Page 60 of Siren

“Are we locked in for that breakfast meeting tomorrow?” I asked, needing to pivot before I unraveled.

“Yep. Eleven. The execs want to talk packaging. You, Raj, the song, the moment.”

“Perfect,” I said, sarcasm sharp. “Because nothing says love like product placement.”

Brielle laughed under her breath. “Welcome back to the industry, baby.”

We hung up.

And I sat in the stillness, my thoughts racing, my body still aching faintly from the imprint of him. The truth was, Ihadlet something go in that booth. And now it was everywhere.

A song. A look. A door caught on camera.

I was an artist. But tonight, I felt like a woman laid bare. And I didn’t know how much longer I could pretend those two things were separate.

The café wasall soft gold light and polished wood, the kind of place meant to feel warm and disarming—like good coffee could make you forget the sharp edge of the industry.

It didn’t work. Not on me.

I adjusted my sunglasses and scanned the room as the hostess led me toward the back. Our table was near the window, tucked just enough to feel like we might be able to talk without being watched. But I felt watched anyway. That wasn’t new.

They’d started showing up again—the eyes. The whispers. The camera phones lifted just high enough to capture something they could make into something else.

I smoothed a hand over my dress—simple, black, sleeveless. My hair was up in a loose twist, soft curls framing my cheekbones. I hadn’t worn this for them. I’d worn it because I needed armor that didn’t look like armor. Something that let me feel good in my skin.

Brielle was already there, tapping through her phone with the kind of tight smile that told me she’d been fielding messages all morning.

She looked up when I approached. “You’re late.”

“I’m right on time.”

“Fashionably,” she muttered, but stood and gave me a quick hug anyway. “You good?”

I hesitated before answering. “Define good.”

She exhaled, sliding back into her seat. “You look good.”

I sat across from her. “That’s not what you asked.”

“No,” she said, glancing down at the table. “But I figured we should start with a lie we can both agree on.”

I didn’t laugh. Couldn’t. Not when everything felt like it was teetering on the edge of something I hadn’t planned.

A server came by. I ordered something light—fruit, jasmine tea. My stomach was tight. Brielle ordered coffee, then locked eyes with me.

“They love it,” she said.

“I know.”

“The footage, the song, the vibe of you two together. The way it’s caught fire? It’s doing something. And the label wants to throw fuel on it.”

I looked out the window. Cars passed. People walked. Life was happening. And yet, mine felt paused. Spun into something glossy and shaped by other hands.

“They want more,” Brielle said, watching me. “Moreappearances. More ‘candid’ moments. They want a joint interview.”

I shook my head slowly. “We agreed to pretend. To make it believable. But this?”

“They believe it.”

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