Chapter 3 The War
THE WAR
MORGAN
I Dare You By Kelly Clarkson
The jacket is unlike anything he’s worn before—structured but not stiff, with architectural shoulders and asymmetrical panels that catch the light from every angle.
I’ve incorporated subtle references to Paper Skies’ album artwork into the embroidery detail, a connection his fans will recognize instantly when he’s onstage.
It’s the type of piece that stops photographers in their tracks, and frames a shot that becomes synonymous with an artist.
“That’s the one,” I murmur, adding the final pencil strokes to the sketch.
Next to the designs, I’ve arranged the financial projections I’ve been working on all night—it’s not a solution, but at least a plan.
The numbers aren’t pretty, but they’re honest. And I’ve highlighted the key spots where Jaxson’s continued presence makes all the difference.
His streaming revenue alone accounts for thirty-two percent of our income.
If he stays, we might survive the immediate crisis.
“Mommy?”
Hazel is standing in the doorway, still in her unicorn pajamas, her curls wild from sleep.
“Hey, baby,” I say, forcing energy into my voice despite my exhaustion. “You’re up early.”
She pads over to the table in her mismatched socks, and I pull her onto my lap.
“Pretty,” she says, looking at my sketches. “Like superhero clothes.”
I laugh softly. “That’s exactly what they are. He needs to look like a superhero when he’s singing.”
“Can I have one too?” she asks, eyes wide with hope.
“We’ll see about that,” I say, kissing the top of her head. “Now, it’s almost time for us to get ready. What do you think—pancakes or cereal before preschool?”
“Pancakes!” she declares, sliding off my lap and heading for the kitchen.
The financial projections are grim. The distribution deal with SoundStream could help—it would increase our digital footprint and potentially open up Asian markets where Paper Skies is gaining traction.
But even with that, we’d need to cut costs significantly.
I’ve already cut the company’s catering budget, the marketing team’s expenses, and unfortunately, I’m possibly letting someone go.
I make a note to look into whether SoundStream might work for our other artists too, particularly Hollow Reign. But those are longer-term considerations. Right now, it’s about immediate survival.
But first: pancakes, preschool drop-off, and then convincing Jaxson Steele that his future still belonged with me.
* * *
Studio A had always been my father’s favorite recording space—intimate for acoustic sessions but with enough room for a full band when needed. I’ve deliberately kept this meeting casual, my sketches and projections spread out on the coffee table rather than mounted on presentation boards.
When Jaxson walks in, he’s all cool confidence and rockstar swagger. He pulls his sunglasses off and hooks them on the collar of his shirt. His blond hair is windblown but still manages to look good.
“Morgan.” He gives me a quick hug, the kind that acknowledges our history without pretending we’re close. “How are you holding up?”
The question carries weight. He’s not just asking about my day.
“Taking it one crisis at a time,” I say with a small smile. “Thanks for coming in.”
“Your text intrigued me.” He glances at my sketches. “Though I have to say, I’ve had some interesting meetings this week.”
I take a deep breath. “Before we get into that, I want to say something.” I meet his eyes directly.
“I know what my dad did for you—going to bat against your old label, paying for the lawyers himself, believing in you when others were trying to box you in. He never regretted it, not for a second. He told me once that watching you perform at Madison Square Garden was one of the proudest moments of his career.”
Jaxson’s expression softens slightly. “He was one of the good ones. A rare thing in this business.”
“He was. And I know I’m not him—I don’t have his instincts or his connections. But I do have his belief that artists deserve better than most labels offer.” I pause. “That’s why it meant a lot that you agreed to meet with me, especially after…”
“Stonewall?” he finishes for me.
My stomach tightens. “Dylan himself, actually.”
“Very polished presentation.” Jaxson settles onto the couch across from me. “His A&R guy has been blowing up my phone since then.”
I force myself to nod calmly, though internally I’m calculating how much deeper into debt I’d have to go to match whatever offer they made. “And what did you tell them?”
“That I’d think about it.” He meets my eyes directly. “Your dad helped me when no one else would, Morgan. I haven’t forgotten that. But I’ve got a band to support, a tour to fund. I can’t make decisions based solely on loyalty.”
“I’m not asking you to.” I push my sketches toward him. “Let me show you something first, before we talk numbers.”
I walk him through each design, explaining how they’re engineered to move with him, to enhance his stage presence rather than restrict it.
“This isn’t just fabric and thread, Jaxson. This is your armor.”
