16. Senna
— ? —
Senna
The headphones arrive on a Tuesday morning, tucked inside a plain box with no logo, no branding, nothing to indicate where they came from except for the small card resting on top.
I open it expecting another supportive-but-vague message, another I’m thinking of you or You’re doing great. Instead, I find:
Elena mentioned you’ve been using the studio’s spare headphones and they’re garbage. These are the ones you used to say you wanted - the ones with the flat response curve that don’t color the sound. For your work. Not for me. - R
I stare at the card for a long moment, then at the headphones themselves. They’re exactly what I would have chosen if I’d had the budget - professional grade, the kind that let you hear exactly what’s actually there instead of what the equipment wants you to hear.
He remembered. From a conversation we had years ago, probably, back when I still talked about the technical side of music like it mattered to me. Back when I still thought I might do something with it someday.
“What’s that?” Matteo asks, appearing at my elbow with two cups of coffee. He’s gotten into the habit of making me coffee before our sessions, ever since I mentioned once that I forget to caffeinate when I’m focused.
“Headphones.”
“Fancy headphones.” He sets down the coffee and picks up the box, examining it. “These are really nice. Did you order them?”
“No. They’re a gift.”
“From the husband who’s not your husband but also kind of still your husband?”
“That’s a very complicated way to describe it.”
“It’s a very complicated situation.” He hands the box back to me. “Are you going to use them?”
I look at the headphones, at the card with Rocco’s handwriting, at the evidence of someone paying attention to what I actually need instead of what they think I should want.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m going to use them.”
***
We’re three hours into the session when the studio door opens and a voice I’d recognize anywhere cuts through the music.
“Senna! There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
I turn to find Fiorella standing in the doorway, dressed in something that probably costs more than my monthly rent, her smile wide and warm and absolutely predatory.
Behind her, I catch a glimpse of Delia hovering near the reception desk - Fiorella’s assistant, looking uncomfortable, like she’d rather be anywhere else.
“Fiorella.” I save the file I’m working on and pull off the new headphones - which are, annoyingly, exactly as good as Rocco said they’d be. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to check on my little sister, of course.” She crosses the room and air-kisses my cheek before I can stop her.
“The studio address is listed on your production website, darling. Very professional of you. I just told the receptionist I was family - she was much more accommodating than she was with your husband, apparently.”
Right. I’d forgotten about that - the simple website Elena helped me set up when I started working with Matteo. Public contact information. Anyone could find it.
Her eyes drift to Matteo, who’s standing by the booth looking uncertain about whether to stay or go. “And who’s this?”
“Matteo. He’s the singer I’m producing.”
“How lovely.” Fiorella extends her hand like she’s expecting him to kiss it. “I’m Senna’s sister. You may have heard of me - I’ve been working with Rocco Zangari on his comeback material.”
“I’ve heard of you,” Matteo says carefully, shaking her hand with obvious reluctance. “I’ll, um - I’ll give you two some space. I need to warm up anyway.”
He disappears into the booth, and I watch Fiorella track his movement with an expression I don’t like.
“He’s very young,” she observes. “And handsome. Is he any good?”
“He’s excellent. That’s why I’m working with him.”
“Of course it is.” She turns back to me, and her smile sharpens. “So this is what you’ve been doing with yourself. Playing producer in a little warehouse studio. How sweet.”
She wanders toward the mixing desk, too casual, her fingers trailing along the edge.
My bag is sitting on the chair nearby, papers spilling out of it - including, I realize with a jolt, the divorce filing I’ve been carrying around.
I should move it. I should close the bag.
But Matteo calls something from the booth about the mic levels, and I turn to answer him, pulling up the session on the board to check the input gain.
When I look back, Fiorella has her phone out, angled toward her lap. She sees me looking and smiles, tucking it away.
“Just checking my messages,” she says smoothly. “You know how it is.”
“It’s not playing. It’s work.”
“I’m sure it feels that way.” She glances around the space, taking in the equipment, the makeshift furniture, the stack of files and notes I’ve accumulated over the past few weeks. “This is all very… charming. Very you.”
“What do you want, Fiorella?”
“I told you. I wanted to check in.” She perches on the edge of the mixing desk, too close to my things, too comfortable in a space she wasn’t invited into. “We haven’t really talked since you left Rocco. I wanted to make sure you’re doing okay.”
“I’m doing fine.”
“Are you? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re hiding in a studio pretending to be something you’re not.” She tilts her head, studying me. “You were never a producer, Senna. You were a singer who gave up singing. There’s a difference.”
“You don’t know what I am.”
“I know you better than anyone. We grew up together, remember? I watched you get all the natural talent while I had to fight for every scrap of attention. I watched Mom and Dad fawn over your gift while telling me I needed to try harder.” Her voice is still light, still conversational, but there’s something underneath it that makes my skin crawl.
“And then I watched you throw it all away to become some musician’s wife. What a waste.”
“I think you should leave.”
“I’m just being honest. Someone has to be.” She stands, smoothing her skirt. “You’re playing at something here, Senna. This cute little hobby of yours - it’s not going to last. You’re not built for this kind of work. You never were.”
“And you are?”
“I know how to survive in this industry. I know what it takes to succeed. You-” She gestures at the studio, at me. “You’ve been hiding behind Rocco for seven years, and now you’re hiding behind a twenty-four-year-old singer because you don’t know how to stand on your own.”
Something in me goes very still.
“Get out.”
“Senna-”
“I said get out.” I stand up, and I don’t know what my face looks like but it makes Fiorella take a step back.
“You don’t get to come into my workspace and tell me who I am.
You don’t get to dismiss what I’m building because it doesn’t fit your narrative.
And you definitely don’t get to pretend you’re here out of sisterly concern when we both know you came to gloat. ”
“I came to offer perspective-”
“You came because I’m succeeding at something and you can’t stand it.
You came because I’m building a life that doesn’t include you or Rocco or anyone else’s definition of what I should be, and that terrifies you.
” I’m breathing hard now, my hands shaking with the effort of not screaming.
“You know what I’ve learned in the past few weeks?
I learned that I’m good at this. I learned that I have an ear that other people don’t have, and a way of hearing what songs need that makes them better.
I learned that a complete stranger can walk into a studio and hand me the creative respect that my own husband never offered. So don’t you dare call this a hobby.”
Fiorella stares at me for a long moment. Then her smile returns - smooth, controlled, not quite reaching her eyes.
“Well,” she says. “Look who finally grew a spine.”
“Get out of my studio.”
“I’m going.” She collects her bag, her movements deliberate and unhurried.
“But Senna? A word of advice. Be careful how much time you spend with that young man in the booth. People talk. And given your current situation-” She glances at my bag again, at the papers spilling out of it.
“-you might want to be mindful of appearances.”
She leaves. Through the window, I see her pause at reception to speak briefly with Delia, who’s been waiting this whole time.
I stand in the middle of the studio, heart pounding, watching the door close behind her. Something about the way she had her phone out while I was distracted with Matteo - the angle of it, the timing - makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
“Is she gone?” Matteo emerges from the booth, looking worried. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine. You look like you want to murder someone.”
“I might.” I take a breath, force my shoulders to relax. “Let’s get back to work.”
But even as I put on the new headphones and pull up the session file, I can’t shake the feeling that Fiorella didn’t come here just to insult me.
She came for something else.
And whatever it was, she found it.