Chapter 31 Crisis First
CRISIS FIRST
DYLAN
Shut Your Eyes By Snow Patrol
Collins takes the stage, her voice cutting through the noise like a blade—raw, unfiltered, exactly what I’d heard in Arizona. The crowd quiets, caught in that perfect moment when a new artist either sinks or soars.
And Collins? She’s fucking flying.
I lean against the bar, whiskey untouched, watching her command the room like she was born for this.
The Avalon’s chandeliers cast a warm glow over the crowd, the air thick with perfume, anticipation, and an unmistakable electric charge of witnessing something authentic.
No trace of the reluctant bartender’s sister who swore she was done with music.
Just pure, undiluted talent.
The crowd feels it too. Industry heads are leaning toward each other, whispering. Phones are out, recording. The bass vibrates through the floorboards, making every note feel like it’s coming from inside your chest. This is how careers ignite—one perfect moment that spreads like wildfire.
Collins finishes her set with a raw ballad, leaving the room in stunned silence before erupting into applause.
Pride swells in my chest—this is what it’s all about.
Finding raw talent, an authentic voice, and giving it a platform.
This is what my fathers built Stonewall on, what I’m carrying forward.
As Collins exits the stage, the crowd begins to shift in anticipation of Ivy’s performance. I scan the room for Morgan, eager to see her reaction when Ivy takes the stage in her design. This moment—seeing her work come to life, getting the recognition she deserves—I’ve been planning it for weeks.
Finding her sketches in the showcase folder was like finding buried treasure.
Raw, brilliant designs that showed a talent Morgan had tucked beneath spreadsheets and survival mode.
She’d given up her dreams once already, sacrificed her passion for practicality.
But tonight, she’d see what she was capable of when the world was watching.
But she’s nowhere in sight.
I push through the crowd, moving toward the stage area where I last saw her. The lights begin to dim, signaling Ivy’s imminent performance. My pulse quickens. Where is she? She wouldn’t miss this. This is her moment as much as mine.
As I round the corner, I freeze at the scene before me. Collins stands inches from Jaxson Steele’s face, her body rigid with fury. His back is against the wall, hands raised defensively, but his eyes—there’s something dangerous there, a mixture of panic and defiance.
“Five years,” Collins hisses, voice low and venomous. “And you show up here like nothing happened?”
“You need to lower your voice,” Jaxson warns, glancing around nervously. “People are watching.”
“Good!” Collins says, louder now. “Let them watch. Let them see exactly who you are.”
“You don’t understand—”
“I understand perfectly,” she cuts him off, trembling with rage. “You’re a thief and a liar, and I’m not the scared little girl I used to be.”
Jaxson’s expression darkens. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I?” Collins laughs, the sound brittle and sharp. “You won’t get away with this,” she continues, her voice escalating. She reaches for a champagne flute from a nearby tray. Before I can intervene, she throws the contents directly in Jaxson’s face.
The golden liquid soaks his hair, drips down his designer shirt. He doesn’t move, just stands there dripping, his expression hardening into something cold and dangerous.
“What the hell is going on?” I demand, stepping between them.
Collins wipes her hand on her jeans, eyes flashing. “Nothing,” she says, shouldering roughly past a group of onlookers who’ve gathered to watch the drama unfold.
I turn to Jaxson, who’s trying to blot champagne from his shirt with a cocktail napkin. “You want to explain what that was about?”
He looks up, eyes narrowed. “Not particularly.” His jaw tightens, and for a second, I catch something in his expression—not just anger, but something deeper. Shame, maybe.
Before I can press further, the crowd erupts with cheers. Ivy’s taking the stage.
“Shit,” I mutter, turning back toward the main floor. Whatever’s happening between Collins and Jaxson will have to wait. I need to find Morgan for Ivy’s performance.
Ivy emerges, and the audience gasps collectively.
The dress is even more stunning under the lights than I’d imagined—purple mesh clinging in all the right places, fabric shifting and flashing with every move she makes, tiny sparkles drawing my eyes straight to her face.
Morgan’s design, brought to life.
I scan the crowd frantically, determined to catch Morgan’s reaction. This is her moment too—the recognition she deserves but wouldn’t give herself.
And then I spot her.
She’s standing near the back bar, perfectly still amid the moving crowd. Even from here, I can see her face has gone pale. Her eyes are fixed on the stage, on the dress—her dress—as recognition dawns.
