From A Producer To A Global Superstar

Chapter 472: A signed Artist

The bus ride back felt slower than the ride there.

Faye sat by the window with her bag on her lap, watching the city pass in the opposite direction, the buildings and streets now carrying a different meaning than they had this morning. The same shops. The same traffic. The same Lagos heat pressing against the glass. But she was not the same person who had stepped onto this bus hours earlier.

She had been selected.

The words sat in her chest like a heartbeat, steady and insistent, refusing to be ignored. She touched the strap of her bag where her notebook was tucked inside, the same notebook she had carried into the studio, the same pages that had held her through years of performing in bars where nobody listened. Today, people had listened. Today, her name had been called. Today, she had walked out of a room as something she had never been before.

A signed artist.

The bus turned onto her street and she stood up, moving toward the door before the vehicle had fully stopped. She hit the pavement and walked, her sandals making a soft rhythm against the cracked concrete, her mind still replaying the moment when Sheun had looked at her and the others and said the words that had changed everything.

Welcome to JD Records Nigeria.

She climbed the stairs to her apartment, her legs feeling lighter than they should have after a day of waiting and performing and holding her breath. The door was unlocked. She pushed it open and stepped inside.

Her sister was in the kitchen area, leaning against the counter with a cup in her hands, wearing an oversized shirt that had probably been borrowed from Faye’s closet. She looked up when the door opened, and her face shifted into an expression of immediate assessment, reading Faye’s posture, her eyes, the set of her mouth.

"You came back," she said.

"I came back."

Her sister set the cup down and walked over, stopping a few feet away, close enough to see the details but not so close that she was crowding. She had always been like this. Observant. Patient. The kind of younger sibling who had learned early that Faye needed space to process things, but who would stand nearby until she was ready to talk.

"How was it?" her sister asked.

Faye walked to the small couch and sat down, dropping her bag onto the cushion beside her. She leaned back against the worn fabric and looked up at the ceiling, exhaling slowly.

"They picked me," she said.

The words hung in the air between them. Her sister blinked once, then twice, her face working through the information with the careful deliberation that Faye recognized from their mother.

"For real?" her sister asked.

"For real. One of five. Out of everyone who showed up."

Her sister sat down beside her, her movements quick and eager, the composure breaking into something younger and more excited. "Faye. That’s... that’s huge. That’s not just an opportunity. That’s a door. A real door."

"It might still close," Faye said, though even as she spoke the words, they felt less true than they had yesterday. "Nothing is signed yet. Nothing is guaranteed. They said we start rehearsals, see how it works, and if it fits, we talk proper terms."

"And if it fits?" her sister pressed. "If it actually works?"

Faye turned her head to look at her. "Then everything changes. I get a studio. I get producers. I get a chance to make music that actually reaches people instead of disappearing into the noise of a bar."

Her sister reached out and took her hand, squeezing it with a grip that was firmer than her small frame suggested. "Then it will fit. Because you’re not going to let it not fit. You’ve given up too much for this to slip away."

Faye looked at their joined hands and felt something warm move through her chest. Her sister had been the one constant through all of it. Through the arguments with their father, through the night Faye packed her bags and walked out of the house with more pride than planning, through the years of scraping by in apartments like this one, performing for audiences that barely looked up from their drinks. Her sister had never told her to quit. Never told her to call their father and accept the safety he was offering. She had just been there, asking the right questions, offering the right silence, reminding Faye that someone still believed even when belief felt foolish.

"I need to tell them," Faye said quietly.

"Mom and Dad?"

"Mom. She called yesterday. She said Dad was asking about me again, that he was worried, that I should come home."

Her sister nodded, her expression shifting into something more careful. "She’s been calling more often lately. Since the deadline got closer."

"Because she knows it’s coming," Faye said. "She knows I set a date. And she thinks that when that date arrives, I’ll finally give up and come back."

"Will you?"

Faye looked at her sister and saw the question behind the question. Not just about the deadline. About everything. About whether Faye had the strength to keep choosing the hard path when the easy one had been offered so many times.

"I almost did," Faye admitted. "Two days ago, I sat on this same couch and I wrote a message to Dad. I was going to tell him I was done. That he was right. That I needed his help, his connections, his money. I was ready to become the person he always wanted me to be."

Her sister was quiet, listening.

"But then they called," Faye continued. "JD Records. They called back after turning me away two weeks ago. They apologized. They told me to come again. And I went. And they picked me. So now..." She paused, searching for the words. "Now I don’t know what the deadline means anymore. Because something happened before it arrived. Something real."

Her sister smiled. It was a small smile, but it carried the weight of years of watching Faye struggle. "Then maybe the deadline wasn’t the finish line. Maybe it was just the push you needed to keep going until the right thing showed up."

Faye’s phone buzzed on the table beside the couch. She picked it up and looked at the screen. Her mother’s name. She showed it to her sister, who nodded with understanding.

"Answer it," her sister said. "She’s probably been waiting all day."

Faye swiped the screen and held the phone to her ear. "Hello, Mom."

"Faye." Her mother’s voice was warm but carried the slight tension that always appeared when she was trying to balance concern with patience. "I’ve been thinking about you all day. How are you?"

"I’m good, Mom. Really good."

There was a pause on the other end. Her mother was processing the tone, the energy that Faye knew was coming through the line.

"Something happened," her mother said. It was not a question.

"Something happened," Faye confirmed.

"Tell me."

Faye took a breath. She looked at her sister, who gave her an encouraging nod. "I got selected, Mom. For a label. A real one. They’re building something new, and they want me as one of their artists."

