Chapter 30 The Dress
THE DRESS
MORGAN
LABOUR - the cacophony By Paris Paloma
My clipboard trembles slightly in my hand as I check off another item. The showcase has exceeded every expectation so far. Salvation wrapped in guitar riffs and spotlight cues.
Then it’s time for Ivy Nova’s performance.
The lights drop suddenly, plunging the venue into darkness.
The crowd hushes in anticipation, an electric silence that precedes something extraordinary.
A single spotlight pierces the darkness, illuminating center stage as the opening notes of her song filter through the speakers, crystal clear and haunting.
And she steps out.
My breath catches in my throat.
She’s wearing a dress I’ve never seen before—yet I know every line, every curve, every detail as intimately as my own reflection.
Purple mesh layered over a structured bodice with princess seams I’d perfected during my apprenticeship with a top Italian designer.
The asymmetrical hemline with cascading panels that shimmer with her every movement, exactly as I’d envisioned.
Hand-beaded amethyst details along the sweetheart neckline framing her face perfectly, the gradient effect shifting from deep purple to lavender using the specialized ombré technique I developed in my final collection.
It’s mine.
The design I sketched absently in the margins of the showcase notes. The daydream I’d abandoned when the reality of running Left Turn demanded my attention.
For a breathless moment, pride surges through me—this dress transforms Ivy into something otherworldly, more magnificent than I’d imagined in my head.
It responds to the stage lighting, morphing with every movement as if alive.
The fabric moves with her like captured air, but the statement it makes is unmistakable.
This is what I’ve been missing—that ache in my chest, the adrenaline running through my veins when a sketch comes to life and it’s standing in front of me refusing to let me look away.
Even with all the wins I’ve made keeping Left Turn afloat and even helping it prosper, even just a little bit, it doesn’t come close to this feeling.
I hear whispers around me—fashion editors leaning toward each other, eyebrows raised in appreciation.
A woman wearing a Vogue press badge takes a photo.
For one electric moment, I remember who I was before Left Turn—the talented design assistant toiling behind the scenes at prestigious houses.
My contributions went uncredited on runway collections while I dreamed of launching my own line, dreams I sacrificed for my father’s legacy.
But the daydream crystallizes into reality. My dress is on Dylan’s artist—a dress I never approved, never authorized, never even finished designing.
What in the actual fuck?
The crowd erupts as Ivy launches into her first song, but I’m frozen in place, my clipboard clutched so tightly my knuckles ache. I try to piece it together, the puzzle assembling with sickening clarity. How? When?
And it hits me.
Dylan. The folder with all my notes for the showcase—and my unconscious sketches in the margins.
This is my design, and Cirque Noir is getting credit for it.
I scan the room frantically, blood rushing in my ears, drowning out Ivy’s perfect vocals. And there he is—leaning against the bar, watching Ivy command the stage in my creation. The lights catch on his lip ring as he lifts his glass when he catches me looking, a silent toast.
The fabric of my blouse sticks to my back with sudden sweat. Dylan’s smile widens.
Of all the underhanded, manipulative, arrogant moves—
My phone vibrates in my pocket.
I pull it out to silence it, but the caller ID stops me cold: Mom.
I hit accept, pressing the phone hard against my ear, finger jammed in the other to hear over the music. The world narrows to this connection, everything else falling away.
“Mom? What’s wrong?” My voice sounds foreign, stretched thin with dread.
“Morgan, don’t panic, but Hazel fell during her recital.” Her voice is steady but tense, the way it gets when she’s trying to be calm for everyone else. “We’re at St. Joseph’s Children’s Hospital, but she’s okay.”
My throat closes completely, a vise tightening around my windpipe. The guilt I’d been fighting all night twists deeper. I’d made the impossible choice, promising myself I’d make it up to her somehow.
“What happened?” I manage to ask, panic surging in my bloodstream, my pulse a frantic drumbeat against my temples.
“She tripped on her wings and knocked her loose tooth out, but I managed to find it because she was more worried about the tooth fairy than her busted lip. She needed stitches but she was very brave,” Mom explains. “The doctor says she’ll be fine, just some bruising and the cut on her lip.”
The room seems to tilt around me, colors blurring at the edges of my vision.
The showcase fades away.
The dress vanishes.
Dylan disappears.
None of it matters except getting to my daughter.
“I’ll be right there,” I say, already moving toward the exit, shouldering past a group of industry executives without apology.
“Oh honey, your showcase. I don’t want to pull you away, but I thought you’d want to know,” Mom apologizes, her voice small in my ear.
“I’m coming right now. The showcase doesn’t matter. Hazel’s what’s important,” I say, already feeling the tears start, a hot pressure behind my eyes that threatens to spill over.
I spot Mina near the stage and rush over, grabbing her arm. Her excitement at Ivy’s performance morphs into concern as she takes in my face.
“I have to go,” I manage, my voice cracking on the last word. “I’ll explain everything later.”
Mina’s expression shifts immediately from excitement to concern. “Go. I’ll handle things here.”
I don’t look back as I rush through the exit. Not at Ivy still singing on stage in my stolen design. Not at the industry executives I was supposed to impress tonight. Not even at Dylan.
In the parking lot, I fumble with my keys, hands shaking so badly I drop them twice. The cool metal scrapes against my palm as I finally grip them properly.
I slam the car door and press my forehead to the steering wheel for one breath, two, trying to steady myself enough to drive. The cool leather against my skin grounds me.
I promised her Sundays.
I told myself that was enough.
But she deserves more than one day a week. She deserves a mother who showed up when it mattered most. She deserves a mother who puts her child first, not a dying company.
As I peel out of the lot, tires screeching against the asphalt, one thought hammers in my head: My baby is hurt, and I wasn’t there.
And no dress, no showcase, no record label is worth that price.
Something has to change. I can’t sacrifice my daughter’s childhood on the altar of my father’s legacy.