Chapter 598: Preparation For The Show
Dayo woke before the alarm as usual.
For a while, he did not move.
The room was still dim, the kind of early morning quiet that made even a busy city feel like it was holding its breath. Luna was asleep beside him, her hair scattered lightly over the pillow, one hand resting near their daughter’s back. Their daughter lay between them, warm and small, her cheek pressed into the blanket as if the whole world had been made only for her comfort.
Dayo watched them for a few seconds longer than he intended.
Outside that room, everything was loud. Beautiful Things was still running through charts like it had no intention of slowing down. The physical-copy debate had turned into its own storm. His name was still being dragged through comparisons with Michael Jackson. The O2 idea was waiting for him before the day even began.
But inside the room, Luna breathed softly, and his daughter made a tiny sleeping sound that pulled a smile out of him before he could stop it.
He leaned down and kissed Luna lightly on the cheek.
She shifted but did not wake fully.
Then he kissed their daughter’s forehead. She frowned in her sleep, as if offended by the interruption, and turned slightly toward Luna. Dayo almost laughed, but caught it in his throat before it could wake them.
For once, he allowed himself to just stand there.
He had spent so much of his life chasing what was ahead that moments like this always felt too fragile to touch for long. Peace, he had learned, was not always something that announced itself. Sometimes it was a sleeping woman, a child between them, and a morning that had not yet remembered to demand anything from him.
Eventually, discipline won.
Dayo eased himself out of bed carefully, avoiding the loose corner of the sheet that always seemed determined to betray him. Luna murmured something unclear, half-asleep, and he paused.
"I’ll be back," he whispered.
She did not answer properly, but her hand moved over their daughter’s back again.
That was enough.
He changed quietly and left the room.
The London morning was cold enough to wake him properly. Dayo jogged through the quiet streets near their temporary apartment, his breath steady, shoes hitting pavement in a rhythm his body knew well. Even with the madness around him, he refused to lose his routine. Training kept his mind from scattering. Running gave him a place where nobody asked for numbers, statements, decisions, or miracles.
At least, that was what he told himself.
Today, even the rhythm of his feet could not keep his thoughts clean.
He thought of their daughter.
Not in the soft way he had watched her sleep earlier, but in the heavier way that came after. He thought of how often Abishola had been the one feeding her, bathing her, putting her down for naps, and carrying her through the parts of the day when both parents were pulled elsewhere. Dayo and Luna came back, played with her, kissed her, fed her when they could, held her until she slept, then left again the next morning for another studio, another interview, another meeting, another plan.
Nobody was neglecting her.
That was what made the guilt harder to explain.
She was loved. She was protected. She was surrounded by family.
But love could not become something squeezed between schedules and still remain untouched.
By the time Dayo returned, sweat had cooled under his jacket and the apartment was awake.
The smell of breakfast reached him first. Something warm, simple, and home-like, the kind of smell that made the place feel less temporary. In the kitchen, Luna stood near the counter in a loose shirt, hair tied up carelessly, one hand holding a spoon while their daughter sat in a high chair trying to decide whether breakfast was food or a toy.
The baby saw Dayo first.
Her eyes widened, and she made a loud delighted sound, slapping one hand on the tray.
Luna turned and smiled. "Your fan club president is awake."
Dayo walked in and leaned close to his daughter. "Good morning, madam president."
She reached for his face with a hand covered in something soft and orange.
Dayo stopped her wrist gently. "Ah. You woke up choosing violence."
Luna laughed. "She gets that from you."
"Impossible. I am peaceful."
Their daughter slapped the tray again, as if disagreeing.
Dayo went to wash up quickly, and when he returned, Luna had already placed a plate for him. The morning felt normal in a way that almost made the day ahead seem rude. Luna fed their daughter between bites of her own food, wiping her chin with practiced patience. Dayo ate slower than usual, watching them more than the plate.
Luna noticed.
"What?" she asked.
He shook his head first, then stopped pretending. "I was thinking during my run."
"That usually means trouble."
"Not trouble." He looked at their daughter, who was now inspecting a spoon like it contained business secrets. "Us."
Luna’s hand slowed.
Dayo set his fork down. "Your EP, my promotion, the O2 planning, interviews, rehearsals. We keep saying it is only for now, but every week has a new ’only for now.’"
Luna did not answer immediately. That was how he knew she had been thinking the same thing.
She wiped their daughter’s mouth, then placed the napkin down. "Your mother has been helping so much."
"She has."
