Chapter 2 Under Pressure
UNDER PRESSURE
MORGAN
Sunrise By Norah Jones
The office chair creaks as I sink into it, the leather holding the shape of my father’s body after all these years.
My heels thump against the hardwood floor as I kick them off, letting my head fall back with a heavy sigh.
The staff meeting was brutal—a barrage of questions I couldn’t answer, worried faces looking to me for direction I’m not sure how to give.
“What would you do, Dad?” I whisper to the empty room.
His presence lingers here, in every detail.
Gold and platinum records line the walls along with photos of artists he discovered—young and hopeful, before they became household names.
On the corner of his desk, there’s a picture of me at five years old, sitting on his lap at an old-school mixing board.
I was more interested in the sparkly sequins on my dress than the music back then.
I reach for my sketchpad and begin absently sketching the silhouette of a stage costume.
The quarterly financials spread out before me tell a story that keeps me up at night: three consecutive quarters of losses, streaming numbers down thirty percent year-over-year, and our biggest artist threatening to walk.
Left Turn Records isn’t just my father’s legacy—it’s the livelihood of twenty-eight employees who’ve been loyal for decades.
My phone buzzes, Ava’s name lighting up the screen. Seeing it makes my shoulders relax a little. Ava and I trained under the same lead designers at Bertolucci in New York. She was the best part of that job—aside from my sketching and the occasional adrenaline high of backstage panic.
“Tell me you’re having a worse day than I am,” I answer, tucking the phone between my ear and shoulder as my pencil continues to move across the page.
“Honey,” she deadpans, “I just spent six hours watching models survive on air, nicotine, and the faint memory of a cucumber. Try me.”
I laugh despite myself. “God, I do not miss that.”
“You say that now, but wait until you see what passes for ‘tour outfits’ in the music world. One of your artists was wearing a bath towel on stage last week.”
“That was a custom Rick Owens wrap skirt, and he wore it backwards.”
“My point stands.” She pauses. “Your hands are moving. You’re sketching, aren’t you?”
I glance down at the page where I’ve drafted a structured jacket with asymmetrical lapels. “Force of habit.”
“It’s who you are. Bertolucci still asks about you, you know. Said nobody has your eye for translating street style to high fashion.”
“Ancient history,” I murmur, though my chest tightens at the reminder of what I walked away from. The career I was actually good at.
“Speaking of questionable life choices,” she continues, “when are you coming back to civilization? Manhattan misses you. I miss you. I can’t keep drinking overpriced cocktails with influencers named Brynlee.”
The question makes my stomach twist. I stand, pacing the length of the office.
“I went through the financials last night. It’s grim.
Dad was…” I swallow. “He was hemorrhaging money trying to keep everyone employed. The streaming numbers are a disaster, Jaxson from Paper Skies is threatening to walk, and I have no idea how to fix any of it.”
“How bad are we talking?”
“Six months of operating capital left, less if he leaves. He’s our highest-grossing artist right now—his departure would start a domino effect. Three other bands would likely follow him.”
“I thought Jaxson was loyal to your dad? Wasn’t there some whole legal battle?”
My pencil stops mid-stroke. “Yeah. Dad helped him get out of a predatory contract with his former management. Spent a lot of time and money on lawyers when Jaxson was starting out. It was ugly—the kind that makes you hate this industry.” I sigh.
“But loyalty only goes so far when your label is struggling, I guess. And apparently he’s getting other offers. ”
“Okay, okay—breathe. You’re spiraling.”
“I’m not.” Even I don’t believe it.
“You sound like you’re pacing in a Chanel blouse and wedges. You’re spiraling.”
I glare at the floor like it’s personally offended me. “I’m barefoot.”
She snorts. “God, I miss your brand of delusion. Listen, fashion and music? Not so different.”
I stop. “Excuse me?”
“Think about it—both run on trends and egos. Both are fueled by drama, alcohol, and grandiosity. And the talent thinks they’re the center of the universe.”
“At least models pretend to be polite.”
“Only until the cameras are off. Don’t romanticize it. Remember the girl who tried to stab me with a stiletto over a runway slot?”
“Is that the definition of hangry?”
“She was unhinged.”
I laugh, but it fades when I look at the wall of photos. My dad, with a young artist he’d just signed. Their smiles are everything I’m trying—and failing—to live up to.
“He had this instinct,” I say, sitting down and tracing the lines of my sketch with my fingertip. “He could spot a star before they even knew they were one. I don’t have that.”
