By morning, the contract felt heavier than stone in Amina's bag. She hadn't slept—the words had danced all night in her mind: exclusive rights, percentages, ownership.
At rehearsal, the producers cornered her again. "Well? Did you sign?" They smile were polite, but their voices were sharp.
"I... I need more time."
Their gaze hardened. "Time is a luxury you don't have. Sign it today, or the offer is gone." One of them spoke.
The weight of their stares pressed on her chest. She thought of Mama's hospital bills, Zainab's schooling.
Maybe one signature could fix everything.
Her pen trembled as she reached for the pen.
"Wait."
The room stilled. Adrian Cole had entered quietly, his tall frame a shadow in the doorway. His presence pulled the air taut.
He walked forward, calm, unreadable, picked up the contract on the table. His eyes skimmed the pages in seconds. Then he looked up, voice cool but firm.
"This deal binds her name, image, and voice for years. It's not an opportunity—it's theft."
One of the producers standing looked up and spoke. "With respect, Mr Cole, this isn't your decision. She's free to choose."
Adrian's gaze flicked to Amina. For the first time,his voice softened, just enough for her to hear: "if you want chains, sign. If you want freedom, sing."
Her throat tightened. The pen slipped from her fingers.
The producers signed, gathering their papers with thinly veiled annoyance. "She'll regret this. Offers don't come twice."
When they left, Amina turned to Adrian. "Why... why did you help me?"
He studied her, expression unreadable. "Because voices like yours don't belong in cages.
And then he walked away, as if nothing had passed between them.
But her heart was still racing.
That night, she tucked the unsigned contract beneath her bed. She had chosen hunger over chains. For now..