"And I’m grateful. I really am." Luna’s voice softened. "But sometimes when I come back and she tells me what our daughter did that day, I laugh first. Then later I feel bad because I wasn’t there to see it."
Dayo looked down at his hands.
That was the exact feeling he had been trying not to name.
Luna continued, quieter now. "Yesterday, your mom said she tried to stand holding the sofa. Just for a second. I smiled like it was good news. It was good news. But after that, I kept thinking... what if the big parts start happening while we are always somewhere else?"
Dayo breathed out slowly.
The apartment seemed to hold the question with them.
Their daughter, completely unaware of the weight she had placed on the morning, dropped her spoon.
It hit the floor with a bright clatter.
She looked down at it, then at Dayo, as if waiting for him to understand his assignment.
Dayo bent and picked it up.
"See?" Luna said, smiling faintly through the heaviness. "She already has staff."
Dayo cleaned the spoon and gave it back, but his attention stayed on Luna. "After O2 and the EP push, we need rules."
"What kind of rules?"
"Real ones. Not the type we break because the world suddenly needs one more interview."
Luna leaned against the counter, listening.
"No phones during dinner when we are with her," Dayo said. "Protected family days. If a trip can include her without stressing her, we plan around that. If an appearance is not necessary, we stop treating it like it is. My mother can help, your people can help, but they cannot become her real parents because we were too busy being everywhere else."
Luna looked at him for a long moment.
Then she nodded.
"I don’t want her growing up around people who love her but waiting for the two she wants most," she said.
That one landed harder than Dayo expected.
He reached across the table and took her hand.
"We fix it," he said. "Not perfectly. But deliberately."
Luna squeezed his fingers. "After O2?"
"After O2, we start. Even before everything calms down."
"Things never calm down around you."
"That is why we stop waiting for calm."
Their daughter chose that moment to bang the spoon again, pleased with the noise.
Dayo looked at her. "She agrees."
"She likes destruction," Luna said. "Again, your side."
Before Dayo could defend himself, the door opened and Abishola’s voice came from the hallway.
"I heard that."
Luna immediately smiled. "Mama, he was denying it."
Abishola entered with the authority of a woman who had raised children, survived them, and no longer believed in innocent faces. She wore a comfortable dress, her hair wrapped neatly, and her eyes went straight to the baby.
"My princess," she said, her whole tone changing.
Their daughter responded with the kind of excitement she usually reserved for food, music, and stealing attention from serious conversations.
Abishola picked her up from the high chair after cleaning her hands, bouncing her lightly. "Have they been disturbing you this morning?"
Dayo stood and kissed his mother’s cheek. "Good morning, Mum."
"Good morning. You look tired."
"I ran."
"You looked tired before running."
Luna tried not to laugh.
Abishola turned to her. "And you, are you eating well? Studio does not mean you should turn to air."
"I’m eating, Mama."
"Hmm."
That single sound judged everyone in the kitchen.
For a little while, the morning became easier. Abishola talked about the baby’s sleep, what she had eaten the previous day, how she had tried to stand again, how she had developed a habit of laughing whenever someone said Dayo’s name on television. Luna packed a small bag for the studio. Dayo checked his schedule once and put the phone face down when Luna glanced at him.
Then it was time to leave.
That was when the baby understood.
Maybe it was the bag. Maybe the shoes. Maybe the way adults moved when they were pretending departure was not departure. Her face changed before she made a sound. Her smile dropped first, then her mouth trembled.
Luna froze.
"Oh, baby..."
Their daughter reached for her.
Luna took her immediately, holding her close. "I know. I know, sweetheart."
Dayo tried to keep his expression steady, but the small wounded sound their daughter made went straight through him. It was not loud yet. It was worse than loud. It was the beginning of a cry, the kind that asked why without knowing words.
Abishola watched Dayo over the child’s head.
There was no accusation in her eyes.
That made it worse.
Dayo stepped closer and touched his daughter’s back. "We’ll come back, okay? Daddy will come back."
His daughter turned toward his voice and reached for him too.
Luna gave a small broken laugh. "Now she’s making it personal."
Dayo took her for a moment. She clung to his shirt with surprising strength. He held her carefully, kissed her cheek, then her tiny hand.
"I know," he whispered. "I know."
For a second, the O2, the records, the industry, all of it felt like an insult compared to the small hand gripping his shirt.
Abishola let them have the moment, then gently held out her arms. "Come, my princess. Let them go and chase all these things they brought into my peaceful retirement."
"Mum," Dayo said, pained.
"What? Am I lying?"
Luna wiped quickly at the corner of her eye and smiled.
