Phonescreaming.
Notificationscreaming. A digital tsunami of bells, dings, emojis, and all-caps hysteria. My new phone—Zane’s “gift”—is having a meltdown on the nightstand.
Hundreds of alerts. Jesus,thousands.
#SIRENSONGis trending.
So is#SaintSinHasAMuseand#WhoIsShe???and, horrifyingly,#RubyLaneIsFake#HomewreckingBarista#SaintsDontNeedSirens
My stomach drops so violently I nearly fall out of bed. “What the actual fuck?—”
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
I whirl.
Zane stands at the foot of the bed, naked, viscerally beautiful with arms folded, hair messy, skin glowing with smug satisfaction.
“Zane,” I whisper, voice cracking. “What did you do?”
He lifts his phone, screen still open on a music app. With a track titled just one word:Siren.
My blood pressure leaves the chat. “Please tell me you didn’t?—”
“I did,” he says proudly, thrilled with himself. “I posted the piano track.”
I choke. “YOU WHAT?”
“The world deserved to hear what you do to me.”
“I didn’t even know it existed until five seconds ago!”
He shrugs. “Now millions do.”
My heart pounds in my ears.
His fans are losing their minds, some crying, some making edit videos, some drawing fanart, some speculating wildly that I’m his new girlfriend, some digging through my old social media photos, an insane number already hating me for breathing.
“I can’t believe you did this,” I whisper. “People are searching me. People are attacking me. Zane, you didn’t ask?—”
“Why would I ask?” he demands. His eyebrows crash down, offended. “I’m not asking to breathe. I’m not asking to sing. I’m not asking to want you.”
How in the world has he— “This isn’t the same thing!”
“Yes, it is.” He steps closer. “It’s all the same thing.”
Before I can argue, the door creaks open and Mama Draven pokes her head in.
“Oh,” she says, eyes widening at the phones in our hands. “The frequencies are resonating globally. I felt them from the hallway.”
“Mom,” Zane hisses.
She smiles sweetly. “Carry on. Don’t let me interrupt fate.” Then closes the door.
I groan into my pillow.
Zane plops onto the bed and holds out his phone again, forcing me to look at the tidal wave of attention. “Listen,” he says.
The track plays. My hum. His piano.
