Chapter 32 I Tried to Forget
I TRIED TO FORGET
MORGAN
Love Me Harder By Steven Rodriguez
Hazel’s crashed on the couch, her tiny body wrapped around the throw pillow she insists is “the comfiest one.” The abandoned ice pack on the coffee table has left a wet ring, right next to the tooth fairy pillow cradling her newly liberated baby tooth.
“Tough as nails, this one,” my mom whispers, gathering her purse. “Only my granddaughter would attempt a cartwheel during her ballet solo and end up with four stitches and a missing tooth.”
I smile despite the guilt still gnawing at my insides. “The tooth was already loose. At least that’s what she keeps telling everyone.”
“Silver linings.” Mom squeezes my shoulder. “She’ll be fine, Morgan. Kids are resilient.”
“I should have been there,” I say softly, careful not to wake Hazel. The image of her falling, crying for me when I wasn’t there, twists like a knife in my chest.
“You can’t be everywhere at once.” Mom’s voice is gentle but firm.
“The showcase and the recital being on the same night wasn’t your fault.
And you didn’t know she was going to attempt Olympic-level gymnastics during her ballet solo.
” Mom kisses my cheek. “Stop beating yourself up. She knew you couldn’t be there.
She understood.” Mom zips up her jacket and grabs her keys.
“Try to get some sleep. I’ll call you tomorrow to check on my little daredevil. ”
I walk her to the door, giving her a quick hug. “Thanks for everything.”
“That’s what grandmas are for.” She squeezes me tight before stepping into the hallway. “You’re doing the best you can, Morgan. That’s all anyone can ask.”
I lock the door behind her and lean against it for a moment, exhaustion settling into my bones. I should sleep, but my mind won’t stop spinning.
After a few minutes, I return to the armchair across from the couch, watching Hazel’s chest rise and fall with each steady breath.
Her bottom lip is puffy where she split it, the small row of stitches stark against her pale skin.
The doctor was kind but firm—four stitches, and she’d been so brave, squeezing my hand and trying not to cry.
The tooth fairy pillow clutched in her hand was a Christmas gift from my father—one of the last presents he gave her.
My phone sits silenced on the side table, notifications from the showcase still flooding in. I haven’t looked at it since leaving the Avalon, unable to face whatever awaited me there. The label, the press.
Dylan.
The image of his face when our eyes met across the room, his glass raised in a toast as Ivy twirled on stage in my design—my stolen design—sends a fresh wave of anger through me. The audacity. The betrayal.
My heart aches with a familiar hollowness. I thought Dylan was different. I thought he saw me—really saw me. The fact that he didn’t hurts more than I want to admit.
I look down at my sleeping daughter, so small and vulnerable on the couch.
What kind of mother am I, missing her big moment because I was too busy trying to save a company that might not be worth saving?
I’ve been pouring everything into Left Turn—time, money, energy—with nothing to show for it but dwindling resources and growing debt.
It’s time to admit that honoring my father means evolving his vision, not clinging to it as it drags us both under.
A soft knock at the door pulls me from my thoughts. I freeze, heart suddenly racing. It’s almost midnight. No one should be knocking at this hour.
The knock comes again, gentle but insistent.
I pad to the door, checking the peephole, and my breath catches.
Dylan.
He stands in the hallway, hair disheveled, still wearing the clothes from the showcase. He looks exhausted, worried, and absolutely determined.
I hesitate, hand on the deadbolt. I should tell him to go away. To call in the morning. To leave me alone. My mind says protect yourself, but my traitorous heart pounds with something else entirely.
Instead, I open the door.
“You win, Dylan.” The words feel like glass in my throat. “You can have Left Turn. I’m done.”
His expression shifts from concern to confusion. “What?”
“Isn’t that what you wanted?” My voice cracks with emotion I can’t contain. “Well congratulations. The company’s yours. I quit.”
“Morgan, what the hell happened?” He steps closer, eyes searching mine.
“I don’t have the energy to fight you or Anthem or anyone else. I’m done.”
“Where did you go tonight? Why did you leave the showcase?”
I step into the hallway, pulling the door nearly closed behind me to keep from waking Hazel. “Hazel was hurt during her dance recital. Split her lip and knocked out a tooth. She needed stitches.”
His face falls. “Oh my God. Is she okay?”