His eyes widen at the jacket sketch. “That’s… different from anything we’ve done previously.”
“That’s the point.” I lean closer, tapping the page. “These aren’t just clothes—they’re part of the performance. The way the light will hit the panels during ‘Midnight Run’? The audience won’t be able to look away.”
I flip to the next page, showing him the stage visualization. “The pieces are engineered to move with you, to breathe when you do. When you raise your arms here—” I demonstrate the motion, “—the jacket creates this silhouette that mirrors your album cover. Your fans will see it instantly.”
Something shifts in his expression.
“The big labels want to package you like every other artist,” I continue, heart hammering against my ribs. “Dylan’s people probably showed you their standard tour setup, right? The same lighting design they use for all their acts, just with different colors.”
His mouth twitches. I’ve hit a nerve.
“What I’m offering is longevity. I’m not only managing your numbers, Jaxson. I’m curating your entire career. Your sound, your image, your legacy—every element crafted with intention, not processed through some corporate template.”
I flip to my financial projections. “And they’re just one piece of what I’m proposing.”
I outline my immediate strategy—keeping our core artists, being more selective with our resources, and creating targeted content generating revenue with minimal investment. I don’t sugarcoat the challenges, but I focus on the path forward rather than the cuts.
“But with these adjustments and your continued presence, we can weather the next six months while we rebuild,” I explain.
“Your new album would be crucial to this approach,” I continue. “We’d prioritize our efforts on making it a success. The tour designs would be distinctive enough to stand out.”
“And distribution?” he asks, eyebrow raised. “Dylan mentioned their partnership with GlobalSound.”
“I’m in talks with SoundStream,” I counter. “Their platform would give us access to markets in Japan, South Korea, and Australia, where your streaming numbers are already growing organically. Plus, their algorithm favors bands over solo artists, which would benefit Paper Skies significantly.”
Jaxson studies the projections, asking surprisingly detailed questions about marketing spend and revenue projections. I answer each one honestly, not hiding the risks.
Finally, he looks up. “Your dad used to say the music business was changing too fast for anyone to predict. How do you know this will work?”
I consider carefully. “I don’t. Not with absolute certainty. But I do know about making people want something even when they have a thousand cheaper options. That’s what fashion taught me.”
I sit beside him on the couch. “Here’s what I can promise you, Jaxson.
Left Turn will never see you as just numbers on a spreadsheet.
We’ll fight for your vision, not try to reshape it to fit some algorithm.
And yes, we have to work harder and with fewer resources than Stonewall has, but sometimes limitation breeds creativity. ”
He’s quiet for a long moment. “Your dad said something similar when he signed me. Said the big labels wanted to sand off all my rough edges until I was smooth enough to sell.” A faint smile touches his lips.
“That hasn’t changed,” I say softly.
Jaxson stands, walking to the window overlooking the small garden behind the studio.
“Dylan’s people kept talking about their plan for me, their vision for my career,” he says. “Not once did they ask about mine.” He turns to face me. “What happens if I stay but Left Turn goes under?”
“Then I’ll personally ensure you’re released from your contract with favorable terms,” I say without hesitation. “No legal battles, no holding your music hostage.”
He studies me for a long moment, then nods slowly. “I want those tour designs, the custom stage visuals, and the release clause in writing.” A smile breaks through his serious expression. “And I want the jacket ready for the first show.”
Relief washes through me, but I keep my reaction measured. “You won’t regret this.”
“I better not.” He picks up his bag. “Oh, and Morgan? The A&R guy from Stonewall is persistent. Might want to tell your friend aggressive tactics don’t work with everyone.”
As he heads for the door, I can’t resist asking, “How polished was Dylan’s pitch, exactly?”
Jaxson laughs. “Very corporate. Beautiful package, lots of promises, but it felt like I was being processed rather than partnered with.”
The idea forms instantly. “Sounds like someone needs a reminder about authenticity.”
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he warns, but there’s amusement in his eyes.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I reply innocently.
After he leaves, I stand alone in the studio, the weight of what I’ve just promised settling on my shoulders. I’ve bought us time, but now I need to deliver. Keeping Jaxson is only the first step—I have to make good on every promise I made.
I pull out my phone.
“Let’s see how Mr. Thirty-Under-Thirty likes being on the receiving end of an unexpected performance.” I type in my credit card information, a smile spreading across my face as I imagine his reaction.
I may have won this battle with Jaxson, but the war with Dylan Kernish-Grant is just beginning.