Chapter 9 Spilled Soup
SPILLED SOUP
MORGAN
Sorry Not Sorry By Demi Lovato
Mr. Harrison sips his wine, his eyes lingering too long on the neckline of my dress. “I have to say, Ms. Clemson, I wasn’t expecting Left Turn’s new leadership to be so… striking.”
I offer a polite smile. “Thank you. But I hope you’ll be more impressed by the numbers.”
His grin widens, and I already regret this table’s intimate corner booth. “I appreciate a woman with vision. Why don’t you walk me through yours?”
I nod, keeping my tone even. “We’re repositioning the label as a boutique house. Artist-first. We’re building careers—not just chasing algorithms.”
He leans in, his cologne thick and old-fashioned. “You sound a lot like your father. He always hated shortcuts.”
I force a smile. “He believed in legacy. I do too.”
“And what about profitability?” he asks, twirling his wine glass. “That’s the part your father was slower to embrace.”
“My father understood that building something lasting meant prioritizing artist development over quarterly returns,” I counter, not bothering to hide the edge in my voice. “And he was right. The artists he believed in are still generating revenue decades later. He was playing the long game.”
“And now we’re poised to build on that foundation,” I add, sliding a folder across the table.
“We’re shifting to a hybrid distribution model—independent control with strategic partnerships.
We have plans to expand our digital presence, create more direct-to-fan revenue streams. The showcase is just the beginning. ”
James’ warning echoes in my head from our morning meeting: “Without significant capital by the end of the quarter, we’ll have to start letting people go. Another month after that, and we might have to consider selling assets—including our catalog.”
Dad’s entire life’s work. The thought makes my stomach clench.
His eyes trail down the page, but his smile lingers on me. “Impressive. And your fashion background… adds an edge. Branding, image—artists need that now more than ever.”
I nod, grateful for the pivot. “It’s already part of the plan. I’m developing a brand strategy to bridge music and fashion, creating multiple revenue streams from each artist.”
“Ivy Nova?” he asks, gesturing to where I had crashed Dylan’s dinner. “She’s the kind of artist I’d want to see involved.”
“We’re in conversations,” I lie smoothly. “But it’s early.”
His hand rests casually on the table, inching toward mine. “If I invested,” he says, voice low, “I’d want to be hands-on. Regular meetings. Strategy dinners. Something a little more… relaxed.”
I pretend not to hear the suggestion in his tone. “We’re open to advisor input, of course. But the creative direction—”
“Would be in your capable hands,” he finishes, fingers brushing mine.
I withdraw my hand under the pretense of adjusting my napkin. “I’d love to walk you through the projected returns.”
We spend the next ten minutes discussing revenue projections, digital streaming spikes, and ticket sales forecasts.
I outline exactly how his investment would generate returns—twenty percent within the first year, potentially doubling in three years as our new artist development program matures.
I emphasize how the showcase will spotlight our approach and attract both new talent and industry partners.
Harrison nods along, clearly impressed with the numbers.
I try to ignore the way his eyes keep drifting toward my cleavage.
The waiter arrives with the soup course, which I hope will buy me time to reset.
But the moment he leaves, Harrison leans in again, resting his elbow on the back of the booth so his arm nearly grazes my shoulder. “It’s rare to meet a woman who can talk numbers that looks like you do.”
I tense, spoon halfway to my mouth. “That’s kind of you to say.”
He squeezes my thigh, and I lose it.
I tip the bowl of hot soup squarely into his lap.
He jerks back with a yelp, a cascade of tomato bisque soaking into his tailored trousers.
“Jesus Christ!” He jumps to his feet, nearly knocking the table over as he grabs a napkin, blotting his pants while the waiter rushes over.
“Is everything all right?” the young man asks, wide-eyed.
Mr. Harrison mutters something like burned my balls, but I’m already standing, shouldering my bag.
“We’ll wrap up here,” I say, cool and composed despite the adrenaline still pounding in my veins.
“You’re not getting a dime from me,” he says, red faced.
“You can keep your money. I don’t need it that badly.”
“Left Turn will go under without me, and you know it,” he grumbles. “You’re emotional. Don’t throw away a lifeline over one misunderstood gesture.”
I gape at him. “Misunderstood?”
“You wanted my attention. You wore that dress for a reason.”
I laugh once, cold and sharp, then straighten the line of my dress, and look him dead in the eye.
“Don’t suggest I invited this. Don’t reduce everything I’ve built, everything I’ve worked for, to the cut of my neckline. That’s your problem, not mine.”
“No need to get dramatic. It was just a compliment. You’re taking it the wrong way.”
“You touched me,” I say flatly. “Under the table. In public. Unless you want me to cause a bigger scene, I suggest you let me walk away.”
He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again, red creeping up his neck.
I don’t wait for a response. I turn on my heel and storm out of the restaurant, heart racing, heels clicking sharply on the marble floor.
Outside, the night air is cool against my skin, but I’m burning with a mixture of anger and fear. My hands tremble as I unlock my car, the adrenaline crash leaving me hollow.
I’ve walked away from a major investment—money that would have accelerated our growth strategy and given us the resources to make the showcase truly spectacular. An investor of Harrison’s caliber would have attracted others, creating momentum right when we need it most.
The quarterly deadline looms closer every day, and without some capital injection, implementing our full strategy becomes more challenging. It would mean more months of uncertainty for everyone at Left Turn.
I slump against the steering wheel. “What now?” I whisper to the empty car.