“She will be.” I wrap my arms around myself. “She was on stage, in her butterfly costume, having her big solo moment, and I wasn’t there, Dylan. I was at the showcase instead, watching our distribution deal go up in flames when I walked out.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I don’t even care.” The admission burns. “Do you understand? I chose Left Turn over my daughter tonight. I was at the showcase, watching Ivy parade around in my design—my stolen design—while my four-year-old was in the emergency room scared and asking for me.”
His expression shifts. “Morgan, about the dress—”
“I left New York because I was tired of watching other people take credit for my work.” I cut him off, the anger rising fresh.
“Tired of seeing my designs walk runways with someone else’s name on them.
And you—you of all people—did the exact same thing.
You took my private sketches, and you gave them to Cirque Noire without my permission. ”
“Wait, wait.” He holds up his hands. “Morgan, you don’t understand. Yes, I took the design without telling you. I betrayed your trust. I know and I’m sorry. But it’s not what you think.”
“Then what is it?”
“You weren’t going to choose yourself. You’re so locked into saving Left Turn, it’s like you’ve forgotten there’s more to you than the job.” His voice is urgent, pleading. “I fucked up by not asking you first. I was wrong. But look—”
He pulls out his phone, tapping the screen before holding it out to me. “Look.”
Reluctantly, I take it. On the screen is a fashion blog featuring Ivy in my dress. The headline reads: “Morgan Clemson’s Surprise Return to Fashion Stuns Industry Insiders.”
I scroll down, reading snippets: “…unexpected collaboration between Left Turn Records CEO Morgan Clemson and Cirque Noire…” “…Clemson’s first design since leaving the fashion world…” “…industry already buzzing about what’s next for the talented designer…”
“I don’t understand,” I say, looking up at him. “How did they know it was mine?”
“Because I made sure of it.” His eyes are intense, sincere.
“I told étienne from the beginning it was your design. Made it a condition of the collaboration. They were thrilled, by the way. Said your aesthetic was exactly what they’ve been looking for.
Ivy loved the dress. She was singing your praises to the press all night. ”
I hand the phone back, trying to process this. “You gave me credit.”
“Of course I did.” He looks hurt that I’d think otherwise. “I would never take that from you.”
He runs a hand through his hair. “Look, I know what you think of me. That I’ve been trying to devour Left Turn.
It would be the most economical thing to do—the smartest business move—but it wouldn’t be the right thing to do.
Not for the legacy your father built. Not for the artists who trust in that legacy. ”
I pin him with a look. “Since when do you care about what’s right over what’s profitable?”
His expression softens. “Since I watched you fight for Left Turn with everything you have. I told you I would help you any way I could, Morgan, and that’s exactly what I’ve been trying to do.”
“Why?” I ask again, my voice barely above a whisper. “Why would you do all this for me?”
His eyes don’t leave mine, even as something inside him cracks wide open. He drags in a breath, voice breaking with it.
“Because I’m in love with you.”
The words hit me like a bass drum, resonating through my body with a deep, primal thud that steals my breath.
Every cell vibrates with the aftershock.
His confession hangs between us, pulsing with the steady rhythm of a heartbeat that won’t be silenced.
My own pulse thunders in my ears, drowning out everything but his face—those eyes burning into mine, unwavering.
“I’ve been in love with you for years,” he continues, his voice dropping to a rasp that scrapes across my skin. “Since we were kids. Since those summers at Jesse’s beach house. Since you taught me how to surf and laughed when I wiped out.” His throat works as he swallows. “I never stopped.”
“Dylan—” My voice breaks on his name, fragile as a cracked cymbal.
“When you left for New York, I tried to forget.” His fingers curl into fists at his sides, knuckles white with restraint.
“When you got married, I tried to move on. But then you came back, and at your father’s funeral—Christ, the way you stood there, hollowed out like someone had carved everything important from you—it all came rushing back.
” He steps closer, close enough that his scent wraps around me—familiar and intoxicating.
“Even when we were fighting over Left Turn, even when we were trying to sabotage each other—” His voice drops to a whisper that brushes against my lips.
“I couldn’t stop loving you if I tried.”
I let out a breath, overwhelmed. “You never said anything.”
“How could I? You were dealing with so much—your father’s death, taking over the company, being a single mom to that cute fucking kid in there.
” He points to the door. “The last thing you needed was me complicating things more.” He runs a hand through his hair.
“And there was the elevator, and at the club, and I thought maybe… you felt something too.”