Lois, listening to the instrumental, felt calm and a little shocked as the acoustic guitar tone first played. Inside, she knew this instrumental hit deeper than Wayne's. She hummed softly along to the tune, finding it easier to flow with than Wayne's track.
Then she gave Dayo the go-ahead. She was ready to record.
Dayo leaned back in the producer's chair, fingers dancing across the console with practiced ease. His hands moved like muscle memory — tweaking EQ levels, trimming ambient noise, prepping the vocal track. The room went still. No chatter. No distractions. Just the low hum of anticipation and Lois' soft voice as it broke the silence.
"Oh, ay
You don't know, babe
When you hold me
And kiss me slowly
It's the sweetest thing
And it don't change
If I had it my way
You would know that you are"
Lois sang gently, almost like a whisper. Her tone carried a raw sweetness — not perfect, but honest. Dayo leaned forward, catching the slight tremble in her pitch. He didn't stop her. He loved it. It was real.
He tapped a few keys, isolating her vocals slightly and softening the high end to keep the intimacy intact.
"You're the coffee that I need in the morning
You're my sunshine in the rain when it's pouring
Won't you give yourself to me?
Give it all, oh"
"I just wanna seeI just wanna see how beautiful you are
You know that I see it, I know you're a star
Where you go, I'll follow, no matter how far
If life is a movie, then you're the best part, oh
You're the best part, ooh"
"Oh-oh-oh-ohBest part"
Her voice cracked a little on "beautiful" — and Dayo smiled. He pulled that note out, looped it, then stacked a gentle harmony underneath, his own voice humming behind hers. Just enough to give it soul. Just enough to make it feel like a slow confession.
"It's this sunrise
And those brown eyes, yes
You're the one that I desire
When we wake up
And then we make love (make love)It makes me feel so nice"
That line hung in the air. There was a pause.
Then Dayo stood up.
Everyone glanced over. Even Lois looked puzzled as he entered the booth with a second mic. No announcement. No warning. Just a quiet nod to her before he began, singing softly and calmly.
"You're my water when I'm stuck in the desert
You're the Tylenol I take when my head hurts
You're the sunshine on my life"
Dayo took a deep breath before singing with every ounce of his being. He already knew exactly how he wanted it to sound — slow, gentle, deliberate.
"I just wanna see how beautiful you are
You know that I see it, I know you're a star
Where you go, I'll follow, no matter how far
If life is a movie, then you're the best part
Oh-oh-oh-oh
You're the best part
Oh-oh-oh-oh
Best part (you're the best part)"
His voice was smooth and hauntingly soft. Every word fell into place like puzzle pieces.
Then came the chorus again, and this time, he tilted his head toward her. She understood. Lois joined in.
Their voices didn't clash. They danced. Blended. It wasn't a duet — it was a conversation sung in a shared language only the two of them seemed to understand.
"If you love me, won't you say something?
If you love me, won't you, won't you?
If you love me, won't you say something? (Say something)
If you love me, won't you?
Love me, won't you?"
The song wasn't officially a duet, but the weaving of both Dayo and Lois' voices felt like magic — as if they were telling a story only they knew. Eyes closed, they sang like they were inside their own world.
"If you love me, won't you say something? (Say something)
If you love me, won't you?
Ah
If you love me, won't you say something? (Say something)
If you love me, won't you?
Love me, won't you?
If you love me, won't you say something? (Say something)
If you love me, won't you?
Ah
If you love me, won't you say something? (Say something)If you love me, won't you?
Love me, won't you?"
When they were done, the room was quiet.
Lois opened her eyes slowly, her lips parted like she'd just woken from a dream. She was shocked and a little lost as she looked at Dayo, who only smiled softly and walked out of the recording room.
The track faded.
Silence.
Then the room erupted — not in loud applause, but in that quiet awe only real producers and audiophiles shared. It was the kind of silence that meant respect.
Wayne and Valery looked at each other. They knew the bet was lost, but it didn't bother them — because what they had just witnessed was beyond anything they'd expected.
Valery muttered under her breath, "Damn… this is rich."
In the control room, no one clapped. No one dared break the silence. It wasn't the kind of moment you cheered for — it was the kind you remembered.
Wayne nodded slowly, eyes fixed on the console screen. "That's an understatement. Did you hear that? The synergy? The way the beat gave them space, the way their voices wrapped around it?" His voice was reverent, not resentful. "This is world-class work."
He turned to Dayo with a smirk. "My man, I've got to give it to you. You fooled me real smooth. How did you pull that off?"
Dayo chuckled calmly. "What exactly are you talking about?"
Wayne grinned and shook his head. "Come on. That instrumental… the layering, the timing, the way you patched her voice without losing her natural tone. I thought you'd rely on pitch correction or masking, but you did it raw. Clean. With finesse."
"Since when did you start producing this good? I feel embarrassed to have thought I could compare," Wayne admitted with a small laugh.
"Well, to be fair, I started producing instrumentals when I was eight. I just honed my skills since then. No need to be hard on yourself and honestly, if I were in your shoes and someone my age said those words to me, I'd act the same," Dayo replied, downplaying his skills to keep things calm.
Wayne, still impressed, kept asking questions about how Dayo managed certain things in the mix. Dayo answered casually, multitasking as he continued editing the entire recording session.
"I'm done," he finally said, leaning back with quiet satisfaction.