Page 62 of Siren

I closed my eyes for a second and saw him.

His mouth. His hands. His voice. The way he’d looked at me while I sang—like I was something rare and holy.

Was it worth making that look part of the game?

I opened my eyes. Looked Brielle in the face.

“I’ll do it,” I said. “But on my terms. No fake flirting. No pre-written talking points. If they want magic, they better not try to manufacture it.”

Her mouth curved. “Nowthat’sthe Sienna I know.”

I raised a brow. “Then let’s remind them.”

Fifteen minutes later,a host walked the executives in—Barry, Keesha, and a younger assistant in a boxy blazer trying too hard to blend in. Jalen followed behind them, his posture less corporate, more watchful. He wasn’t here for them. He was here forTaraj—and maybe, quietly, for me too.

They offered greetings, but I stayed seated, letting them approach me. On my turf. My terms.

Barry nodded with that practiced ease. “Sienna. Thank you for making time.”

“Did I have a choice?” I murmured.

He gave a thin smile but didn’t push. “Let’s talk campaign strategy.”

Keesha remained standing, sleek tablet in hand. “We’ve got preliminary storyboards for a visual campaign,” she said. “We want to lead with the audio—no full video drop yet—but build it around the intimacy. The realness.”

She tapped the screen and turned it toward me.

The first image:

A dimly lit studio. Shadows painting the walls. A woman seated at a piano—clearly modeled after me. Hair tousled, back bare, light kissing the slope of her spine.

Slide.

A slow pan-in. Taraj behind her, shirtless, drawn close like gravity did the pulling. His hand on her back. Her lips parted. Not singing. Not speaking. Just… there. Breathless.

Slide.

Hands on keys. Not playing—just touching. His and mine. Tension in the forearms. A sticky note overlay read:“Fingers speak before mouths do.”

Slide.

A grainy black-and-white still. The hallway video. Me leaving Raj’s suite. My feet bare. His robe slipping from one shoulder. The tagline underneath:“Was it just a song?”

Slide.

A staged argument. Tension behind glass. I’m in the booth, singing like I’m breaking open. He’s at the console, gripping the mic stand like it’s the only thing holding him together.

Slide.

A long hallway, sunlit. We walk in opposite directions. Turn back at the same time. Lock eyes. Fade to black.

I stared.

They’d made it beautiful. Marketable. Memorable.

But it wasn’treal.

“This is what you think intimacy is?” I asked, voice low.

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