The baby resisted for a moment when Abishola took her, then settled against her grandmother’s shoulder, still watching Dayo and Luna like she did not trust either of them.
Dayo pointed at himself, then at the door, then back to her. "I’ll come back."
She sniffed.
Abishola gave him a look. "You heard her."
"I heard both of you."
"Good."
The car ride was quieter than usual.
Luna sat beside Dayo, looking out the window for the first few minutes. Her hand rested in his, but neither of them filled the silence quickly. London moved around them, grey and busy, already awake enough to be indifferent.
At the studio turnoff, Luna finally spoke.
"She’s going to punish us later."
Dayo nodded. "I deserve it."
"She’ll ignore you for five minutes, then forget because you’ll sing something."
"That is manipulation."
"That is fatherhood."
He laughed softly, but the guilt remained underneath.
When the car stopped, Luna leaned over and kissed him. "Go build your impossible show."
"Go finish your impossible EP."
She opened the door, then paused. "And Dayo?"
He looked at her.
"When you build it, don’t make it so big that there’s no space left for you."
He understood what she meant.
"I won’t."
Luna studied him like she was not fully convinced, but she let it pass. Then she stepped out, Amanda already waiting near the entrance with a folder and a face that suggested the day had started without permission.
Dayo watched Luna enter the building before the car pulled away.
The O2 meeting was held in a production room inside the arena complex, not the polished kind of conference space companies used for photographs. This room had too many cables, too many half-open cases, a table that looked like it had survived years of arguments, and a wall already covered with temporary schedules.
Valerie was not there. The physical campaign had become its own battlefield, and she was handling distribution calls across time zones while making sure nobody at JD Records got tempted into counting demand as fulfilled sales. Dayo had accepted her absence because he trusted the reason.
Alice was there.
So were Sharon, Ulrich, Wayne, Mara from broadcast, finance, legal, O2 operations, security, and the live director Alice had hired at a price that made finance look personally betrayed. The director had a calm face, silver-streaked hair, and the unsettling patience of someone who had built large events long enough to know panic was only useful when properly scheduled.
Shun Li stood beside him.
Dayo had not seen Shun in person since the World Cup opening ceremony. Back then, the Atlas Stadium in Tangier had felt enormous, and Dayo had been careful enough to ask permission before using that stage to announce his next move. Shun had respected that. He had also taught Dayo something he had not forgotten.
Talent opened the stage.
Respect kept it open.
When Shun saw him, his mouth curved into a small smile.
"Dayo," he said. "Last time, you asked permission before speaking on someone else’s stage."
Dayo bowed his head slightly. "This time I rented the problem myself."
Shun laughed once, warm and low. "That is one way to become older quickly."
The director looked between them. "Good. You already understand each other. That saves me ten minutes."
Wayne, sitting with a laptop and a paper cup of coffee large enough to threaten his health, muttered, "Can those ten minutes be converted into sleep?"
Nobody answered him.
Alice began the meeting. "This is not a normal concert. It is not a tour date. It is not a talk-show performance with a bigger room. It is a global live special built around Beautiful Things, and we have three days to make sure it doesn’t look like a rich artist woke up and bullied logistics."
Finance quietly said, "That is closer to the budget than I would like."
Dayo looked at him. "We’ll pay people properly."
"That part is already in the document," finance replied. "Double overtime, additional crew where departments are stretched, rest rotation after the show, recovery bonuses for core production. Generous enough that legal stopped frowning for almost thirty seconds."
Legal adjusted his glasses. "I resumed shortly after."
The director tapped the table lightly. "Let’s start with truth. Three days is not enough for a perfect arena show. If anyone in this room is still chasing perfect, leave now and save me the headache. What we can build is a clean, focused, memorable live special. That means fewer ideas, stronger execution."
Shun nodded. "The mistake would be trying to prove everything in one night. When artists feel judged, they add too much. Too many lights, too many dancers, too many movements, too many symbols. Then the stage becomes nervous."
Dayo listened.
That was why he wanted them here.
Not people who would flatter him because the numbers were big. People who understood that a stage could expose what a chart protected.
Mara brought up the first technical map. "Broadcast is the largest complication. If we contract television partners in selected territories, we cannot simply sell the same stream everywhere without respecting their rights. We can do a global online viewing pass where rights are open. In territories where a broadcaster pays for exclusivity, the online pass either gets geo-blocked during the live window or turns into a replay and behind-the-scenes package after their window closes."
Alice added, "Which means the announcement language has to be careful. We cannot say ’watch anywhere’ unless legal wants to age faster."
