Chapter 15 utive Privilege
EXECUTIVE PRIVILEGE
MORGAN
One More Night By Maroon Five
The Avalon looks and feels so different from what I remember.
They’ve upgraded the seats in the balcony, replaced the sound panels, but the bones are still the same.
The low hum beneath the carpet, the way the air tightens when you’re about to walk into something bigger than yourself.
It’s like standing at the edge of a heartbeat.
My father would have loved this. This space has history—a gravitas that can’t be manufactured. Where new talent meets legacy.
Katrina Evans—the Avalon’s manager—crosses the stage with the kind of presence that doesn’t ask for attention so much as dare you not to give it.
She’s older, her silver hair twisted into a messy bun that says she’s got better things to do than care about neatness.
Tattoos coil down both forearms, faded in places, like the stories they hold have been told too many times to count.
Her boots thud against the scuffed stage, and her vintage tee and black jeans cling to a lean frame, lived-in, and unapologetically female.
Katrina looks me over slowly—starting with my silk blouse and pencil skirt, lingering on my heels that belong on a runway, not a rock venue, and ending with the slight purse of her lips, like she’s already decided I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here.
I instinctively assess the stage dimensions, my mind calculating sight lines and spatial balance. Without thinking, I pull a small notebook from my bag and sketch a quick visual concept for the layout, my fingers moving with the muscle memory of years designing spaces and silhouettes.
“You been here before?” she asks, more challenge than curiosity.
“Not since college,” I say, glancing up at the rafters. “But yeah. I came to see a lot of shows. An ex-boyfriend snuck us in once to see a band he swore was going to be the next U2.” I snort. “They broke up six weeks later.”
She looks bored. “Acoustics in this room are killer.”
“I remember.” I sweep my gaze over the curve of the stage. “I want the audience to feel like they can hear every guitar string. Like the sound’s breathing with them.”
Katrina raises a plastic cup of iced coffee in agreement. “Then you’ve got your work cut out.”
“I’ve already blocked out tentative times for artist soundchecks.
” I flip open the folder tucked under my arm and hand her a highlighted schedule, complete with notes and spacing details.
“I know the budget’s tight for visuals, but if we produce pre-roll vignette videos for each performer, we can run them across the back wall and overhead before each set. Give it rising-star energy.”
“Alright, Fifth Ave. Didn’t expect that from someone in four-inch heels.”
I raise a brow. “How’d you know I’m from New York?”
She shrugs. “I know that look. Tailored, tired of everyone’s shit, and ten steps ahead. Not hard to guess.”
I smile a little. “Yeah, I lived there for a while.” I glance out at the rows of empty seats. “But I’m back now.”
“You sure you’ve never worked production?”
Thoughts of my dad come to the surface. “Just grew up surrounded by people who did.”
“You’re Bret Clemson’s kid?” she asks, like she’s just now connecting the dots.
I nod, a flicker of pride stirring inside me. A legacy I wasn’t prepared to carry, but here I am.
“Sorry to hear about his passing. Didn’t know shit about sightlines, but he sure knew a good band when he heard one.”
“That was my dad.” I laugh a little, trying to keep the emotion out of my voice. “He could hear potential in a voice before they’d even finished the first verse. I’m still learning that part.”
Katrina claps the folder shut. “I’ll get my guys synced to your crew.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket. “Ava, I hope you have good news,” I say and give Katrina an apologetic look while she grabs one of her sound guys.
“Cirque Noire is locked down,” she says smugly.
“Are you kidding? I owe you a drink. Maybe an island.”
“Make it a beach house in Bali, and we’ll call it even.”
“Ava, how’d you pull it off?” I ask, still breathless.
“I pitched the showcase to the creative director as a rising-artist spotlight. Then I sent over a mood board, a couple client reels, and a picture of Hazel in the purple vintage dress.”
I pause. “Wait—the one I stole from their limited kids’ line?”
“Yep. The one from their archival pieces from the children’s couture capsule they did a decade ago. I still say Hazel wore it better than the campaign model, and it melted their cold little fashion hearts.”
I press a hand to my chest. “You’re kidding.”
“Dead serious. They’re sending three looks that haven’t even hit the runways yet, in exchange for branding in the program and artist walkthrough tags on all socials.”
A spark runs through me—an old familiar excitement I used to get when handling beautiful fabrics, seeing designs come to life. For a second, I’m in my old studio, pins between my teeth, the hum of creativity coursing through my veins. I don’t have time to miss it.
