Chapter 7 Coming Apart
COMING APART
MORGAN
Crimson Haze By Nyracy
I’m knee-deep in contracts when James knocks on my office door, his expression already making my stomach sink. He’s holding a suspiciously expensive folder.
“Please tell me that’s good news,” I say, but his grimace tells me otherwise.
“Remember the New Artist Showcase your father signed up to co-sponsor?” He places the folder on my desk carefully, like it might explode. “Well, I just got the final paperwork…”
I flip it open and freeze. There, right next to Left Turn’s logo, is Stonewall Records’ sleek emblem. Bigger. Shinier. My blood pressure spikes.
“No. Absolutely not.” I slam the folder shut. “I’m not working with the guy who’s trying to take my company.”
James sighs, clearly having anticipated this reaction. “Your father already committed to this. Backing out now would be industry suicide—not to mention the twenty-thousand-dollar deposit we’d lose.”
“Twenty thousand?” I will the folder to spontaneously combust. “I don’t care about the deposit,” I snap, even though I absolutely do. We can’t afford to lose any money right now, not with the SoundStream distribution deal hanging by a thread.
James opens the folder again and flips it to the artist lineup. All Stonewall artists. What the fuck?
“Why didn’t you bring this to me sooner?”
“Morgan, you’re the CEO. It’s not my job to keep you on track.”
I immediately deflate. I dropped the ball. “I didn’t know,” I try to explain. “Everything was left unfinished…”
But Dylan knew about this. He must have.
And he deliberately kept quiet, waiting until the last minute so I’d have no choice but to go along with his plans.
Classic power play—like a designer who withholds key fabric swatches until right before runway, forcing compromises to benefit them.
Dylan’s always three steps ahead, and I walked right into his trap.
James softens. “You wanted to bring in some cash flow,” he says carefully.
“This is exactly the opportunity we need. Think about it—all those potential investors in one room, watching us prove we can still deliver. Industry executives will be there specifically to see how we present our artists. This showcase could save the distribution deal your father was working on.” He pauses meaningfully.
“The deal that could give us the platform positioning we need across streaming services. You want to save Left Turn? This is how we do it.”
Shit. He’s right.
My phone buzzes. It’s a news alert, and the headline makes my teeth clench: “Rising Star Ivy Nova Spotted at Intimate Dinner with Stonewall Records CEO.”
There’s a photo of Dylan and Ivy leaving some fancy restaurant, her hand on his arm, both of them laughing. The sight causes my stomach to twist in a way that has nothing to do with business.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter, sitting up straight.
The satisfaction from earlier evaporates, replaced by a familiar surge of anger.
Of course he’s going after Ivy—she’s exactly what Left Turn needs right now.
Her sound perfectly complements our roster, and the buzz around her would bring attention to our other artists too.
Which means Dylan will try to poach her.
“Fine,” I bite out, shoving my phone away.
I check the time. Shit, it’s late. Too late to be working, but if I want to get ahead of this, I need to find Dylan.
A surge of frustration hits me, sharp and hot.
Dylan hasn’t signed Ivy yet—but the idea he might secure the artist Left Turn desperately needs sends panic racing through me.
Without new talent like Ivy, we can’t rebuild our roster.
And without a strong roster, the SoundStream deal becomes even less likely.
And beneath the anger simmers something else—something I refuse to acknowledge.
Frustrated, I grab my purse and coat, shoving my feet into my heels.
“Where are you going?” James asks, concern etched in his features.
“I’m not letting Dylan take control of this showcase. Left Turn’s reputation is riding on this—and I’ll be damned if I let him use it to prove he’s right about us,” I say, and head for the elevators.
I grab my phone and dial his number, which goes right to voicemail.
It’s too late for him to be at the office, but I remember what he mentioned at the industry mixer—he still plays drums at the studio some nights to let off steam.
It’s a long shot, but suddenly the studio feels like the best place to start.
The drive gives me time to work myself up. By the time I park, I’m rehearsing all the ways I’ll tell him to back off—from Ivy, from the showcase, from my company.
Inside, the corridors hum with late-night creativity; laughter and music spilling from open doors. Ignoring curious stares, I stride past until I hear the unmistakable rhythm of drums. Heart hammering, I push open the door of Studio C, ready for a fight.
But the sight before me steals every coherent thought.
Dylan sits behind the drums, shirtless, completely absorbed.
Sweat trails down his chest, muscles flexing powerfully beneath the ink decorating his skin.
The raw intensity on his face as he pounds the drums sends a flush of heat through my body, unsettling me deeply.
My breath hitches, awareness rushing through me—he’s beautiful in a way I never allowed myself to fully see before.
The door clicks shut, and Dylan’s eyes snap up to mine, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across his face.
“Enjoying the show, Clemson?” he drawls, wiping sweat off his face with a towel draped over the hi-hat.
I snap myself into focus. “You’re unbelievable.”
He reaches for his shirt, my eyes unwillingly tracking every inch of skin as it’s covered. “Care to elaborate?”
“The photo with Ivy,” I say sharply, forcing my gaze up to meet his eyes.
“Jealous?” he challenges softly, stepping closer.
“Don’t flatter yourself.” My voice shakes slightly. “You targeted her because you know she aligns perfectly with our artist-focused approach. You deliberately—”
“I’m just better at my job,” Dylan interrupts smoothly, his voice dangerously low. “Maybe that’s what bothers you.”
“You haven’t won yet,” I snap, moving defiantly closer. “Your charm might work on everyone else, but it doesn’t work on me.”
“Are you sure about that?” His lips curl into an arrogant half-smile, his eyes locked on mine with infuriating confidence.