“Maybe not, but you have other skills. You predicted oversized tailoring two years before Vogue wrote about it. You convinced Bertolucci to feature streetwear in their spring line and they said yes because you sold it. You read people, Morgan. You read markets.”
“Yeah, and guess who got all the credit for those ideas? My name was barely a footnote in the press releases.” I sigh, remembering the frustration of seeing my concepts attributed to the fashion house.
“I remember,” Ava says, her voice softening. “That spring collection launch party where they introduced you as ‘one of our promising junior designers’ after you practically designed half the line.”
“Exactly. But you’re not wrong. That is one thing I’m good at.
Understanding how to save a record label in the age of streaming is another entirely.
Fashion made sense to me. It was intuitive.
But this?” I gesture around the office, even though she can’t see me.
“Sometimes I feel like I’m speaking a different language.
Dad tried to teach me everything, but…” I trail off, remembering the Sunday afternoons he’d spend explaining royalty structures and distribution deals while I half-listened, more interested in the outfit possibilities for his next industry event.
“You’re smarter than you think,” Ava says firmly. “And you grew up in that world, even if you weren’t paying attention.”
“I was focused on the wrong things. Dad was talking streaming rates, and I was redesigning artists’ tour wardrobes in my head.”
My eyes fall on a copy of Vibez Magazine—Dylan’s face staring up at me from the cover like a challenge. Last night’s industry mixer hits me like a punch. The heat of his breath. The way he looked at me before his eyes dropped to my lips. How stupid could I be?
“Earth to Morgan,” Ava cuts through my thoughts. “You went quiet on me.”
“Sorry. Got distracted,” I tell Ava.
“By?” her voice sharpens like a perfectly filed nail.
I hesitate. “Do you remember me telling you about Dylan?”
“Is that the guy who followed you around like a lost golden retriever at your parents’ parties?”
I laugh at the memory. “That was a long time ago.”
“So… yes.”
I sigh. “He’s running Stonewall Records now.”
“Wait—that’s Dylan? Malibu pool party Dylan? ‘Accidentally spilled grape soda on your sketchbook’ Dylan?”
“It was custom leather,” I hiss.
She snorts. “So what’s he doing now? Besides haunting your memories like a smug ghost?”
“Trying to poach Jaxson from Paper Skies.”
“Rude.”
“And,” I add, “he wants to buy Left Turn. Claiming to ‘preserve the legacy and bring it into the future.’”
“Translation: gut the company and slap his name on the bones,” Ava says harshly. “And you’re just going to let him?” She asks.
My eyes flick to the magazine cover, his handsome face looking insufferably pleased with himself.
“Not a chance.” I tap my pencil against the desk. “If he gets Jaxson, though…”
“Then don’t let him. Fight back. Show him—and your team—that you’re not some placeholder in heels. Really cute couture heels, I might add, but still—you need to remind Jaxson why he signed with you in the first place.”
I straighten. “You’re right.”
“I’m always right,” she says in a smug way only Ava can pull off.
“You’re usually right,” I correct.
“I’ve never been wrong. Except that one time I wore chartreuse to fashion week. And honestly, even then, I was ahead of the curve,” she jokes.
I look at the magazine again, the irritation bubbling up. “He thinks he’s already won. That I’ll fold because I’m not my father.”
“You’re you. Scarier, smarter, and better dressed.”
A slow smile spreads across my face as I tap a nail onto the worn wood of my father’s desk. “Let’s just say I have a plan to make him regret underestimating me.”
Ava’s tone shifts again. “Do tell?”
“I’ll tell you after it works.”
“Morgan!” Ava yells.
“Love you, mean it!”
I hang up and start composing a message to Jaxson when my phone vibrates with a text from Christian.
Christian: Sorry, I got caught up on a work trip. Tell Hazel I’ll call her this weekend.
Another broken promise to add to the pile. The distance was always going to be hard—but not like this. A damn phone call isn’t too much to ask.
Hazel deserves better than a father who treats her like an afterthought.
And Left Turn deserves better than becoming another notch in Dylan Kernish-Grant’s corporate belt.
I check the clock—two hours until I need to pick up Hazel from school.
I shift my focus to the magazine, to Dylan’s confident smirk. My heart’s still racing, but it’s no longer from panic. Dylan wants to play dirty? Good. I add a few final strokes to my sketch—a design that’s perfect for Jaxson’s upcoming tour—and set my pencil down.
“I don’t unravel under pressure.”
I grab my phone, thinking about Jaxson.
He needs to be reminded of history. But also, I need to reassure him that his future is still secure with us. That Left Turn isn’t going down—I won’t let it.