Epilogue
COMING HOME
Dylan
Silver Lining By Mt. Joy
The smell of fresh paint and industrial glue hits me as I step into the lobby. Workers are carefully positioning a new sign: LEFT TURN RECORDS in gleaming, oversized letters with STONEWALL in a more modest font beneath it.
I freeze mid-stride, coffee cup suspended halfway to my lips. “What the hell is this?”
Rachel materializes beside me, tablet in hand, looking far too pleased with herself. “Rebranding initiative. Like it?”
“The LEFT TURN letters are twice the size of STONEWALL,” I point out, gesturing with my free hand. “That wasn’t in the agreement.”
“Must have been a manufacturing error,” Rachel says innocently, though her smirk suggests otherwise. “I’ll look into it right away.”
I’m beginning to regret promoting her as Left Turn’s CEO. It’s like giving an evil overlord the keys to the nuclear codes.
I glance at Janice, who doesn’t even bother looking up from her crossword puzzle.
“I don’t have time to deal with whatever this is,” I sigh, waving toward the sign. “Just fix it.”
The front doors burst open, and Maggie strides in with Felix, her arm linked through his. Her gaze immediately lands on the sign, and her face splits into a grin.
“Compensating for something?” she asks.
I roll my eyes. “Don’t you two have some backstage drama to create? Or did you run out of ways to make me lose sleep during the European tour?”
Felix laughs, running a hand through his dark hair. “We’re reformed now. Model artists.”
“Speaking of gold,” I say, my tone softening, “Velvet Drift got nominated for Best New Artist.”
Felix stares at me, momentarily speechless, before his face lights up. “Are you serious?”
“Official announcement comes out tomorrow. Thought you should hear it from me first.”
Felix lets out a whoop, lifting Maggie off her feet in a spinning hug, making her squeal with laughter.
“Don’t get too excited,” I warn, though I’m smiling. “You’ve still got the marketing meeting in ten minutes.”
As Felix heads toward the elevators, still beaming, Rachel turns to me with a raised eyebrow. “You’re leaving already? It’s barely noon.”
“Morgan’s opening her design studio today,” I say, checking my watch. “I need to pick up Hazel from kindergarten.”
Rachel’s expression softens almost imperceptibly. “You know, as much as it physically pains me to admit this… you’ve done good here, DKG.”
I blink, surprised by the sincerity in her voice. “Are you dying? Should I call someone?”
“I’m serious,” she continues, tapping importantly on her tablet.
“Since the merger, our quarterly numbers are up twenty-two percent. The hybrid release model you and Morgan developed has every indie label scrambling to catch up. Three of our artists hit the Billboard Top 40 last month—including Ivy Nova, who sold out Madison Square Garden.”
I hadn’t thought much about the metrics lately. For the first time in my career, the numbers hadn’t been my primary focus. But hearing Rachel confirm what I already felt—that we were building something special—brings a deeper satisfaction than any quarterly report ever could.
“Well,” I say, clearing my throat against the unexpected emotion, “I had a pretty decent assistant keeping me in line.”
“Decent?” Rachel scoffs, immediately back to her usual self. “I’m irreplaceable, and you know it. That’s why you gave me the promotion.”
“And there she is,” I laugh, heading toward the door. “Try not to rename the company while I’m gone!”
“No promises!” Rachel calls after me. “And tell Morgan I expect VIP treatment at her Paris runway show. Front row, or I release those elevator security tapes!”
I roll my eyes. There were no tapes.
As I walk through the parking lot, my phone buzzes.
Liam: Three encores in Berlin last night. It was wicked. Still on for Paris?
I type back quickly.
Dylan: Wouldn’t miss it.
* * *
Morgan
I stand in the middle of what was once my father’s office, now transformed into my design studio. Bright, natural light streams through the newly enlarged windows, illuminating drafting tables, fabric samples, and mood boards. It feels right—honoring the past while creating something new.
“If you stare any harder at the wallpaper, it might catch fire,” Ava remarks, arranging a collection of design books on the built-in shelves.
“Sorry,” I say, shaking myself from my reverie. “It’s… surreal. Being here but doing something completely different.”
“Different but right,” Ava corrects me, stepping back to admire her handiwork. “This is who you’ve always been, Morgan. The fashion world better brace itself.”
I run my fingers along the drafting table, thinking about how far I’ve come in the past year. From the night of the showcase—a pivotal moment when I was ready to give up everything—to now, standing in a space that represents the best of both worlds.
The Ivy Nova collection was only the beginning. What started as one dress had evolved into a line blending stage-worthy statement pieces with wearable luxury. When Vogue featured our collaboration in their “Designers to Watch” issue, orders started pouring in from boutiques across three continents.
“I can’t believe you quit your job to come work for me,” I say, watching her adjust a mannequin draped in our newest prototype.
Ava scoffs. “Please. You think I’d miss the chance to help build this from the ground up?
That fashion house was suffocating both of us.
Besides,” she adds with a grin, “being creative director for Morgan Clemson Designs has a much better ring to it than ‘senior assistant who does all the work while some man takes the credit.’”
