Page 20 of Fake Lemons Love and Luxury

WREN

L ily’s gone. Just like that.

Behind it all, I can still feel the crack left behind by her betrayal.

Lily wasn’t just an assistant, she was a friend.

Someone who once knew every schedule of my life, who has been there during my vulnerable moments, turned out to be a foe.

And she didn’t just forward a few emails or steal a sample.

She gave Marlowe our concept decks, pre-launch formulas, even the pitch notes for our biggest investor call. Everything that mattered.

And she smiled in my face while she did it.

Talia handled the termination with precision. I signed off on it without flinching. I didn’t ask for an explanation. I didn’t want one. Some betrayals don’t deserve a postmortem.

The scandal is dying. Headlines have shifted. Marlowe’s stunt fizzled fast after the leaked chats. Lemon LLC’s inbox is filled with investor reassurances and cautious congratulations.

I meet with the comms team to finalize a press release, sign off on the media calendar, and lock in the launch date. Again.

Five days.

The launch is happening.

I should be thrilled. I’ve worked for this for years.

It should feel like a win.

Instead, it just feels... quiet.

The smell of citrus and heat fills the air as I step onto the studio floor, my heels clicking against the polished concrete. Massive reflector panels bounce sunlight across a mock lemon grove, and just beyond, the photographer’s assistant calls out lighting adjustments.

The product shoot needed to be redone, though with the same clean aesthetic but tighter messaging now. The original assets were compromised, thanks to Lily’s leak, so my team and I work around the clock. We reframe the brand story, emphasizing transparency, innovation, authenticity.

Talia stands beside me, arms crossed, watching our new campaign unfold in real time.

“It’s stronger than the original,” she says under her breath, and I know she’s right.

Everything’s sharper now. Clearer. The model’s dress is simpler, the colors richer. There’s a glass bottle in her hand—our serum in its final packaging—held up like it’s some kind of salvation. And maybe it is.

Raj leans toward me. “We’re leaning all the way in on transparency,” he murmurs. “Organic sourcing, no filters, full ingredient traceability. People want the truth now.”

Especially after everything that has happened.

I cross my arms, jaw tight. “Good.”

The camera flashes.

Talia nudges me. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” I lie. “Just thinking.”

We watch the hero shot get re-framed. The model laughs on cue, sun glinting off her skin as she tosses a lemon into the air. It lands in the basket beside her.

Perfect. Polished. Just like we need it to be.

We have just five days left before the launch, and this reshoot cost us three. The team is exhausted. I haven’t slept a full night since Lily was escorted out.

Talia hands me her tablet with the preliminary ad layout mocked up. I swipe through the pages—sun-washed photography, a new slogan: Clean. Real. Uncompromised.

“It’s good,” I murmur. “Real good.”

“You want to feel like you won,” she says, “but mostly you feel like someone stabbed you and walked away.”

I glance at her. “That obvious?”

Talia lifts a shoulder. “Only because I know you.”

I don’t answer. Instead, I step closer to the set, watching the model do a slow spin as the wind machine picks up the hem of her dress. For a second, I forget the bitterness. The betrayal. I just see what we’re building. What we’re fighting to protect.

But the moment the last shoot wraps, and the crew starts packing up, a sharp emptiness cuts through her.

Because Sean hasn’t touched me since I pushed him away.

He’s still here. Still guarding me, still watching every car that passes, still checking the perimeters each night.

But he doesn’t linger in the kitchen anymore.

He doesn't find reasons to sit beside me on the couch.

He doesn't tease me about my caffeine addiction or correct my terrible knife skills when he watches me cook.

He’s careful now.

Detached.

Just the way I asked him to be.

So why does my heart ache? Why do I miss him? Why do I yearn for affection? For his attention?

“I need to go,” I say all of a sudden, handing the tablet back to Talia.

“Where?”

“Home.”

The drive is short, but my mind runs in loops the whole way. Not about the shoot or the product timeline or Lily’s betrayal. But about Sean. About the way he looked at me after Lily was dismissed. Like he was waiting for me to say something. Like maybe he didn’t want to walk away after all.

But I let him.

I slow the car into the driveway, surprised to find the front yard occupied.

There’s a lemonade stand with a bright yellow construction paper taped to the front with a misspelled sign in crayon: “Eric’s Lemonaid.”

Sean and Eric are crouched behind it, pouring from a plastic pitcher into two tiny cups, surrounded by wood, paint cans, and a bucket of real lemons.

I park and step out of the car, smiling despite the ache in my chest.

“Mommy!” Eric calls out, waving a paintbrush. “Look what we made!”

“Wow. It looks amazing.”