“Positive.” But my breath is shallow, my resolve wavering as he moves even closer. The tension crackling between us is undeniable.
“Then why are you here, Morgan?” he says, a dangerous dare.
Shit, he’s right. I came storming all the way here for what? To confront him? To demand answers?
“The New Artist Showcase,” I say. “We’re co-sponsoring.”
“Ah yes,” Dylan murmurs, stepping into my space. “The showcase my company is carrying while yours is just along for the ride.”
The dig hits hard because it’s true. Left Turn is barely hanging on, and this showcase is one of our last chances to prove to everyone that we’re still viable.
“Was this your plan all along?” I challenge, refusing to back down even as he moves closer. “Keep the showcase from me until it was too late for Left Turn to back out? Force us into a partnership where you call all the shots?”
A hint of surprise flashes across his face, quickly replaced by an infuriating smirk. “Paranoid much, Clemson? Not everything is a conspiracy against you.”
“Just the things with your fingerprints on them,” I fire back. “You’ve been trying to get your hands on Left Turn since the day my father died.”
“I’ve been trying to save what your father built,” Dylan counters, his voice dropping. “There’s a difference.”
“By absorbing it into Stonewall until there’s nothing left of what made it special?”
Dylan steps even closer, close enough I can feel the heat radiating from his body. “You don’t know the first thing about my intentions.”
“I know enough,” I say, pulse quickening as I hold my ground. “You want control. You want to win. And you’ll use whatever strategy gets you there—even if it means manipulating this showcase to your advantage.”
His eyes darken. “If I wanted to manipulate you, Morgan, I wouldn’t be this obvious about it.”
“Oh, so you admit you’re trying to manipulate me?” I challenge, tilting my chin up defiantly.
Dylan’s laugh is low and humorless. “You came to my studio, after hours, spoiling for a fight. If anyone’s playing games here, it’s you.”
“You’re the one going after Ivy Nova, when you know she’s perfect for Left Turn’s roster!”
“Ivy’s a free agent. She can sign with whoever offers the best deal,” he says, eyes never leaving mine. “It’s business, not personal.”
“Everything with you is personal,” I retort, my voice dropping to match his intensity. “You couldn’t stand that I kept Jaxson, so now you’re going after Ivy. You couldn’t get me to sell Left Turn to you, so you’re using this showcase to corner me.”
“Nice panda, by the way,” Dylan says with a smirk. “Bit pitchy on those high notes, but maybe I’ll sign him next and actually make him a star.”
“You’re unbelievable.” I feel my temper flare. “Is there anything you don’t think you can do better?”
“Plenty,” he says, stepping closer. “But running a label isn’t one of them. Your father might have been content to let Left Turn coast on its legacy, but the industry doesn’t work that way anymore.”
“Don’t talk about my father,” I warn, voice tight. “You don’t know what he was planning.”
Dylan raises an eyebrow. “The SoundStream deal? The vinyl division? Acquiring Pinnacle Studios?” At my shocked expression, he shrugs. “Bret and my fathers were friends for thirty years, Morgan. We talked business.”
Dylan knows exactly how precarious Left Turn’s position is—how much is riding on this showcase.
“Is this what you think it’s about?” Dylan asks, leaning in until there’s barely space between us. “You think I’m still hung up on your rejection?”
“I think you can’t stand not getting what you want,” I counter, painfully aware of how close we’re standing. “And right now, you want Left Turn.”
His eyes flicker briefly to my lips. “It’s not all I want.”
I roll my eyes, trying to ignore the heat crawling up my neck. “God, you’re so arrogant. Do you think every woman you meet wants you?”
“No,” he says, his voice dropping lower as he takes a deliberate step closer. “Just you.”
“You wish,” I scoff, but I don’t back away.
“Please,” Dylan smirks. “You’ve been eye-fucking me since you walked in here.”
“I was just surprised,” I counter, finding it harder to maintain my composure with each inch he closes between us. “Didn’t expect to find you half-naked, pounding on the drums.”
His eyes darken at my words. “Careful, Clemson. The way you say ‘pounding’ makes me think you definitely want it.”
My breath catches. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet you’re still here,” he murmurs, close enough now I can feel his breath on my lips. “Moving closer, not away.”
He’s right.
His gaze dips slowly to my mouth, sending a rush of heat beneath my skin. My heart races painfully, torn between caution and a fierce, undeniable pull. Dylan is everything I should avoid—a business rival, a threat to Left Turn. Yet here I stand, unable to resist.
His eyes darken with challenge, and before I can second-guess myself, I fist his shirt, pressing my lips firmly against his.
The coolness of his lip ring against my mouth is a jolt—wicked and electric.
Dylan stills for only a beat, then his hands are on my hips, anchoring me to him.
The kiss unfurls, hot and consuming, weeks of tension igniting all at once.
His mouth is confident and coaxing, a slow burn of seduction stealing the breath from my lungs.
I gasp as he deepens the kiss, his lip ring grazing my lip again, sharper this time—deliberate.
My fingers knot into his shirt, drawn to the pull of him, helpless to stop.
His hands slide under my blazer, fingertips trailing fire along my waist—and he starts to lift my blouse. The shift is subtle but sudden, and it jolts me back to reality. Panic floods my chest, cutting through the heat like ice, and I wrench myself away, breath catching hard in my throat.
“We are not doing this,” I whisper shakily.
I’ve spent my entire life designing my future—first in fashion, now at Left Turn—careful stitches and precise patterns, all under my control.
But one kiss from Dylan threatens to unravel everything like a loose thread in a couture gown.
The worst part? Some reckless piece of me wants to keep pulling until it all comes apart.