I raise my glass in her direction, a silent toast. See? You’re brilliant. The world should know it.
Her eyes find mine across the room, and the look she gives me isn’t gratitude or surprise.
It’s betrayal.
My smile falters. This isn’t how it was supposed to go.
I start pushing through the crowd toward her, but bodies press in from all sides as people surge forward to get a better view of Ivy. By the time I break free, Morgan is gone.
“Fuck,” I mutter, spinning in place, trying to spot her.
Rachel taps my shoulder, expression grim. “Collins is threatening to leave. She’s in the green room throwing things in a bag.”
“What? Why?”
“No idea. But if your shiny new artist walks out before the press interviews, we’ve got a problem.”
I hesitate, torn. I need to find Morgan, but if Collins leaves…
“Artist crisis first,” Rachel insists. “Morgan’s a professional. She can handle things on her own.”
Reluctantly, I follow Rachel toward the green room, but my mind stays fixed on finding Morgan afterward.
We find Collins pacing, her guitar case open on the couch, frantically shoving sheet music and personal items inside.
“Going somewhere?” I ask from the doorway.
She looks up, eyes still flashing with residual anger. “I can’t be here.”
“Because of Jaxson?” I step into the room. “What happened between you two?”
“Nothing worth talking about.” She snaps the guitar case closed with unnecessary force. “Just a bad run-in from a while back.”
There’s something in her voice—a tremor of hurt beneath the anger—suggesting this isn’t about a failed pickup line or music industry competition.
“Listen, whatever happened out there—”
“He’s an entitled jackass who thinks he can take whatever he wants,” Collins cuts me off. “End of story.”
“You’re not letting him ruin your night,” I say firmly, as much to myself as to her. “Not after that performance. The crowd loved you. The industry buzz is already starting.”
She pauses, hands stilling on her bag. “I shouldn’t have come.”
“But you did. And you killed it.” I take a careful step closer. “Look, I get it. Industry events can be overwhelming. Especially with… personal complications.”
Her eyes narrow. “You don’t know anything about my complications.”
“I know you’ve got talent most artists would kill for. I know you’ve got a son waiting for you back home. And I know you’re scared of what happens next.”
The mention of her son softens her expression slightly. “Lincoln is exactly why I can’t do this. A tour? Album recording? That’s months away from him.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” I counter. “We can work with your schedule. Shorten the tour, block recording sessions so you’re home more often. Whatever it takes.”
“Why would you do that?” Suspicion colors her voice.
“Because you came all the way here,” I say, meeting her gaze steadily. “If you leave now, you’re not fully realizing the potential of what this could mean for you.”
She looks away, conflicted. “I need to think about it.”
“Of course.” I take a step back, giving her space. “But think about it here. Don’t let one bad interaction ruin what could be an incredible night for your career.”
Collins exhales slowly, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. “I’ll stay for the press. But I’m not promising anything.”
“Fair enough.” I nod to Rachel, who offers me a subtle thumbs up before slipping out of the room.
“For what it’s worth,” I add, “your son would be proud of what you did tonight.”
A ghost of a smile touches her lips. “Yeah. Maybe.”
Crisis temporarily averted, I head toward the main floor.
I search the room for Morgan, checking all the places she might be handling showcase business. The sound booth, the wings of the stage, the VIP area—no sign of her. Strange. This is her night as much as mine. Where could she be?
The interviews blur together—questions about Ivy’s performance, her upcoming album, and yes, that stunning dress. I catch fragments of responses, but I’m still scanning the crowd for Morgan.
The showcase continues without her, a testament to how well she’s organized everything—her absence felt but not catastrophic to the event itself.
I pull out my phone, checking for messages. Nothing. I try calling her, but it goes straight to voicemail.
I send a text.
Dylan: Call me. I’m worried about you.
No response.
I catch her assistant as she glides by. “Have you seen Morgan?”
“She left,” she says breezily.
“Left?” I repeat, surprised. “When?”
“During Ivy’s performance. She got an urgent call and had to go,” Mina explains, shifting uncomfortably. “She seemed upset.”
“Did she say why, or where she went?” I ask, concern growing.
“I didn’t catch all of it,” Mina says, shrugging.
Jesus, these interns lately are no help.
“Fuck,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair.
As the showcase winds down around me, congratulations and networking opportunities fading into background noise, I can’t shake the worry gnawing at me. Where did she go? Why did she leave during what should have been her moment?