Page 7

And there she is.

Wren is standing behind a white desk, phone pressed to her ear. The years have been kind to Wren Sinclair. More than kind. I shove a hand into my pocket.

For a moment, I see double. The twenty-something girl with dyed red hair and nervous energy superimposed over this polished CEO in her tailored blazer and dark hair falling in soft waves past her shoulders.

But Wren isn’t the wide-eyed girl I remember. This Wren commands the space. She holds up one finger in a “just a minute” gesture.

My gaze darts over the office. The centerpiece of her office is its long shelving unit on which Lemon LLC’s assortment of products is displayed alongside PR boxes they’ve created over the years and inspirational books. There’s a lighted vanity which I recognize from some of Jen’s photos with two full-size mirrors. I never realized it was Wren’s office all this while.

“Just like I told Raj, I think we should move forward with the launch as scheduled. This will blow over.” Her voice is firm and controlled. “I'll call you back.”

She hangs up and at last looks at me.

Our eyes lock and something shifts in the room. The air feels thicker all of a sudden. There's recognition there. And something else I can't name.

“Sean.” Her voice is lower than I remember, more confident. She steps around the desk, offering her hand. Professional. Cool and Distant. “Thank you for coming.”

I catch a hint of her perfume—something citrus and vanilla, unsurprisingly. Her hand is small in mine, but her grip is firm.

“Wren.” The name feels strange on my tongue after so long. “Jen mentioned you're having some security issues.”

A flicker of emotion crosses her face. “I didn’t ask for this.”

“Jen did.”

“I’m not some damsel in distress.”

“I know.”

“But I’m also not stupid. And Eric…” She sighs. “He doesn’t need to be around this.”

The name hits me. Her kid. I glance at the framed picture on her desk. A little boy with curls and a dimple. Wren’s smile on a smaller face.

“Cute smile on him.”

She beams.

“Yeah.”

For a second, neither of us moves. Then she clears her throat, gesturing to a sitting area.

“Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?”

“I'm fine.” I take a seat, noticing the way her shoulders tense as she sits across from me. She's exhausted. I can see it in the tiny lines around her eyes, in the careful way she holds herself together.

“So. Tell me what's happening.” I keep my tone neutral like this is any other client, any other job.

“Someone's trying to destroy everything I've built.” The bluntness in her voice surprises me. “It started with claims that I stole my business concept. Then came the online harassment. Now, I'm getting packages at my office. I fear it’s a matter of time till someone gets my home address and that thought’s unsettling.”

She slides a folder across the table. I flip through the folder containing printouts of threatening messages, photos of the “gifts” left at her door. My jaw tightens.

“And your current security?”

“Building security, a home alarm system.” She brushes hair from her face, a gesture I remember from years ago. “But the paparazzi are getting bolder.”

I sit up straighter. “Your building needs parameter control to begin with. There’s press everywhere.”

She nods.