From A Producer To A Global Superstar-Chapter 230: Michael thoughts.

The car door shut softly as Dayo settled into the passenger seat.

Min-Jae slid into the driver’s seat, adjusted the mirror, then glanced sideways with a casual smile.

"So," he said, starting the engine, "where are you planning on staying?"

Dayo leaned back, relaxed. "I still have a place here. One of my old apartments at Iteawo. Nothing fancy."

Min-Jae nodded. "Still keeping properties everywhere, huh?"

"It helps," Dayo replied lightly. "One less thing to worry about."

They drove in comfortable silence for a few seconds before Minje spoke again.

"Oh, by the way," he said, trying—and failing—to sound casual, "my girlfriend wants to see you."

Dayo turned slowly, eyebrow raised. "She wants to see who?"

"You," Minje repeated. "She keeps saying she wants to meet JDG in person."

Dayo stared at him for a second, then burst out laughing.

"Min-Jae," he said, shaking his head, "that sounds very strange coming from a man."

Min-Jae clicked his tongue. "Don’t start."

"Oh, I will," Dayo replied immediately. "So your girlfriend doesn’t want to see you. She wants to see me?"

Min-Jae shot him a look. "At least I have a girlfriend."

Dayo clutched his chest dramatically. "Oof. That one hurt."

Min-Jae smirked, clearly enjoying himself.

"But," Dayo continued calmly, "at least I don’t have a girlfriend who’s asking to see another man."

Min-Jae laughed loudly. "You’re wicked."

"You started it."

They both laughed, the tension nonexistent. It felt natural—easy—like old times.

The car rolled smoothly through the city, the lights outside passing by in quiet streaks. Eventually, Min-Jae pulled into a familiar residential area and slowed down.

"This still looks the same," Dayo said, glancing around.

"Some things don’t change," Min-Jae replied as he parked.

He turned off the engine but didn’t immediately get out.

"Listen," Min-Jae said, turning toward Dayo. "Use today and tomorrow to rest. Clear your head. By the day after tomorrow, I’ll come pick you up and take you to the studio."

Dayo considered it for a moment.

"You sure you’re not busy?" he asked. "I can always just hire a chauffeur. Send me the address."

Min-Jae scoffed. "You’re in Korea. I’m not letting you move around like a stranger."

Dayo smiled. "Suit yourself."

They exchanged a look—simple, mutual understanding.

Min-Jae opened the door. "Get some rest."

As Dayo stepped out, he paused and looked back.

"Oh," he said casually, "greet our girlfriend for me."

Min-Jae froze, then snapped back in quick pidgin English. "You dey mad."

Dayo laughed. "See? My influence."

Min-Jae shook his head. "I told you. I have Nigerian friends now."

"Good," Dayo said. "They’re doing God’s work."

Min-Jae waved him off and drove away, still laughing.

Dayo watched the car disappear before turning toward the building.

Inside, everything felt familiar.

He dropped his bag, took a long shower, and let the tension of travel wash off him. Afterward, he changed into something comfortable and sat on the edge of the bed, phone in hand.

He called home.

Abisola picked up almost immediately.

"You landed?"

"Yes ma," Dayo replied.

"Safe?"

"Hehe Yes ma ." Dayo smiled

She hummed in satisfaction. "Good." 𝙛𝒓𝒆𝙚𝒘𝒆𝓫𝙣𝓸𝙫𝓮𝒍.𝒄𝒐𝓶

"Oh where’s everyone ?." Dayo asked.

"They are already out I was foing fhe account that why i am still home." Abisola said.

"Ah that’s true time difference."

The call didn’t last long, but it was warm. Familiar voices. Familiar jokes. Reassurances exchanged easily.

Afterward, Dayo stepped out onto the balcony briefly, breathing in the night air.

Korea.

Again.

When he finally lay down, exhaustion crept up on him naturally. No alarms. No schedule. Just rest.

As his eyes closed, his mind slowed.

Tomorrow could wait.

For now, sleep came easily.

****

Michael stood by the wide glass window of his penthouse office, the city spread beneath him like a living map. The lights below flickered endlessly—cars moving, people rushing, deals being made without faces or names. For over twenty years, this view had been his reward. His proof of relevance. His reminder that he mattered.

Yet tonight, it felt different.

The glass reflected his face faintly—older, sharper, more guarded. He had built too much to pretend he was still just a participant in the game.

"It’s time," he muttered again, more firmly now.

He turned away from the window and walked back to the desk. Spread before him were several encrypted files, each opened through layers of security he had personally designed. It had taken months—years, even—to gather this information without triggering alarms.

Three names stared back at him.

Three people who had never stood in the spotlight, yet controlled those who did.

Him.

For most of his career, Michael had believed power was loud—public, visible, absolute. He had been wrong. Real power stayed hidden. It pulled strings quietly and punished disobedience without fingerprints.

And these three had been pulling his.

Not openly. Never directly. But through pressure. Through favors. Through reminders of who had helped him climb when he was still desperate and unknown.

They called themselves investors. Advisors. Patrons.

Michael now understood the truth.

They were puppeteers.

The first name belonged to a woman.

Isobel Hartmann.

Late fifties. Immaculate public record. Known globally as a cultural benefactor, arts patron, and former executive consultant across multiple entertainment conglomerates. She sat on boards, chaired charities, and was invited into rooms presidents struggled to enter.

Isobel was the one who calls

Always calm, very decisive and ruthless when need be

She never told him what to do. She reminded him what he owed and who owned him.

Michael scrolled through the file. The deeper layers revealed what the surface never showed—shell companies, offshore trusts, silent acquisitions. Entire production houses quietly absorbed, dismantled, and resold through proxies.

She didn’t destroy careers.

She erased leverage.

A quiet woman who specialized in quiet endings.

Michael clenched his jaw.

"She’s cleaner than I expected," he said to himself. "Too clean."

That alone made her dangerous but he knew if he dug deeper he would find answers.

The second name made his fingers pause.

Graham Veldt.

Late sixties. Male. Old money. A titan from the era when studios were owned outright, not fragmented into digital pieces. He was known in public as a retired mogul—someone who had "stepped back" to enjoy life.

A lie.

Graham had never stepped back. He had simply learned how to rule without being seen.

Michael skimmed the highlights: acquisitions hidden under grandchildren’s names, influence over union boards, control of distribution routes that decided which projects lived and which vanished quietly.

But what caught Michael’s attention wasn’t the money.

It was the pattern.

Projects involving Graham’s shadow companies often failed publicly—but succeeded privately. Tax write-offs. Inflated losses. Government incentives siphoned elsewhere.

Michael leaned back slowly.

"Tax manipulation," he murmured. "Large-scale."

The kind that could bury an empire if exposed.

The third name appeared last.

Leonard Crowe.