melodies that I couldn’t escape. Melodies of untold stories.

The VoxRitual conferenceroom was already buzzing when I got there—glass walls, matte black furniture, the soft thump of some unreleased instrumental bleeding from a speaker in the corner. Brielle was pacing by the window, phone to her ear. Tailored pants, vintage tee under a hot-pink blazer, chunky gold chain and new kicks—she was always half music exec, half culture curator. Her hair was pressed bone straight, swinging as she talked.

She hung up as soon as she saw me. “You’re early.”

I dropped into the chair next to hers. “Always.”

“Good. I don’t need you mad at me this morning. These people…” She trailed off, rolling her eyes. “You want coffee?”

“Already had it. Black.”

“Of course.” She smiled—real, not just label-deep. “You look good, Enna. Paris agrees with you.”

I shrugged, tugging at my curls. “I’ll take Philly over Paris any day. You know that.”

Brielle nodded, glancing at the glass wall as more suits filed in. “We’ll make this quick.”

She was lying. But I let her. Not because I believed her—because I believed in her. She was one of the few who could sit at the table and still have a spine. And when it came to protecting me, she didn’t blink.

People talk about loyalty in this business like it’s a punchline. But Brielle? She’d bled for mine.

The white guy in the navy suit sat across from me, tapping an iPad like it owed him something. Greg Sellers, SVP of A&R. Been in the game longer than me, slick hair and a reputation for signing acts he didn’t understand and dropping them the second the heat cooled. We’d clashed before. Quietly. But I knew how to keep it professional.

A woman from marketing—Charli, young, eager, always smiling too much—slid in beside him, talking engagement rates and “cross-demo buzzwords” before I even settled in.

Another chair scraped nearby. A third man. Bald, mocha skin, well-cut suit. He didn’t speak right away. Then I saw the badge clipped to his lapel. Jalen Ross.

Then a fourth voice entered the room—calm, measured, unmistakably in charge. Barry Holmes, the label’s VP of Strategy and Branding. One of the few who didn’t waste words. Behind him, Keesha Atkins, Creative Director of Visual Content, followed with a tablet already glowing.

They didn’t need introductions. Not to me. Because if Greg was the one who moved the machine, Barry and Keesha were the ones who decided how it looked and sounded while doing it.

Brielle leaned in as the room’s volume rose. “Label wants to do something different this cycle. Shake things up, bring in a new energy.”

I crossed one leg over the other. “Define different.”

She exhaled, careful. “You’ve been holding it down. A household name. But the market’s shifting. They want younger ears.”

I arched a brow. “Translation: I’m getting old.”

“You’re getting seasoned,” Brielle shot back. “Icon status. But the suits don’t know how to sell that unless you’re dying or doing Vegas.”

I didn’t laugh.

Didn’t even blink.

Because part of me had already felt this coming. The quiet pull of the tide rolling back without me in it. The way meetings had been postponed, the sudden lack of press coverage, the strange hush that fell after my last single—no push, no calls, just silence padded in politeness.

Honestly, I was more surprised they greenlit the mini tour to Paris and London. Maybe it was a final gesture. A slow bow out dressed up in glamour. Let her shine one last time.

I let the silence sit a beat too long, then said flatly, “Cute.”

Charli’s voice cut in, a little too eager. A little too rehearsed.

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