Katrina leans in from side stage, one perfectly arched brow raised. “Sorry to break up your covert fashion negotiations, but your partner in crime just arrived.”
I cover the phone. “My what?”
She shrugs, sipping her coffee. “Boyish. Lip ring. Tight jeans full of executive privilege and fuck-me energy.”
Oh, for—
“I’ll call you back,” I mutter to Ava, who cackles before the line goes dead.
Dylan wanders into the wings, eyeing the lighting rig from behind the velvet curtain with far too much confidence for someone who looks like he got lost on his way to a punk show.
His eyes light up the second he sees me.
“Figured I’d find you here.”
“You here to supervise?”
He leans against the curtain like he’s got all the time in the world. “No need. I already know you’ve got this handled.”
I blink. That’s… unexpected.
“So, what then? Here to lurk in the shadows and make sure I don’t burn the place down?”
He smirks. “Only when it gets me access to closed sets and your undivided attention.” His eyes drop to my mouth for just a beat too long before meeting mine again.
I tilt my head. “So stalking, but make it business casual?”
His grin deepens. “See? This is why we work so well together.”
I snort. “Right—me with the vision, you with the unsolicited commentary.”
He shrugs. “Every genius needs a devil on their shoulder.”
I fold my arms. “Funny. I always pictured mine with less product in his hair.”
He places a dramatic hand to his chest. “Wounded.”
“Only a little,” I say, smiling despite myself.
He holds up his hands. “I came to offer a truce. No need for the claws just yet, Clemson.”
“It’s hard to believe the word ‘peace’ is even in your vocabulary.”
“I’ve expanded. I read a book recently.”
“’Gaslighting for Beginners’?”
He laughs—genuine and warm, and damn it, a flicker of amusement in his eyes cracks my Fuck Off armor a little.
“Look, about what happened in my office the other day,” he says, shifting his weight closer, words coming out rougher than before. “I was out of line.”
The change in proximity causes my skin to prickle with awareness. I can smell his cologne now—dark and cedar-scented—that makes me want to lean in.
“Is that what this is? An apology tour?” I ask, keeping my voice carefully neutral even as I notice how the stage lights catch the silver of his lip ring.
He runs a hand through his hair. “I’ve had a lot on my mind lately. Some… personal stuff I’m dealing with.” His words turn careful, measured—like he’s weighing each one against what he doesn’t want to reveal. “But that’s no excuse for taking it out on you.”
That’s vague. For a moment, I’m tempted to ask, but the guarded look in his eyes makes me hesitate. And the way he’s watching me now—like I’m somehow tangled up in whatever’s eating at him—causes my pulse to quicken in a way that has nothing to do with curiosity.
He shrugs. “Call it whatever you want. I just don’t want things to stay the way we left them.”
The knot in my shoulders loosens just a fraction.
“I came to see you—and the space,” he says, walking along the stage. “Make sure you didn’t sign off on any interpretive dance acts or spoken word haikus.”
I follow him, hyperaware of how his presence seems to fill the entire theater space, how even his casual movements have a rhythm to them—the unconscious timing of someone who’s spent years behind a kit.
“Don’t worry,” I reply. “I cancelled the fire jugglers when I heard you were coming.”
“Because of the hair product?” He runs a hand through messing it up enough to give it a fuckable look. “So sweet, always thinking of me.”
I scoff, but I’m watching his hands.
He turns toward me, a little more serious now. “Look, I meant what I said last time. About helping.”
The change in tone makes me falter. After our heated argument in his office—the accusations about me being too scared to want things, my furious exit—I’m not sure what to make of this more conciliatory Dylan.
“Forgive me if the past few months have made me hesitant to jump on the Dylan Trust Train.”
“We’ve done our fair share of sabotage,” he admits. “But this showcase—it’s bigger than that, Morgan. Bigger than either of our egos, and that’s saying something.”
As we continue walking, my heel catches on a thick cable snaking across the stage.
Dylan’s hand shoots out instinctively to steady me, hovering just above the small of my back—close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his palm, but not quite touching.
The almost-contact makes my breath catch, like my body’s remembering every place he’s ever put his hands and wanting more.
We both freeze for a heartbeat, caught in the space between intention and contact, before he drops his hand and I continue forward on unsteady legs.
I arch a brow, but he doesn’t back down. Crossing his arms, he stops and leans a little against the proscenium wall like this is easy for him—like his words and glances aren’t making something inside me unravel.