Page 77 of Siren

Click.

And in that stillness, I realized they were capturing something sacred. Not a woman selling a story. Not a comeback. Not an image.

They were capturing a woman who had finally let herself beheld. Not by hands. But by belief. Her own.

And by a love she didn’t want to fix. Just stay close to.

Between setups, I reached for my phone and snapped a mirror pic—hair perfect, skin gleaming, the gown catching shadows like they were secrets.

I sent it to him.

Me: Styled by Black women. Shot by a Black woman. On my terms.

Wish you were here.

The dots appeared almost immediately.

Paused.

Then came his reply.

Raj: Wish I was too.

You look like power wrapped in silk.

My breath caught.

He was still there. Quiet, but present. Still watching. Still proud.

I bit my lip and tucked the phone away. Then stepped back into the frame, spine straightening as I exhaled slow.

I wasn’t half of anything.

But God, I still wanted him beside me.

TWENTY-SIX

A month later…

The studio was dark. Not empty, just quiet—the kind of quiet that pressed its weight into your chest if you let it. But the screen in front of me glowed with a thousand voices I didn’t ask to hear.

“Sienna Ray is the moment. Themusic, the image, the voice—all her.”

“Taraj Ferrell is dope, but let’s be real… she doesn’t need him.”

“The track gave her wings. He just happened to be there when she took flight.”

“This comeback is all Sienna. She’s the headline.”

Scroll.

Scroll.

Scroll.

Then came the reel.

Soft gold lighting. Velvet shadows. Her gown clinging like the universe had been fitted to her form. Lips parted, not in performance—but in presence. Like she was thinking and singing and daring the world to keep up.

---