Chapter 5 Putting Down Roots
PUTTING DOWN ROOTS
MORGAN
Shake It Off By Taylor Swift
“Our cash reserves are critically low,” James, our CFO, says gravely. His weathered face is even more lined than usual as he slides the quarterly report across the table. “We need to cut at least one position immediately, and I recommend Ryan in marketing. He’s been here less than a year.”
My stomach knots as I scan the numbers. Payroll projections, dwindling revenue streams, mounting publishing fees—all highlighted in unforgiving red. Ryan has a young family, just bought a house. His enthusiasm for our artists is infectious—exactly the kind of passion my father always valued.
“There has to be another way,” I insist, mentally calculating how much longer we can stay afloat. Three months, maybe four if we’re lucky. “What about delaying the office renovation? Or cutting the travel budget?”
“We’ve already done that,” James says gently.
“The renovation is on hold indefinitely, and the travel budget is bare bones. This isn’t about making it to next quarter anymore.
We’re looking at losing the Solano Brothers’ catalog rights if we can’t make the minimum royalty payment.
That’s twenty percent of our streaming revenue gone overnight. ”
Patricia from Legal clears her throat. “Stonewall’s offer is still on the table. They have the resources to—”
“Absolutely not.” The words come out sharper than I intend but it’s the betrayal that tastes bitter on my tongue. “Left Turn isn’t for sale.”
“Morgan,” James shifts uncomfortably in his chair, his voice gentle but firm. “I know this company means everything to you. Your father built something special here. But sometimes the best way to preserve a legacy is to know when to let someone else carry it forward.”
The familiar ache in my heart intensifies at the mention of my father.
I can still smell his cologne, still see him bent over contracts at this very table, determination etched into his face.
This was more than just a business to him—it was a mission.
He signed artists no one else would touch, championed voices the industry tried to silence.
Every gold record on these walls carries the history of an artist he believed in when others didn’t.
I won’t let this be how his story ends.
“Give me until the end of the quarter,” I say, my mind already racing with possibilities. “I have contacts from my time in New York—private investors who might be interested in a minority stake. We can maintain control while securing the capital we need.”
My fingers instinctively reach for my sketchbook. I catch myself, tucking my hand into my lap.
“It’s not much time,” James sighs, but there’s a glimmer of respect in his eyes.
“It’s enough for now. But you’re right about the immediate cash flow issue.” I pause, hating what I have to say next. “We’ll cut one position from marketing.”
“I was actually thinking we should reduce staff by three positions,” he admits, pushing a revised budget toward me.
I scan the numbers, my resolve hardening. “One. For now. I’ll find the investment we need before we have to cut any deeper.”
James nods, accepting the compromise. “I can have the conversation with Ryan tomorrow if you’d prefer,” he offers, his expression sympathetic. “It’s never easy, especially your first time.”
“No,” I say firmly. “I’m the CEO. It’s my responsibility. Unless something drastic changes by tomorrow, I’ll have that conversation with Ryan.”
Respect is evident in his eyes. “Your father would be proud.”
Would he, though? I wonder. Would Dad be proud of me dismantling the family he built here, piece by piece? Or would he see it as necessary evolution—the painful but essential pruning that keeps the tree alive?
“James,” I say, before he can leave. “I still don’t understand how we got here. Dad was always so confident about the company’s future. What happened? What was his actual plan?”
James sinks into his chair, suddenly looking every one of his sixty-plus years. “Your father was a visionary, but the music industry changed faster than he anticipated. Streaming revenues aren’t what anyone expected five years ago—the per-play rates keep dropping while listener expectations rise.”
“But he must have had a strategy,” I press.
“He did,” James admits. “Three-pronged approach. First, the SoundStream distribution deal I mentioned, which would have given us better positioning on the major streaming platforms. Second, he was negotiating to acquire Resonance Studios—the small but state-of-the-art recording facility in Silver Lake. And third, he was planning to launch a vinyl division to capitalize on the format’s resurgence. ”
“Vinyl?” I ask, surprised. “Really?”
James nods. “The margins are incredible—we’re talking dollars versus fractions of pennies.
And your father recognized early it wasn’t just nostalgia; it’s becoming the way that true music lovers connect with artists they care about.
