Chapter 4 Special Delivery
SPECIAL DELIVERY
DYLAN
I Write Sins Not Tragedies By Panic! At The DIsco
The conference room feels like a pressure cooker. I gather my papers, trying not to show how much the meeting rattled me. Charts and projections still glow on the screens behind me, mocking our less-than-stellar quarterly numbers and the ambitious acquisition strategy I’m about to present.
I flip to the Left Turn financials slide, conscious of seven board members studying the red with skepticism.
“So Morgan Clemson’s staying.” Garrett’s voice cuts through the room. “Changes your timeline, doesn’t it?”
“The approach. Not the goal.” I keep my tone professional. “In fact, it gives us leverage.”
The CFO leans forward. “Tell us more about the catalog value. Those numbers appear promising.”
“Three platinum albums. Publishing rights worth twice their current valuation.” I tap the screen. “And an artist roster that could significantly expand our market share.”
Around the table, expressions shift from skepticism to calculation.
“The indie credibility angle makes sense,” Simmons nods. “Ours skews too commercial.”
“Exactly.” I flip to the streaming analytics. “Younger listeners want perceived authenticity. Our data shows they’re 38% more likely to share music from indie labels across social platforms. That’s organic marketing we can’t replicate at any price.”
Martinez clears her throat. “The financials are concerning though. Revenue’s dropped forty percent since Bret Clemson passed.”
“Which is precisely why this is the perfect time to move.” I seize the opening. “Their valuation has never been lower. We acquire now at minimal cost, restructure operations, and leverage their catalog while expanding with our resources.”
I lay out the numbers with methodical precision, watching the board’s interest grow with each projected figure.
“Morgan Clemson staying doesn’t derail our plans. She has no industry experience, no established connections.” I click to the next slide.
“The concept works,” Garrett concedes. “But acquisition costs versus the revenue recovery timeline… the math is tight. And if she refuses outright?”
“Everyone has a price.” The words come easily, decisively. “We just need to find hers.”
The board nods, convinced. I’ve given them exactly what they want: a strategy with clear ROI. What I don’t mention is how taking over Left Turn will finally prove I deserve this position—to the industry, and to myself.
“That went well,” Rachel mutters as we exit, her heels clicking against the polished floor in perfect sync with my frustrated stride.
“If by ‘well’ you mean they basically called me an inexperienced kid playing dress-up in my father’s office, then yeah, fantastic.” I shuffle the acquisition proposal into my folder.
“Not true. The pitch really knocked their socks off even if it was a tyrant move,” she says disapprovingly.
“It makes sense on paper,” I grumble.
“Look Morgan in the eye and say that.”
We pass through the open workspace, where developers and marketing teams cluster around standing desks.
A ping pong match is in full swing in the game area, the sound of laughter and plastic balls hitting the table floating through the otherwise tense atmosphere.
Music videos play silently on wall-mounted screens—a constant reminder of why we’re here.
“Anyway, they’re scared,” Rachel says, juggling her tablet and a stack of folders. “Change is hard, especially when it comes from someone they still remember spilling juice boxes in the break room.”
“It was one time,” I protest. “And I was ten.”
“The carpet still has a stain. Legend has it, it glows under a black light.”
I stop at the water cooler, filling a paper cup to have something to do with my hands. “Maybe I’m not ready for this.”
Rachel snorts. “Wow. Bold strategy. Going full pity party before lunch. Should I order tiny violins with the sushi or just let the interns hum something sad?”
“Thanks for the pep talk,” I mutter.
“Anytime, sunshine.” She flashes a smirk. “Seriously, you can’t expect them to fall in line just because you have better hair than your father. Respect is earned. Or bought. But definitely not whined into.”
“Which father?” I ask.
“Wade, of course.” She shakes her head like I’m an idiot.
We reach my office, and I drop into my chair, running a hand through my already messy hair.
Post-it notes line my monitor, reminders about calls to make, meetings to prepare for, and milestones to hit.
I’ve spent the last year working eighteen-hour days to prove I’m more than just the founders’ kid who got handed the keys to the kingdom.
“She looked at me like I’d betrayed her. Like I became everything she hates.”
Rachel clicks her tongue. “Well, you did try to buy her father’s company out from under her while she was still grieving. Very romantic.”
“It wasn’t personal,” I say, though the excuse sounds hollow even to me.
“Said every man five minutes before getting destroyed by a woman in stilettos.” She perches on the edge of my desk.
I groan and spin my chair toward the window. “It’s more complicated than that.”
“Is it? Because from where I’m standing, it seems like you’re using a merger to avoid asking her to dinner like a normal person.”
I keep thinking about the way she looked in that blue dress, how close she was before Jaxson ruined everything with his big mouth.
He hasn’t returned my calls since our meeting the other morning, and the board is breathing down my neck to bring in new talent.
The quarterly forecast isn’t looking good, and I need a win.
