Page 31

His presence beside me feels both comforting and distant. I pick at my nails, feeling the pressure of the day build in my chest once again.

“Your meeting run late?”

“Yeah. Legal team. They're divided on how to handle the Camille/Marlowe situation.”

“What do you want to do?”

“I don't know. I’m not sure anymore.” I stare out the window, taking little note of the blurring city lights as we drive past. “But I'm not delaying the launch. That much I know.”

He nods, not pushing further. It's one of the things I've come to appreciate about him. He doesn't fill silence with needless chatter. But tonight, the silence feels heavy. Oppressive.

“How’re you doing, Wren?”

Those simple words. That's all it takes.

They crack something open in me.

“I'm…” My voice cracks. “I'm not okay.”

Sean glances at me but says nothing, his attention returning to the road.

“My life was mine. And now, it’s a joke. I had everything under control. Everything. I built Lemon from nothing. I worked for years to do so. Do you know how many rejected emails I received? How many investor meetings I attended? I worked my ass off. And now strangers spit on it. On me. And I can’t fix it.” I take a shuddering breath.

“I carved out this life for Eric and me, and now…” I shake my head, biting my lower lip to stop the tears from coming. “Now it's all slipping through my fingers. The accuser remains on an endless media tirade, gaining fame off my back. The hate comments keep coming. The investors are getting cold feet. And Eric asked me yesterday why we picked him up early that day and if something bad is happening to me.”

The tears come then, hot and fast.

“I can't even protect my son. I have this migraine that won't go away, Sean. I wake up with it. I go to sleep with it. And I just…” A sob escapes. “I feel so alone in this.”

Sean pulls the car over, puts it in park. He doesn’t move or say a word. Just lets me cry to my heart’s content. But his silence isn't empty, it's full of understanding. Or maybe, strength.

When the sobs subside to hiccups, he unfastens his seatbelt and turns toward me. His hand, large and warm, reaches for mine.

“You're not alone.”

Three words. So simple. So earth-shattering.

He leans across the console and pulls me into his arms. The awkward angle doesn't matter. His embrace is solid, real. I feel his heartbeat against my cheek, steady and sure. Then his lips press against my forehead, a touch so gentle it makes me want to cry all over again.

Time stops. The rain. The scandal. The fear. The migraine. Everything fades except for the feel of Sean's arms around me and the lingering warmth where his lips touched my skin.

My heart hammers in my chest at how safe he makes me feel.

But reality crashes back when he pulls away. What just happened? Heat floods my face. I've spent weeks projecting strength, and in five minutes, I've fallen apart in front of him.

He continues driving and I turn to the window for the rest of the drive

I don't wait for him to open my door. The moment the car stops, I'm out, rushing toward the house through the rain, fumbling with the key he gave me last week.

Inside the safety of my bedroom, I lean against the closed door, pulse racing. My forehead still tingles where he kissed me. It wasn't romantic. It couldn't have been. He was being kind. That's all.

But as I hear his car door close and his footsteps approach the house, I know I'm lying to myself.

Because for the first time since this nightmare began, I feel something besides fear.

I feel alive.

And that terrifies me more than any scandal ever could.