The silence that followed was longer than Faye expected. When her mother spoke again, her voice was softer, layered with emotions that Faye could not fully read through the phone.

"Selected," her mother repeated. "As a singer?"

"As a singer. As a writer. They heard me perform, and they decided I was worth investing in. Not many people. Just five of us. And I’m one of them."

Her mother was quiet again. Faye could picture her in the house, probably in the kitchen or the sitting room, probably with her tea going cold beside her while she held the phone with both hands.

"Your father," her mother said finally. "He’s been worried. He doesn’t understand why you’re doing this alone. Why you won’t let him help."

"I know, Mom."

"But if this is real," her mother continued, her voice gaining a gentle strength, "if this is truly a path forward and not another promise that disappears... then I want you to know that I’m happy for you. Not because it’s what I expected. Not because it fits the plan your father had for you. But because I can hear it in your voice. Something I haven’t heard in a long time."

Faye felt her throat tighten. "What?"

"Hope," her mother said simply. "Real hope. Not the kind you pretend to have when you’re trying to convince yourself. The kind that comes from something actually changing."

Faye closed her eyes. Her mother had always been the one who understood. Not the business side, not the industry, not the strategic thinking that her father applied to everything. Her mother understood people. She understood when her daughter was holding on by a thread, and she understood when that thread had finally been replaced by something stronger.

"Thank you, Mom," Faye whispered.

"Don’t thank me yet," her mother said, a small laugh in her voice. "Your father will take longer to come around. He’s proud, Faye. In his own way. He just shows it through protection rather than trust. He thinks keeping you safe means keeping you close. But I know you. I know that you need to fly before you can come home. And if this label gives you wings, then... then I’ll be the one praying for you every morning."

"I know you will."

"Call me after your first rehearsal," her mother said. "I want to hear everything. The studio, the people, the songs. Don’t leave anything out."

"I won’t."

"And Faye?"

"Yes?"

"I’m proud of you. Not for being selected. For not giving up before the selection came."

Faye felt the tears then, pressing against her eyes with a force she had not expected. She held them back, not wanting her mother to hear her cry, not yet.

"Talk soon, Mom."

"Talk soon, my dear."

The call ended. Faye set the phone down on the couch and sat there, her head tilted back, her eyes still closed. Her sister was watching her, waiting for her to speak.

"She’s happy," Faye said. "Not relieved that I might come home. Happy that I found something."

"That’s Mom," her sister said. "She always wanted you to win on your own terms."

"And Dad?"

Her sister shrugged. "Dad will take time. He’ll want to know the contract terms, the financials, the safety nets. He’ll want to make sure you’re not being exploited. But eventually, if he sees you succeeding, he’ll find a way to be proud too. He just needs the evidence first."

Faye nodded. She thought about her father, the man who had built his fortune from nothing and who could not understand why his daughter would walk away from the security he

had worked so hard to provide. He loved her. She knew that. But he loved her in the language of provision, and she needed to be loved in the language of freedom.

"I need to get ready," Faye said, sitting up. "The first rehearsal is in two days. I need to be sharp. I need to know my songs inside out. I need to be ready to work harder than I’ve ever worked."

Her sister stood up and walked to the small desk in the corner where Faye kept her music. She picked up the notebook and held it out.

"Then start here," she said. "The songs that got you selected. The ones that made them listen. If you’re going to walk into that studio and prove they made the right choice, these are the weapons you bring."

Faye took the notebook and felt its familiar weight. The pages were soft at the edges, the corners bent, the ink slightly faded in places from humidity and time. But the words were still sharp. The melodies were still alive. And now, for the first time, they had a destination beyond her own apartment.

She opened the notebook and started to read. Not casually. Not as a memory. As a student preparing for the most important exam of her life. She read the lyrics she had written during her darkest nights, the songs about leaving home, about proving herself, about the hunger that drove her to keep singing in empty rooms.

Her sister sat down across from her, not interrupting, just present. The afternoon light moved across the floor in slow patterns, and the city outside continued its endless noise, indifferent to the fact that in this small apartment, a woman was preparing to become something she had always believed she could be.

Faye turned the pages and made notes in the margins. Adjustments to phrasing. Ideas for arrangement. Questions she wanted to ask the producers about how her voice should sit in the mix. She worked with the focus of someone who understood that opportunities were not gifts. They were doors that opened briefly, and the only way to keep them open was to prove you deserved to walk through.

By the time evening came, the notebook was filled with new scribbles, new possibilities, new versions of old truths. Faye stretched her back and looked up at her sister, who had fallen asleep on the couch, her head resting on her arm, her breathing steady and calm.

Faye walked over and pulled a thin blanket over her. Then she stood at the window and looked out at the city that had been her battlefield for four years. The same streets. The same buildings. The same sky that had watched her walk home from bar performances at two in the morning, carrying her guitar and her pride and her exhaustion.

Tomorrow, she would practice. The day after, she would rehearse. And somewhere beyond that, if she worked hard enough and stayed true enough, she would stand in a real studio and sing for people who had chosen to hear her.

Not because of her father’s money. Not because of his connections. Because of her voice. Because of her words. Because of the years she had spent refusing to quit even when quitting was the most reasonable choice.

Faye closed her eyes and let the moment settle. The apartment was small. The furniture was worn. The future was still uncertain. But for the first time in four years, the uncertainty felt like possibility rather than threat.

She walked back to the notebook and picked up her pen.

There was work to do.