Page 18 of Fake Lemons Love and Luxury

WREN

J ust when it feels like things are starting to settle, drama strikes again.

I adjust the lighting rig over the serum bottle, angling it until the amber glass catches the light just right.

Around me, the flagship Lemon LLC studio hums with motion.

Photographers calling out adjustments, assistants unboxing products, a model laughing as someone adjusts her hair.

There’s a quiet thrill in the air, the kind that comes when something you built is about to be seen.

“Can we get a bit more light on the serum?” I ask, squinting at the monitor. “It should glow, not glare. That’s better. Perfect. Now let’s try the moisturizer next to it. Let it breathe.”

This process grounds me. It’s comforting being surrounded by color palettes, product placement, storyboarding, and sunlight through white muslin curtains. The creative part of my brain clicks on like muscle memory, and for a moment, nothing else exists.

“Wren, can we get a few of you with the products now?” someone calls out from behind a camera.

I nod, stepping in front of the backdrop. My stylist dabs at my cheek with a puff, fixes a strand of hair. The videographer adjusts the lens.

“Tell me about this one again?” he asks, holding up the lemon essence.

My smile is instant.

“This is our signature,” I say, fingers resting on the sleek glass bottle.

“A cold-pressed essence from organic lemon peels harvested by hand. It’s designed to brighten without stripping.

The formula took over a year to perfect.

Our team worked on balancing natural acids with microdose actives so it works even on the most sensitive skin. ”

“Beautiful,” a photographer murmurs, snapping shots as I speak.

I pick up the moisturizer next. “This one was inspired by post-facial skin. You know, that soft bounce. That glow. It’s packed with fermented botanicals, ceramides, and a snow mushroom blend for long-term hydration without heaviness. No silicones. No fragrance. Just clean, clinical-grade moisture.”

He keeps shooting, and I keep talking because I believe in this. I know every formula, every ingredient, every decision behind every label.

Lemon LLC was born in my apartment, at a time when no one thought I could make something out of myself after deciding to leave Hollywood at the peak of my career, with a baby and a divorce in tow.

Now, look.

I pivot for one last shot, holding the two products beside each other. “Together, they create a kind of glow that looks effortless,” I say. “But like everything worth having, it’s the result of care.”

The click of the shutter. The light flash.

And then?—

“Wren.”

Talia’s voice cuts through everything. I turn. She’s at the edge of the set, tablet clutched against her chest, her expression tight.

Uh-oh. What now?

A pit forms in my stomach.

“Give me a minute,” I tell the photographer, slipping out of frame and walking toward her.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, already bracing.

Talia holds out the tablet and I already know I’m not going to like what I see.

“Interview aired last evening,” she says. “It’s making rounds now.”

I blink. “What interview?”

“Marlowe Gray.”

I don’t even flinch. Not anymore.

I press play.

The video loads before I even take a full breath. An interview excerpt of Marlowe in a studio lit to make her look like some delicate, overexposed angel. She’s draped in cream silk, hair styled within an inch of its life, all ease and charm.

“I’ve always believed that ethics in the beauty industry should come first,” she says, her voice honey-smooth. “Transparency matters to consumers.”

The interviewer leans in. “Would you say that’s true across the board?”

Marlowe’s expression shifts with faux measured concern. “Unfortunately, no. Some major players don’t hold themselves to the same standards. It’s disappointing and embarrassing to see big brands stealing concepts from smaller creators.”

She lets the words hang, then smiles. That awful, gracious smile.

“And then trying to divert attention with… PR stunts. Fake relationships. Sudden charitable giving. Calculated, not genuine.”

The interviewer leans in. “Are you saying there are people in the industry using PR to cover up bad behavior? Or scandals?”

“I’m just saying… It's interesting who wants to be seen as a hero all of a sudden. My point in whole is the beauty industry needs to hold itself to higher standards.”

I don’t realize I’ve clenched my teeth until my jaw starts to ache.

“She didn’t say your name,” Talia says, “but?—”

“She didn’t have to.”

Talia swipes the screen again.

“Right. Camille reposted Marlowe’s video on her Insta story last night.”

“They’re still going?”

“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 about Sean.

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.”

A flash. Then another. I keep going.

My voice doesn’t waver. My hands don't shake as I grip the product tube again, smile for the lens, and keep talking about formulas and texture. I speak with the clarity of someone who has nothing to prove because I don’t. Not anymore.

My mind is still on the shoot when my phone rings.

“Hey. I was planning on dropping by your place later today,” I say as I answer Jen’s call.

There’s a pause. Then a shaky inhale.

Her breath catches and she sniffs.

“Jen?” I straighten in my seat. “What happened?”

Her voice is small, so unlike the cheerful woman I know.

“I stopped by your office. Are you around?”

“Yes,” I say, already rising. “I’m coming there now.”

I wrap up at the studio and return to my office.

Jen is sitting on the edge of my couch, arms wrapped around herself, eyes red and swollen. My heart cracks.

“Oh, honey.”

She stands the moment she sees me and I catch her in my arms. She clings to me like she’s drowning, and I hold her tighter.

“I can’t believe this,” she whispers into my shoulder. “I feel so foolish, Wren.”

“You’re not. You’re not foolish. Talk to me. What happened?”

She pulls back enough to look at me. Her lips tremble.

“I thought he was going to propose. I’ve been thinking about it for weeks. How he’s been acting kind of different, like a brand new person. I thought… I thought it was nerves. Surprise. Like, ring-shopping nerves.”

She lets out a bitter laugh and wipes under her eyes.

“But it wasn’t that. He was hiding something. A woman sent me photos last night. Of her and Derek. Together. I confronted him, and he didn’t even deny it.”

I press a hand over my mouth, fury already lighting up my spine.

“He said… God, Wren, he said he knew he messed up, but he’s in love with me. That he bought a ring and he still wants to marry me. As if that fixes anything.”

Tears spill again, fresh and fast.

“I’m so sad,” she chokes out. “I’m so hurt. I don’t understand it. I don't understand why he would do that to me. To us.”

I guide her back to the couch, keeping my arms around her as she sinks into me, sobbing, and her body trembling.

“You didn’t deserve this. No one does.” I murmur. “You’re the most loyal, loving person I know. If he couldn’t see that, if he could hurt you like this then he doesn’t deserve to be in the same room as you, let alone marry you.”

She nods into my shoulder.

“I walked out. Left everything in his place, the key, the photos, the stupid half-finished takeout he ordered this morning like he hasn't been cheating on me until the previous week. I came straight here.”

“I’m so glad you did.” I squeeze her. “You’re not alone. You have me. Always.”

She pulls away with a shaky breath, her blue eyes shining with resolve.

“I can’t forgive him, Wren. I won’t.”

“You don’t have to. That’s not your burden to carry.”

I feel her nod. And even though her heart is broken, I know this is one of those moments she’ll look back on and realize it was a beginning disguised as an ending.

Just like I had to.

And right now, she doesn’t need silver linings or silver rings. She just needs her best friend and I’m right here.