Our catalog is perfectly positioned for it—authentic, artist-driven music with real emotional resonance. ”
I sit back, processing this. “So what happened?”
“The Pinnacle deal was verbal, not signed. When Bret passed…” James shrugs sadly. “The acquisition was only halfway funded. And the vinyl initiative needed Bret’s relationships and reputation to get off the ground.”
I stand, effectively ending the meeting.
“Send me everything you have on those three initiatives. I’ll start making calls tomorrow.
I need to get this done as soon as possible, but I have movers coming today.
All my stuff from New York is being delivered to my new condo.
” I should be excited about putting down roots, but it’s like I’m digging myself in further with no end in sight.
James taps a pen to the table.
“You got another offer to leave?”
James has the decency to look sheepish. “Maxwell Kane reached out. Offered me a position at Anthem.”
My stomach tightens. Kane’s been circling like a vulture since Dad died, looking for ways to pick Left Turn apart. He’s already poached two of our sound engineers and tried to lure away our biggest act. “And?”
“I turned him down,” James says, meeting my eyes. “For now. But he’s offering nearly double my salary, Morgan. Said there’d be a place for me whenever I’m ready to, quote, ‘join a label with an actual future.’”
“I see.” I keep my voice steady despite the flash of anger.
“I’m not going anywhere,” James adds quickly. “I’ve been here since the beginning. Your father hired me when the company was nothing but a storage unit with a mixing board. I believe in what he built. But I need to know this ship isn’t sinking.”
“It’s not.” I lean forward, conviction in my voice. “As long as I’m at the helm, Left Turn stays afloat. I promise.”
He smiles, tension easing from his shoulders. “Then so do I.”
I watch him leave, appreciating his loyalty even as the burden of the promise settles over me. It’s not only James’s livelihood in my hands, but the futures of everyone who works here, who trusted my father enough to hitch their wagon to his star.
My mom’s situation weighs on me too. The house they shared is nearly paid off, but without his income, she’s relying heavily on the life insurance and her part-time teaching job.
If Left Turn collapses, I’d have no way to help support her.
She’d never ask, but I know she’s worried about retirement.
Dad always said Left Turn would be her security net—now the responsibility falls to me.
Dylan’s offer still sits in my inbox like a ticking time bomb. The financial terms are certainly better than Kane’s predatory terms. It would be enough to set my mom up comfortably and maybe even restart my design career. The pragmatic choice. The sensible one.
But I can’t help feeling betrayed. Dylan, of all people.
He knew my father, spent summers at our family barbecues, listened to Dad’s stories about building the label from nothing.
I thought if anyone would understand what Left Turn means—beyond balance sheets and artist rosters—it would be him.
Instead, he just wants to expand his empire.
* * *
The movers are gone, and I stand in the middle of my condo, surrounded by towers of boxes and plastic-wrapped furniture.
It feels more like a storage unit than a home.
Through floor-to-ceiling windows, Los Angeles sprawls out before me—a glittering promise of new beginnings… or another expensive mistake.
I run my fingers along the smooth surface of an end table, remembering the tiny walk-up apartment in New York where I started my fashion career.
The closet barely fit my sketch pads and vintage boots, but it was mine.
Every corner buzzed with possibility. I had three design internships battling for my time, and my thesis collection was featured in a spread in Vogue.
Then came the sleek Brooklyn townhouse with Christian.
We painted nursery walls. We took bump photos. We built a picture-perfect life.
Until it cracked. Then collapsed.
“This is different,” I tell myself, but the words echo back at me, hollow and unconvinced.
I spot my old portfolio case leaning against a stack of boxes. I haven’t opened it since the move from New York. Inside are the sketches for the collection I never finished—the one that was supposed to launch my own label before I got the call about Dad’s heart attack.
A key turns in the lock. I barely have time to turn when I hear the patter of small feet and—
“Mommy!”
Hazel bursts through the door like a firework, curls flying, princess backpack slipping off one shoulder. I catch her before she barrels into my legs.
“There’s my girl!” I pepper her cheeks with kisses. She smells like strawberry shampoo, sunscreen, and apple juice—my favorite perfume.
“Did you have fun with Grandma?”