Page 64

“Not just that. Camille also made a new video this morning.”

My stomach churns as the screen cuts to Camille sitting in her pastel-blue bedroom, sniffling, voice shaking as she talks about how her ideas were “ripped off,” how devastated she is watching a big brand profit from her originality. She mentioned again how she didn’t want to speak up but felt she had to. How silence is complicity. The same tired narrative, just glossier.

“She’s good,” I mutter.

Talia’s expression hardens. “And Marlowe reposted it.”

She taps the screen, and there it is:

Support small creators. Big brands must be held accountable. #TruthWillPrevail #SmallBusinessMatters

She’s not even pretending anymore.

“Of course she waited until now,” I say, my voice low. “The launch is fourteen days away.”

“And the online attacks have started again.” Talia turns the tablet to show some hashtags. #LemonLies. #FraudQueen. Tweets accusing me of stealing. Comments dragging my name through the mud. And of course, plenty of speculation aboutSean. About how we’re faking this relationship to hide behind something bigger.

“This is strategic,” Talia says. “She’s coming out guns blazing this time. Publicly aligning with Camille. Timing it to derail the launch.”

I stare at the screen, at the hateful words scrolling past, and for the first time, I don’t feel that pit of helpless dread. I refuse to shut down this time.

It hurts, sure. It always will. But the part of me that used to spiral? That version of Wren feels distant now.

Instead, I hand the tablet back and adjust the collar of my blazer.

“What do you want to do?” Talia asks.

“First? I finish this shoot. These products are two years of work. Testing. Research. Countless late nights. Marlowe’s bitterness isn’t enough to take that from me.”

“And after the shoot?”

“Then we strategize,” I say, straighter now. “Schedule a sit-down with the rest of the PR and legal team. And Sean. Today.”

Talia raises a brow. “You sure?”

“She wants to rattle me. I’m not giving her what she wants.”

She studies me, like she doesn’t quite recognize who I am at this moment. Then she smiles. “Oh, Wren. We’ve been quiet long enough. We’ve gathered enough evidence to fight back.”

I glance back at the set, the soft golden lighting, the arrangement of bottles waiting to be captured.

“Yes, we’ve been quiet for too long. Hiding gives people like Marlowe power. If she wants to come for me in the open, then let her.”

I know what I’ve built. I know what it’s worth.

Let them post their hashtags. Let them accuse.

I’m not breaking.

I head back to the team, raising my voice just enough to cut through the noise.

“Let me see that hero shot again,” I say. “We’ve got to make sure the lemon essence bottle is front and center.”

It’s our signature. Our soul. I study the pictures on the screen, nodding.

“Okay,” I say, voice level. “Let’s move to the exfoliating gel. I want a clean shot. No props, just the bottle and its natural texture swatched on slate. We’re leaning into transparency with this formula, so let’s make it literal.”

I pick up the product and glance at the camera. “This one is gentle enough to use every day. Polyhydroxy acids instead of glycolic. The acting is a slower process, but less irritating. Great for redness-prone skin types. And we used hyaluronic acid from a non-GMO fermentation source. It’s vegan, cruelty-free, and fragrance-free. Like everything else we make.”