19. Senna
— ? —
Senna
The studio is surrounded by the time I arrive the next morning.
I see them from the end of the block - photographers clustered around the entrance, reporters with microphones, the particular buzz of people waiting for something to happen. For a second, I consider turning around, going back to my apartment, hiding until this blows over.
But hiding is what the old Senna would do. The one who let herself be invisible. The one who shrank so other people could take up space.
I’m not that person anymore.
I walk toward the crowd with my head up and my jaw set, and the moment they see me, the shouting starts.
“Senna! Is it true you’ve been having an affair?”
“How long have you been involved with Matteo?”
“Does Rocco know about the relationship?”
“Were you cheating before you filed for divorce or after?”
The questions hit me like physical blows, each one more absurd than the last. I keep walking, pushing through the bodies, refusing to answer, refusing to give them anything they can twist into a headline.
“Senna, your sister says she’s heartbroken by the betrayal-”
I stop.
Turn.
Find the reporter who said it - a young woman with a sharp haircut and an eager expression.
“My sister said what?”
“Fiorella Caswell gave an interview this morning.” The reporter holds up her phone, showing me a headline I hadn’t seen yet: HEARTbrOKEN SISTER SPEAKS OUT: ‘I TRIED TO HELP THEM BUT SENNA ALWAYS RESENTED ME.’ “She says she’s devastated by what you’ve done to Rocco.
That she only ever wanted to support the marriage. ”
I laugh. I can’t help it - it bubbles up from somewhere deep and comes out sounding slightly unhinged, and every camera in the vicinity captures it.
“My sister,” I say slowly, “is a liar.”
“That’s a strong accusation-”
“Is it? She’s accusing me of having an affair that supposedly started a week before I even left my marriage - with a twenty-four-year-old singer I didn’t meet until weeks after I moved out. Where’s your skepticism about that accusation?”
The reporter blinks, momentarily thrown. “The photos suggest-”
“The photos show two colleagues talking outside a studio. That’s it. If that’s enough to prove an affair, then half the music industry is sleeping with the other half.”
“But the divorce filing-”
“Was leaked without my consent. Someone violated my privacy to spin a story, and nobody seems to care about that part.”
I turn away and push through the remaining crowd to the studio door, and I’m almost inside when I see Matteo.
He’s standing just inside the entrance, looking pale and young and absolutely terrified. When he sees me, his face crumples with relief.
“Senna. Thank God. I didn’t know what to do - they’ve been here since six in the morning, they keep asking me questions about us, and I tried to tell them there’s nothing to tell but they won’t listen-”
“It’s okay.” I take his arm and pull him further inside, away from the door, away from the cameras that are still flashing through the window. “It’s going to be okay.”
“How? How is this okay?” His voice cracks. “They’re saying I’m sleeping with a married woman. My mother saw the headlines. She called me crying. I had to explain to my mother that I’m not having an affair with my producer.”
Guilt twists in my chest. He’s just a kid - talented and eager and completely unprepared for this kind of attention. He came to me because he wanted to make music, and now he’s collateral damage in my sister’s war against me.
“I’m so sorry, Matteo. This isn’t your fault. None of it is your fault.”
“I know. I know that. But-” He runs his hands through his hair. “What do we do? How do we make them go away?”
“I don’t know yet. I’m figuring it out.”
“Should we cancel today’s session?”
“I don’t want to. But I also don’t want your album getting derailed by my family drama.”
“It’s not drama, Senna. It’s lies. There’s a difference.
” He squares his shoulders, some of the panic fading from his face.
“And for what it’s worth, anyone who’s spent five minutes in a room with us knows there’s nothing going on.
You’re my producer. You’re helping me make something I’m proud of. That’s it.”
“I know that. You know that. But the press doesn’t care about what’s true. They care about what’s interesting.”
“Then we make the music more interesting than the scandal.” He says it simply, like it’s obvious. “That’s how this works, right? You put out something so good that people have to talk about it instead of whatever garbage someone’s making up.”
I look at him - this young singer who walked into my studio weeks ago with a guitar and a dream - and I feel something loosen in my chest. He’s not running. He’s not distancing himself to protect his reputation. He’s standing here, ready to work.
“When did you get so wise?”
“I’m not wise. I just really want to finish this album.” He almost smiles. “And I’m not going to let your sister take that away from me. From us.”
“She’s very good at taking things.”
“Then we’ll be better at holding on.”
I want to hug him. I settle for squeezing his shoulder. “Okay. We work. But if it gets too intense, if the attention starts hurting your career-”
“Let me worry about my career. You worry about the music. That’s the deal, right?”
“That’s the deal.”
We start toward the back of the studio, toward the control room where we can pretend the world outside doesn’t exist, when the front door opens again and more shouting erupts from outside.
“Rocco! Rocco, do you have a comment?”
“Is it true your wife has been unfaithful?”
“Have you spoken to Fiorella about her interview?”
I turn to see Rocco pushing through the crowd, his face set in an expression I recognize - the one he uses when he’s on stage and something has gone wrong and he needs to keep performing anyway. Controlled. Professional. Absolutely furious underneath.
He gets inside and the door closes behind him, muffling the shouting to a dull roar.
“Senna.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I saw the news.” He crosses to me, and I notice he’s out of breath, like he ran here. “Are you okay?”
“I’m managing.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“No.” I let the word hang there, honest and raw. “I’m not okay. My sister is telling everyone I’m a cheating whore, and the entire music press is camped outside my studio, and Matteo’s mother thinks I seduced her son. So no, Rocco. I am not okay.”
He doesn’t flinch at the harshness in my voice. Instead, he turns to Matteo, extending his hand.
“Good to see you again. I’m sorry - this attention, the headlines, none of it is fair to either of you.”
“Is there a back way out of here?”
“What?”
“A back exit. Service entrance. Something the press hasn’t found yet.”
Matteo glances at me, then nods. “There’s a loading dock. We used it for equipment deliveries.”
“Good.” Rocco turns back to me. “I have an idea. A way to get you out of here, away from all of this, somewhere no one will find you.”
“I can’t just run away-”
“You’re not running away. You’re regrouping.” He takes my hand, and his grip is warm and steady. “You’ve been fighting alone for weeks. Let me help. Please.”
“And what about my work? What about Matteo’s album?”
“The album can wait a few days. Matteo can wait a few days.” He looks at Matteo, who nods quickly.
“She’s right,” Matteo says. “I mean - he’s right. You should go. Get somewhere safe. We can pick up when things calm down.”
“Things might not calm down for a while.”
“Then we’ll figure it out. But you can’t stay here, Senna. Not with-” He gestures toward the window, where camera flashes are still going off. “-all that.”
I look between them - the young singer I’ve been working with, the husband I’m not sure I’ve forgiven yet - and I feel something in me crack. Not break, exactly. Just… open. Let go.
“Where would we go?”
Rocco’s face lights up with something that looks almost like hope.
“Do you trust me?”
“I don’t know anymore.”
“Fair enough.” He squeezes my hand. “Trust me anyway. Just this once.”
The shouting outside gets louder. Someone is banging on the studio door.
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s go.”