Legal pointed at her without looking up. "Correct."
Dayo turned to Mara. "Can we make the basic online pass affordable?"
Finance’s pain returned. "Affordable means different things depending on territory."
"Then price by region," Dayo said. "And I want free viewing options where partners can support them. Nigeria first. If people are already buying physical copies in a culture where physical singles are not normal anymore, I’m not making the next door too expensive to open."
Alice studied him for a moment, then wrote it down. "Standard live pass with regional pricing. Premium replay pass with alternate camera cuts and behind-the-scenes. Partner viewing centers in selected cities where sponsors cover access."
Ulrich leaned back. "That is good business pretending not to be good business."
Dayo looked at him.
Ulrich shrugged. "It is. You reduce piracy pressure, protect goodwill, and still monetize the premium audience."
"Then call it that in your head," Dayo said. "In mine, I just don’t want a fan choosing between food and watching one show."
The room let that sit.
Then Wayne raised his hand lazily. "While everyone is saving humanity, may I ask what I am arranging besides my funeral?"
Alice switched the screen to the guest page.
The list was not long, but every name had a reason.
Luna.
Vale.
Frosh and Faye, Dayo’s Nigerian artists.
Min-Jae, his closest friend from Korea, coming with Yuri.
Blake and Sarah, two of his JD artists in the United States.
Wayne stared at the list. "You people saw three days and thought, ’Let us add immigration, rehearsals, vocal keys, guest mics, and emotional complications.’"
Alice did not blink. "Yes."
"I hate the honesty."
The director leaned forward. "The guests cannot turn this into a variety show. Dayo is still the spine of the night. Each appearance needs a function. If someone enters, they either widen the emotional range, represent part of the global movement around him, or support the final build. Nothing random."
Dayo nodded. "Agreed."
Alice pointed to the names. "Luna is obvious. Her hidden vocal is part of why Beautiful Things has replay value, but we are not making the whole show about her comeback. She appears as part of the song, not as a press conference."
Dayo accepted that without adding anything. Luna’s place was already decided. He did not need to turn it into a discussion about whether she was ready. She was coming. That was enough.
"Frosh and Faye," Alice continued, "connect the Nigerian side. Not as decoration. Nigeria’s physical support is already becoming part of the public story. They should have a short, sharp moment that feels like home entering the room."
Mara nodded. "We can build a segment before the main performance. Short, percussive, high energy, easy to broadcast."
"Min-Jae and Yuri," Alice said, moving down the list. "Korea. Friendship, loyalty, JD Korea connection, and Yuri’s streaming moment helped identify Luna’s hidden layer. They should not be forced into Beautiful Things unless the arrangement supports it."
Wayne pointed at the screen. "Thank you for saying that before someone asked me to put six languages into the bridge and still keep it tasteful."
"Blake and Sarah," Alice continued, ignoring him, "give the U.S. roster presence. The American market is still central to the Michael Jackson debate, so having Dayo’s U.S. artists present matters. But again, support roles. This cannot become label showcase night."
Ulrich looked at Dayo. "And Vale?"
Dayo’s expression softened with recognition. "Vale understands stage pressure. He can carry one of the transition moments. He is not there to steal the show."
The director looked pleased. "Good. Then the guest structure is possible."
Shun turned to Dayo. "And your movement?"
Dayo looked at him. "I am not dancing to prove I can."
"Good," Shun said immediately.
Wayne almost smiled. "I like him."
Shun continued, "If you dance because people expect Michael Jackson, you lose. If you refuse to move because you are afraid of comparison, you also lose. The body must serve your song. Nothing more."
Dayo nodded slowly. That was the exact line he had been searching for.
"The performance starts still," Dayo said. "Voice first. I want the room to lean in before the band enters."
Wayne opened one of his arrangement files. "Piano and low pad for the opening. No drums until after the first lift. If the crowd sings early, we leave space. If they don’t, we do not beg them."
"They’ll sing," Alice said.
Wayne looked at her. "PR confidence is not a metronome."
"They’ll sing," Dayo said quietly.
Wayne studied him, then looked back at the file. "Fine. But if they don’t, I am haunting all of you."
The director stood and walked to the rough stage map taped to the wall. "Camera language. If the world is watching online and through broadcast partners, we cannot shoot this like a normal concert. The people inside the O2 need scale. The people at home need intimacy. That means we begin close. Breath, face, hands, the first line. Then we reveal the room slowly. Do not show the entire arena too early."
Mara agreed. "If we open wide, we spend the biggest image too soon."
