Signed In Deception

Chapter 3 The First Price

Within days of signing the contract, I was swallowed whole by rehearsals, studio sessions, and photo shoots. My calendar filled up before I even knew what day it was. Phil was everywhere, his voice in my ear, his team at my heels.

“This is your sound,” he told me in the studio. “We had our writers build it around your tone. You’ll kill it.”

I wanted to protest. I had lyrics of my own that I wrote, but his gaze cut through me. I nodded and stepped into the booth.

My first single dropped six weeks later.

Millions of streams. Overnight, I went from a nobody to a name people typed into search bars. It felt like I was watching someone else’s dream come true while standing just outside the frame.

Then came the interviews.

I sat on velvet couches across from talk show hosts who smiled with perfect teeth and asked questions crafted by Phil’s PR team. I answered them like a trained bird, every response rehearsed.

"Where did the name K.Ray come from?"

"It’s a play on my initials. A new chapter."

Not my idea.

There were photo shoots, magazine covers, and even a perfume line in development. The air around me sparkled, fake and intoxicating. And somewhere in the dazzle, I started to vanish.

The cracks showed up slowly, small at first, like hairline fractures in glass.

It started one night, before a gala.

I stood in front of the mirror in a simple, elegant, pale blue dress I’d chosen myself, the kind of thing I used to dream of wearing. The fabric clung to my waist just right. I felt like me again, even for a second.

Until Phil walked in.

His eyes landed on the dress like it was an insult. “You can’t wear that.”

I blinked. “Why not?”

He didn’t answer. He just snapped his fingers at one of his assistants, who came rushing in with a red sequined gown that screamed money and attention.

“You’ll wear this,” he said.

And I did.

It was easier not to argue.

---

The next few weeks blurred together. I lost track of the days. Phil was molding me, carving me into a brand. I smiled when I was told to smile, sang what they handed me, and posed how they instructed. I wasn’t an artist anymore.

I was a product.

But then, there was him.

Noah.

He joined the production team midway through my second single. A quiet guy with warm brown eyes and calloused fingers from playing real instruments, not just digital boards. He was different from the others—slower, softer, like he still believed in music for music’s sake.

He heard me humming one night after a long session.

“Is that yours?” he asked from behind the console.

I jumped, embarrassed. “Just something I’m working on.”

He grinned. “Sing it again.”

And I did.

For the first time in weeks, I sang something real—raw, unfinished, mine.

When I looked up, Noah’s gaze wasn’t clouded by contracts or streaming stats. He just… listened. Like it mattered.

“You should fight for that,” he said softly. “That song. Your voice.”

But Phil wouldn’t hear of it.

“Noah’s an idealist,” he scoffed when I brought it up. “You want to be indie and broke forever? Or do you want the world?”

I wanted both. But I didn’t say that.

---

Noah and I grew closer. Secretly.

It wasn’t allowed officially, but Phil made it clear in ways that didn’t need to be spoken. No distractions. No scandals.

So we kept it hidden. Stolen moments in sound booths. Late-night coffee runs where no one knew my face. I told him things I couldn’t tell anyone else—that I felt like a ghost in my own life, that the girl smiling from the magazine covers wasn’t me.

“You still have a choice,” he said once, brushing my hair behind my ear. “They don’t own your soul unless you let them.”

I wanted to believe him. But I wasn’t sure I had anything left to hold onto.

---

One night, I was set to perform at a private label event—industry bigwigs, influencers, and investors. Phil was tense, pacing backstage, barking at stylists. I stood in full makeup, wearing a sheer gold dress he’d approved—one I hated.

Noah found me minutes before I went on.

“Don’t sing the new track,” he whispered.

My pulse spiked. “What?”

“They rewrote the bridge—cut out the last verse. The one you begged them to keep.”

He handed me a USB. “This is the original cut. The one with your verse. If you’re going to sing tonight, sing this.”

I stared at the USB like it was a bomb. “If Phil finds out…”

“He will. But it’s your voice, Kim. What’s it worth if you don’t use it?”

His fingers brushed mine. “I’ll be in the sound booth. I’ll play whatever version you want.”

He left before I could answer.

The spotlight was already calling.

---

I stood on the stage, blinded by lights, the crowd a blur. My heart pounded as the intro played.

In my ear, Phil’s voice crackled through the monitor. “Sing the set, Kim. Stick to the plan.”

But my eyes searched the back of the room.

Noah was there, fingers poised over the soundboard.

My breath caught. My fingers curled around the mic.

I made my choice.

---

The first verse rolled out. Then the chorus. The room swayed with the rhythm, energy humming like electricity.

Then came the bridge.

My verse.

The one they cut.

I nodded once toward the booth.

Noah’s hand moved.

The original version played.

My voice poured out—raw, unfiltered, vulnerable. A confession hidden in melody. I sang like it was my last chance to be real.

And when it ended, the room was silent.

Then—applause.

Louder than I expected. Wild. Unpredictable.

But when the curtain fell, Phil was waiting in the wings, jaw tight, eyes livid.

“What the hell was that?” he hissed.

“I sang my song,” I said, voice steady.

“You disobeyed. You humiliated me in front of every exec in that room.”

“I told the truth.”

He stepped closer, his voice low and cold. “You think you can do this without me? You’re nothing without my name. Without my machine.”

“I’d rather be nothing than fake.”

He laughed bitterly, then leaned in. “You just made a very expensive mistake, sweetheart.”

---

That night, Noah disappeared.

His number stopped working. His place was empty.

Gone—without a trace.

I knew Phil had something to do with it. I just didn’t know what.

But I would find out.

Whatever it took.

Whatever it costs.

Because now I knew the truth:

This wasn’t about music anymore.

This was war.

I returned to my suite, adrenaline still buzzing, only to find the door ajar.

Inside, the lights were off—but something glinted on the floor near my bed.

A flash drive.

My name is written in black marker.

I picked it up, fingers trembling.

Plugged it into my laptop.

A single file.

CONFIDENTIAL_RECORDING_04_12.mp4

I hit play.

Phil’s voice filled the room.

“Delete everything. Make sure the girl never finds him. And if she starts digging… we bury her career for good.”