Chapter 25 Chemistry
CHEMISTRY
MORGAN
Manchild By Sabrina Carpenter
The hum of sewing machines blends with the quiet chatter of assistants, who are darting between racks of half-finished designs and rows of fabric samples.
I breathe it in, letting it ground me. For a second, I’m not Morgan Clemson, the CEO scrambling to hold Left Turn together while Hollow Reign auditions replacement drummers and our biggest showcase looms—I’m just Morgan, the girl who used to live and breathe this world.
The feel of fabric between my fingers, the rush of last-minute fittings, the nervous excitement in the air before a show—I forgot how much I missed this.
Working with Cirque Noire on the showcase designs has been a lifeline these past weeks, a chance to tap back into the creative side that’s been dormant since I took over Left Turn.
But even as I collaborate with étienne’s team, part of me aches watching them execute someone else’s vision, wishing it was my concepts being brought to life on stage.
“Morgan, we’re ready for the next fitting,” one of the designers calls, snapping me out of my daze. I nod, stepping deeper into the controlled chaos.
Phoenix pushes past me but the rest of the guys hang back. I give them a look and wave them through the door. They file past, ornery looks on their faces. “I thought you were excited about your retro military vibe?” I ask Casey.
“I feel objectified.”
Theo pushes him through the door. “Take it like a man who wants to win New Artist of the Year.”
I giggle but it’s short-lived. The reminder of what we’re all working toward—and what we’re missing.
Even with a replacement drummer lined up for rehearsals this week, Hollow Reign isn’t the same without Liam.
Their chemistry is fractured, and I can see the doubt creeping into the remaining members’ performances.
Everything hinges on them pulling it together for the showcase.
Where the VIPs are, I catch a flash of purple mesh as someone slips into a room.
The familiar sound of Ivy Nova’s voice carries through the corridor.
I haven’t seen her dress. Dylan hasn’t mentioned it this whole time, which is unusual for him.
Curiosity gets the better of me and I start to head that way, but Christian steps out of an office, laughing and gripping étienne’s shoulders.
A disbelieving smile tugs at my mouth, not expecting him to be here—and especially not laughing it up like this is his place, like this is New York all over again.
“Christian, what are you doing here?”
He turns to face me, a wide smile on his face. “I figured, since I was in town, I’d come by and visit étienne.”
“Your husband’s a funny man,” étienne says with his thick accent.
Yeah, real funny. “Ex-husband,” I correct, and Christian’s smile falls.
“I didn’t have a chance to mention,” he says to étienne.
“Things change. C’est la vie.” He smacks Christian on the back. “Good to see you, and you as well, Morgan. We miss you on this side of the house,” he says with a smile.
I wave as he stops in front of one of the rooms. “Belle, belle.” He clasps his hands together and I see the sliver of purple material again. But Christian steps into my view before I can get a better look.
“How was Hazel when you dropped her off at the new preschool?”
“Broke my heart when she ran in there and didn’t look back,” he chuckles as he walks me down the hall, and I stop at the room where the guys from Hollow Reign are doing their fittings. Their voices carry into the hall. “I’m getting a pirate meets biker vibe.”
I try to focus on Christian, but part of my attention drifts to the creative energy around us.
This is what I gave up when I took over Left Turn—not just the designing, but being surrounded by this kind of collaborative artistry.
The Cirque Noire partnership has given me glimpses of it again, but I’m still on the periphery, consulting rather than creating.
“Well, welcome to the club. She’s a heartbreaker,” I tease.
“I don’t think she’s gonna be biting her friends anymore,” he says confidently.
I place a hand on my hip. “Oh?”
“We had a talk,” he says, and I try my best to hide a smirk. “What?”
“We’ll see how well that works out,” I tell him with a laugh.
He looks around as the seamstresses move from one room to the other and his gaze softens, like he’s seeing me for the first time in years.
“You know,” he says, his smile touched with nostalgia, “this reminds me of when I first met you. You were working with that designer—what was her name?”
“Marcelline,” I supply, lips quirking despite myself.
“Right.” He glances down, like he’s pulling the memory into focus.
“You were across the room, sketching like your life depended on it. I was talking to a client, but I couldn’t stop watching you.
I made up some excuse to come over—asked about a fabric sample I didn’t even care about—just so I could hear your voice. ”
I smile. “I remember. Feels like forever ago.”
“God, you were so full of fire. So damn beautiful. You still are.”
I roll my eyes, but there’s warmth beneath it. “And you were the cocky finance guy who didn’t know chiffon from organza.”
He chuckles. “Guilty, but I did know how to structure a deal that kept a heritage brand alive without selling its soul.”
For a second, it’s easy. Too easy to remember when things were good. The hard edges start to fall away.
I clear my throat. “Christian,” I pull us over to the side, into a small alcove away from the noise. “Whatever this is, whatever you think this might be—I’m not interested in going backward.”
“I’m getting married.”
For a beat, I can only look at him stunned.
“I didn’t want to tell you here, like this,” he says. “But I have to get back to New York.” To her. “I have a flight out this afternoon.”
“What about Hazel?”
“I explained everything to her this morning.”
I look at him, horrified.
“Not about getting married, just that I had to go back to New York. I figured you might be able to explain things better than I could,” he says. “When there’s more time.”
“What about the recital?” I ask.
Christian has the decency to look ashamed. “I don’t know if I can get back in time. If I had known about it sooner…”
Which means he didn’t tell her that, either.
“It’s fine.” It’s not, but who am I to talk?
I let out a shaky breath. “So all this? The surprise visit, the park, the lunch—what, a farewell tour before you trade us in for something new?”
He flinches. “No. I came because I wanted to tell you in person, and I missed Hazel.”
“I never wanted things to be like this.” There’s genuine regret in his eyes, and I feel it too. It’s not all on Christian.
“I want to set up regular time with Hazel. Summer breaks in New York. Split holidays. I want to do this the right way.”
It feels like the ground shifts under me. Like he’s taking her from me. I breathe through it, because this is what divorce is. Shared time. He’s her dad, and she loves him. “We can talk and figure it out.”
“I thought you’d be…”
“A bitch?”
“No,” he laughs nervously. “Difficult.”
I lay a hand on his arm. “Parenting is about sacrifice. You’re a good dad and I can’t deny Hazel that just because you and I couldn’t make it work.”
He nods, his eyes softening. “Of course. Thank you.”
“So what’s she like?” I dare to ask.
Christian lights up. “She’s a partner at one of our sister firms in London. Whip-smart, beautiful—challenging.” He smiles. “I’d like you to meet her. Hazel too.”
This is new territory for both of us.
I shrug. “If she’s going to be in Hazel’s life, we should be friends.”
“Yeah?”
“Not best friends,” I tease. I study his face. “You’re happy?”
He lets out a breath. “Yeah.”
“Are you happy?”
That’s a loaded question. One I can’t answer. Because the truth is, I’m starting to realize what happiness might look like for me, and it’s nothing like what Christian and I had. It’s messier, more complicated.
“I’m getting there.” I shrug.
He leans in, hesitant at first, but pulls me into a heartfelt hug, one that feels different, feels right. Like closure. I hug him back.
Christian’s remarriage doesn’t hurt the way I thought it would. Instead, it feels like permission—to stop looking backward, to stop measuring every potential relationship against what we used to have.
For the first time since the divorce, I can admit what I’ve been avoiding: what I feel for Dylan isn’t just chemistry.