Shun added, "Also, do not chase him with cameras. Give him marks that feel natural. Dayo, you have a habit of moving when the emotion changes."
Dayo raised an eyebrow. "Is that a complaint?"
"It is information. Complaints come during rehearsal."
The room laughed lightly, and for once, the tension loosened without losing focus.
They spent the next hour shaping the show.
Not the full performance. Not yet. The skeleton.
The opening would not be a brag reel. Alice killed that idea before anyone could become attached to it. The live special would begin with the sound of the crowd and a restrained visual of the global reaction to Beautiful Things: store shelves, radio hosts, fans outside music shops, short flashes of cities, no narration telling people how historic it was. Let the audience understand without being shouted at.
Frosh and Faye would appear early, bringing the Nigerian energy without turning it into a separate concert. Their segment would be short enough to keep the night moving and strong enough to remind the world where part of Dayo’s foundation lived.
Blake and Sarah would carry a U.S. vocal moment in the middle of the show, something clean, soulful, and polished. Min-Jae and Yuri would enter later, not as a gimmick, but as part of the global thread around JD Korea and the song’s cross-market pull. Vale would help bridge into the main event, a transition built around stage presence rather than noise.
Then Dayo.
Then Luna.
Then Beautiful Things in the version Wayne was already pretending not to love.
The final section would bring the crowd in properly. If the youth choir could be secured and rehearsed safely, they would enter only near the last lift. Not throughout. Not as decoration. Just enough to make the ending feel like the room had become larger than the stage.
The director kept cutting ideas.
Alice kept cutting phrases.
Mara kept cutting anything broadcast could not actually support.
Wayne kept threatening to cut his own phone line.
Dayo kept listening, adding only where the show needed his voice as its center.
By late afternoon, the production room looked worse and the plan looked better.
That was usually a good sign.
O2 operations confirmed the venue could support the build if the deposit and technical plan were locked that night. Security warned that once the announcement went live, fans would likely come to the arena even before the event day. Legal warned that broadcast language had to be cleared territory by territory. Finance warned that every hour of delay had a cost.
Dayo authorized the cost.
Not carelessly. Not with a rich man’s boredom. With the calm of someone who understood that a rushed miracle was still built by people who needed sleep, food, pay, and respect.
Before the meeting ended, Shun Li asked for ten minutes on the actual arena floor.
Dayo went with him.
The O2 was empty when they stepped out.
The stage was not fully built yet. The floor was marked with tape. Rigs hung incomplete above them. Crew moved in the distance, their voices echoing through the vast space. Without the crowd, without the lights, without the noise, the arena felt almost too honest.
Shun walked slowly to the center of the marked performance area.
Dayo followed.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
Then Shun looked up at the seats. "Do you remember Tangier?"
Dayo smiled faintly. "Seventy-five thousand seats. World Cup opening ceremony. Luna beside me. I asked you if I could speak after the song."
"You asked because you understood the stage was not yours," Shun said.
Dayo nodded.
Shun turned to him. "This one is yours. That makes it heavier, not lighter."
Dayo looked around the empty arena.
He could already see pieces of it. Frosh and Faye lighting up the early crowd. Min-Jae grinning somewhere backstage before pretending not to be emotional. Yuri quiet but sharp, focused on every note. Blake and Sarah bringing the American side into the room. Vale holding a transition with the confidence of someone who knew how to breathe under pressure. Luna stepping into the light when the world finally stopped guessing and started listening.
And then himself.
No interview chair.
No chart screen.
No headline to hide behind.
Just him, the song, and a room large enough to expose the truth.
"I know," Dayo said.
Shun studied his face. "Do you?"
Dayo took a breath.
"This stage cannot prove decades," he said. "It cannot make me Michael Jackson. It cannot turn three days into history. But it can show people whether the work survives when the numbers are gone."
Shun’s expression softened with approval.
"That is the right fear," he said.
Dayo looked at him.
Shun smiled slightly. "Wrong fear makes artists decorate. Right fear makes them prepare."
From the production entrance, Alice called his name. Legal needed final wording before the announcement draft could move to the broadcast partners. Mara needed his approval on the online viewing structure. Wayne had sent another arrangement file with the subject line I Hate That This Might Work.
Dayo stayed in the center of the floor for one more second.
The stage was still bare.
The cameras were not moving.
The world had not yet been invited.
But the shape of the night was there now, waiting to be built.
Dayo turned back toward the production room.
"Let’s make it clean," he said.
And behind him, the empty O2 carried the words farther than he expected.
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