Rachel hops off my desk and stretches. “Alright, lover boy. I’m off to salvage what’s left of our streaming projections while you sit here and pine. Maybe write her a sad song, toss a rose out the window—really lean into it.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“And yet, tragically necessary.” She tosses a mock salute as she moves toward the door—just as it opens.
A person in a full-body panda costume bounces into my office, carrying a ukulele.
Before I can process what’s happening, they strum a chord and launch into a wildly enthusiastic, off-key rendition of “Midnight Drive—Paper Skies’ latest hit.
There’s twirling. There’s dramatic gesturing.
It’s a train wreck I can’t look away from.
“Janice!” I call out, standing.
From the hallway, our ancient receptionist who’s been with the company since before I was born, ambles toward the door, completely unfazed by the singing panda. I wave a hand in their direction.
“I thought it was an audition. Pretty good one, if you ask me.” Her eyes widen as they reach a particularly high note.
“Since when do we have open auditions in my office?!”
Janice shrugs and tucks her crossword puzzle under her arm as she wanders to her desk like this is just another Tuesday.
The panda finishes with a dramatic bow and pulls out an envelope from somewhere inside its fluffy depths. I’m almost afraid to take it.
“Special delivery for Dylan Kernish-Grant!”
I reluctantly take it. Inside is a note.
Better luck next time. I booked Paper Skies as top billing for Summer Fest.
XOXO, Morgan Clemson.
The panda bows again—nearly knocks over a lamp—and bounces out the door.
Rachel is laughing so hard she’s wheezing, and there are actual tears streaming down her face. “Oh my God. You just got roasted by a Broadway reject in fur.”
My gaze rests on the note, my thumb brushing slowly over the XOXO. I smile. Morgan turned my play into her win—and sent a singing panda to gloat. She didn’t just keep her artist. She made sure I’d never forget it. It’s a declaration of war.
“Guess I deserved that.”
“You did. And it was fabulous.”
She wipes at the corner of her eye and grins, but then her expression shifts more businesslike as something catches her attention on the tablet she’s holding. “Kane had lunch with Ivy Nova’s manager yesterday at Spago.”
I straighten in my chair. “How do you know that?”
“I used to hostess there before I had kids to put through college.” She shrugs with a hint of a smile. “Still have my spies. About that raise you promised me? Tuition isn’t getting any cheaper.”
My jaw clenches. Kane moving in on Ivy complicates things. “Details?”
“My source wasn’t close enough to hear specifics.” Rachel’s voice drops, her amusement from moments ago completely gone. “But she did overhear him on the phone waiting for valet—Kane’s also going after Left Turn staff. Offering twice the market rate to jump ship.”
“Of course he is.” Kane is the worst kind of industry shark—he doesn’t build anything, just guts companies for parts. “If he strips away Morgan’s team before she can stabilize the label…”
“Your acquisition target becomes a little less shiny,” Rachel finishes.
“And Morgan loses everything her father built.” The words come out more protective than I intended. She raises an eyebrow but mercifully doesn’t comment on my tone.
“So, what now?”
I pull out my phone and tap on a video. Rachel grabs it from my hand.
“What am I watching?”
“Ivy Nova. I’ve got an in at an event she’s attending tonight.”
“This ‘in’ doesn’t involve me having to bail you out of trouble, does it?” She arches a skeptical brow. “Because the last time you said you had an ‘in,’ I ended up sweet-talking a bouncer while you climbed out a bathroom window.”
“Since when have you ever had to…” The look on her face stops me from finishing that sentence. “Never mind. It was one time. And technically, I was retrieving your purse.”
“From behind the DJ booth. Where you weren’t supposed to be.”
I grab my phone back. “She’s about to be the biggest name on our roster. Her sound perfectly bridges the gap between our pop acts and the indie vibe we’re aiming for with the Left Turn acquisition.”
“Okay but the real question is, are you going to send Morgan a singing llama or just cry into your matcha?”
“Out.”
“Gladly.” She smirks and heads for the door. “Try not to spiral into a dramatic monologue while I’m gone.”
The door clicks, and the room goes still. I lean back, letting the silence settle, eyes drifting to the envelope left behind from Morgan’s little stunt. The edges are crisp. Her handwriting confident. Even her sabotage has style.
I tip my head back and laugh, and grab my phone, thumbing through emails I ignored during the chaos.
I scan through marketing plans awaiting approval, streaming projections, and charts—until I land on a cold submission.
Subject: Inquiry—Liam Rhodes
Probably another unsigned artist looking for a meeting.
But then I read on, and my heart stutters.
My name is Liam Rhodes. I recently found out we’re half-brothers through a genetic testing service, and I wanted to reach out. I just moved to L.A. with my band, and I’d really like to meet you in person if you’re open to it.
The phone slips from my fingers, clattering to the desk in the sudden silence. The room seems to tilt slightly as I stare at the email.
I need to be completely focused on saving this quarter’s numbers and securing Left Turn before someone else does. I don’t have time for drama. I don’t have time for distractions.
What in the actual fuck?