“Want to try my lemonade? Sean helped me squeeze the lemons.”

I walk over and take the little cup he offers. It’s warm and a little too sweet.

I drink every drop.

“It’s perfect,” I say.

Eric beams again.

“We’re calling it Eric’s Lemonaid,” he announces. “With real flavors and a real sign!”

Sean stands, brushing sawdust from his jeans. “He’s got a strong entrepreneurial streak.”

“Hmm. I wonder where he gets it,” I tease, letting my eyes linger on him a moment too long.

He says nothing.

“Are you hungry?” I ask, surprising myself.

Sean hesitates before nodding. “Sure.”

That night, after Eric’s asleep and the dishes are done, we sit on the back patio. The air is cool and the stars are sharp above us, and for a few seconds, it almost feels like everything is okay.

I hand him a glass of wine. He takes it without speaking.

“Thank you,” I say. “For today. For looking out for us. For… everything.”

He watches me. Eyes unreadable.

“It kind of sounds like you’re saying goodbye,” he says.

I let out a quiet laugh. “I guess we’ll all be going back to our lives soon. I’ll return back to my home, and then you can have your house back to yourself.”

“That’s good, I guess. You deserve peace.”

“I know I don't say this often but it’s nice having you around. You’ve helped me hold it all together when I felt like I was losing control.”

He looks at me, twirling the glass of wine in his hand.

“You never lost control. You made decisions. You trusted the wrong person. That’s not the same thing.”

“It feels the same,” I admit. “Sometimes.”

There’s a pause. He shifts in his seat, face half in shadow.

“Are we just going back to how things were, Wren?” he asks.

My chest tightens. I don't answer right away.

Sean finishes his wine, then sets the glass down on the table between us. “I hope not.”

My pulses races.

Sean doesn’t speak for a long time.

“I meant what I said,” he says at last, voice low. “This stopped being pretend a long time ago.”

I stare at him, the truth of it settling like a weight in my bones. “I don’t know what to do with that,” I whisper.

“You don’t have to do anything.” He reaches for my hand. “Just don’t run.”

I don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s me. Maybe it’s him.

But then his mouth is on mine, and everything inside me cracks wide open. The kiss is desperate, furious, almost painful in its intensity. Weeks of space, of ache, of unsaid things poured into every stroke of his tongue, every movement of his mouth against mine.

His hands are rough as they tug me closer, sliding beneath my blouse, finding bare skin. I gasp as his palm grazes the side of my breast and then moan when his mouth trails hotly down my neck, my collarbone, my shoulder.

“Sean—”

The kiss deepens and my hands clutch the front of his shirt like I’m afraid he’ll disappear. He pulls me closer, one arm sliding around my waist, the other cupping the back of my head. The patio fades away. The stars blur overhead.

His hands skim my waist, my hips, my thighs. My skirt rides up as I press against him, needy, aching, undone. My fingers tug at his shirt, slipping beneath the fabric to feel the warm, solid strength of him.

Then, all of a sudden, his heat is gone. He pulls away.

“Wren,” he breathes, shoving a hand over his face, and in the moonlight, his salt-and-pepper hair gleams like a crown.

“I don’t want space tonight,” I whisper, my fingers trembling as I reach out and between my thighs, my wetness aches with need. “Not from you.”

Something breaks in him at that.

His blue eyes cloud. “Oh, Wren…”

He lifts me, and I wrap my legs around his waist, clutching his shoulders as he carries me through the hallway. We don’t make it to a bedroom. He lowers me onto the couch, his mouth never leaving mine.

We undress each other slowly and then all at once. Lips dragging, hands exploring, the quiet sound of breath and fabric filling the space between us. My body is still humming with grief, exhaustion, pride, and uncertainty, and he feels it all. He reads me like a language he’s known forever.

When he enters me, it’s with a reverence that shatters me.

I gasp his name, head falling back as he fills me deep and steady, grounding me with every slow thrust. My hands cling to his back. My legs tremble around his waist. He kisses my throat, my collarbone, and the inside of my wrist.

“I missed you,” he whispers, voice breaking. “Even when you were right in front of me.”

Tears sting my eyes.

I arch into him, meeting every movement, chasing that breathless pleasure. It’s not just about sex. It’s about being seen. Being held. Being his.

We move together.

I come apart with his name on my lips, and he follows soon after, burying his face in my neck, both of us shaking in the afterglow.

“I’ve missed you too.” My voice is small, my fingers trailing his skin like a treasure map.

He doesn’t let me go. He wraps me in his arms like I’m something fragile, something worth protecting, and for the first time in days, I feel like I can breathe.