Chapter 17 Flip the Switch
FLIP THE SWITCH
MORGAN
Lights By Ellie Goulding
I lean against the wall, still catching my breath.
My lips tingle, my pulse still unspooled in my wrists. I’m wrung out and reassembled all at once. There’s no shame. Not even nerves. Just heat.
I wanted Dylan. And I took him.
And in that darkened hallway, with his hands and mouth on me, I glimpsed something real beneath all our rivalry games—something worth exploring beyond business and pleasure.
But he’s been gone longer than two minutes, and the absence of his warmth leaves me unsure.
I straighten, brush my hands through my hair, and move into the hallway.
I turn the corner—and stop.
Dylan stands ten feet away, facing the drummer from the band I came here to see tonight—Liam. They aren’t just talking. They’re arguing.
I take a cautious step closer, my instincts on high alert. If Dylan is trying to poach another artist from under me, that would be one thing—just another move in our ongoing chess game. But the tension crackling between them feels personal, like I’ve stumbled onto something I wasn’t meant to see.
“You don’t get to ambush me. If I didn’t answer your emails, it’s because I didn’t want to talk to you.”
I push forward and place a hand on his shoulder. “Dylan?”
He turns to look at me. His face is pale, and he looks shaken.
“Dylan. What is going on? You’re acting like an asshole.”
“You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Just leave it alone.”
His words hit like a slap.
Liam cuts through the tension. “I didn’t mean to start any trouble.”
Dylan becomes even more agitated as he turns on him again, sharp and defensive. “Right. You knew exactly what you were doing.”
“Dylan?” I say, stepping between them. “This isn’t you. Or at least, I hope it’s not.” The contrast with the man who’d held me against the wall, who looked at me with desire and something deeper, feels impossible to reconcile.
He flinches, like the words cut deeper than they should. He pulls me aside, voice low and urgent. “Look, I’m sorry,” he says, rubbing my arm, his eyes softened and pleading. “Let’s go home, please.”
For a moment, I’m tempted. The vulnerability in his eyes nearly breaks my resolve. But I can’t walk away from this. “You tell me what is going on right now, or I’m not going anywhere with you.”
He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.
I nod slowly, swallowing against the tightness in my throat. “Well, that’s my answer then.”
I pull out my phone. “I’m calling you an Uber. Go home, Dylan.”
He stands there, jaw tight, eyes burning with something I can’t read. “Morgan?” he pleads, and for a second, I almost weaken.
“Don’t argue with me. You’re in no shape to drive.” I shut him down.
He hesitates with a regretful expression, and I wait for him to say something—to explain, to trust me with whatever this is. But he doesn’t. He turns and pushes his way out, hitting the door with more force than necessary.
I stand still for a long breath, trying to process. How can someone make me feel so alive one minute and so confused the next?
I turn to Liam, who looks as shaken as me.
“I hope you know Dylan doesn’t represent my label. That’s not what Left Turn’s about.”
He gives a strained smile. “It’s okay. I deserved it.”
I frown. “I don’t believe that.”
No artist deserves to be spoken to that way, especially not by someone like Dylan, who holds so much power in the industry. It contradicts everything I believe about how to treat talent, how to build a label with integrity—the very values I thought Dylan and I might actually share.
“Look, I came here to see your band perform tonight, and I want to talk, but I have to get home.” The whole evening feels tainted now, but Hollow Reign could be exactly what the label needs—raw talent with commercial appeal, perfect for the showcase.
I pull my business card from my back pocket. “Here.”
He looks at it, then at the door as if he expects Dylan to walk through. “I don’t think I should—” His bandmates round the corner, laughing and oblivious.
One of them sees me holding out the card and elbows him.
“Dude, that’s Left Turn Records. Don’t be a moron.
” Phoenix turns to me, a mix of excitement and disbelief on his face.
“We’ll call you. Tomorrow.” He nods, clearly eager to talk more, but sensing now isn’t the time.
“Come on guys,” he says to the band. “Let’s give the lady some space. ”
I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warmth of the crowded bar.
Trust is earned, not given. And tonight, Dylan lost more ground than he gained.