I laugh, grateful for her presence. Having Ava here, running the business side while I focus on design, has made all the difference. It’s given me the freedom to create my own schedule, to be there for Hazel in ways I couldn’t before.
“The best part,” I say, moving to the wall where I’ve pinned the early sketches for the Paris collection, the crooked hanger logo on the corner of each sketch, “is finally having enough confidence to sign my own name to these designs. To see something I’ve created out in the world, instead of hidden behind someone else’s brand. ”
Ava smiles. “From what I’ve seen, the world is paying attention. W Magazine called you ‘the industry’s most exciting crossover success story.’ And when that R&B singer wore your jumpsuit to the awards show last month? My phone didn’t stop ringing for two days.”
The studio door swings open, and Hazel races in, her backpack bouncing as she runs. “Mommy! Your office is so pretty!”
I catch my daughter in a hug. “What do you think? Should I hang your artwork on this wall?”
Hazel nods enthusiastically, already examining the space with the critical eye of a budding designer. “Dylan said I can have my own desk for when I visit after school,” she announces proudly. “For my very important designs.”
I smile.
Dylan follows at a more measured pace, carrying a wrapped package under his arm. His eyes meet mine over Hazel’s head, filled with quiet pride.
“Elevator Boy,” Ava greets him with a smirk. “Right on time.”
“I aim to please,” Dylan responds with an easy grin, clearly unfazed by the nickname.
I stand, brushing invisible lint from my skirt. “What’s that?” I ask, nodding toward the package.
Dylan extends it toward me. “Just a little studio-warming gift.”
I take it carefully, peeling away the paper to reveal a leather-bound sketchbook. When I open it, there are my original sketches, preserved perfectly.
“How did you…?” I begin, my voice thick with emotion.
“You left it behind when you went to New York,” Dylan explains softly. “Thought it deserved to come home with you.”
Tears well in my eyes as I trace a finger over a design from a lifetime ago. “Dylan…”
“Why are you crying, Mommy?” Hazel asks, tugging at my skirt.
I pull my daughter close. “Because I’m happy, baby. These are happy tears.”
“I always knew you’d come back to designing someday,” Dylan says, his voice low and certain. “And to me. Even when you didn’t believe it yourself.”
“Well, this is all very touching,” Ava interjects, wiping at her own suspiciously bright eyes, “but if we don’t stop now, I’ll ruin my mascara, and I have a date tonight.”
We all laugh, the emotional moment giving way to lightness.
Dylan slips an arm around my waist. “I have a surprise for you,” he says, his voice just for me.
“Another one?” I raise an eyebrow.
“This one’s bigger. I’ve been planning it for months.”
“Paris!” Hazel says excitedly, having clearly been sworn to secrecy and failing spectacularly at keeping it.
Dylan’s eyes widen comically. “Hazel! We talked about this!”
“Sorry,” she says, not looking sorry at all. “But Mommy loves surprises.”
“Paris?” I ask, looking between them.
Dylan sighs, defeated by a kindergartener. “I thought we could make Paris Fashion Week a family trip. Hazel’s never seen the Eiffel Tower, and I’ve never seen you in your element.”
“Sounds amazing,” I say, then hesitate. “But what about the Stonewall Foundation benefit? It’s the same week.”
“Rachel’s handling it. The promotional campaign’s already locked in, and the artists are confirmed,” he explains. “The merger we worked so hard for means I can actually take a week off without everything falling apart.”
“You’d do that for me?” I ask softly. “Sit through runway shows and designer parties?”
“I’d do anything for you,” he says simply. “Besides, Hazel’s already planning her outfits. Aren’t you, squirt?”
Hazel nods excitedly. “I need fancy dresses. The fanciest.”
“Liam will be in Paris too. Hollow Reign’s European tour ends next week in London.” The twinkle in his eye makes me suspicious. “I thought it would be nice for everyone to be together.”
This is where I belong. Not only in this space, but in this life I’ve created, one that honors my father’s legacy while building my own, one surrounded by people who love me exactly as I am.
“We should celebrate tonight,” Dylan says, pulling me closer. “Invite everyone over? Jack mentioned he wanted to see the place, and Jesse’s back from tour.”
I nod, leaning into him. Our house, the one we’d bought together a few months ago, with the big yard for Hazel and the studio space in the back where I could work from home when I needed to, had become the gathering place for our extended family.
Noisy dinners, impromptu jam sessions, late nights talking on the deck while the stars wheeled overhead.
Dylan’s hand finds mine, his thumb brushing over the simple engagement ring he’d given me last month, not with a grand gesture, but in our kitchen on a random Tuesday morning, Hazel sitting on the counter “helping” make pancakes, syrup sticky on her fingers as she clapped with delight.
Life wasn’t perfect. There were still challenging days, deadlines that kept me up too late, moments when balancing it all seemed impossible. But underneath it all was a foundation stronger than anything I could have built alone.
Dylan steps closer, slipping an arm around my waist. “Welcome home, Clemson,” he murmurs against my hair.
And for the first time in years, I believe it. I am home.