Page 22 of Fake Lemons Love and Luxury

WREN

T he sun hangs low over the Hollywood Hills, casting a soft golden wash across the glass walls of the Elysian Conservatory. Perched at the edge of the cliffs, the venue feels like it’s floating—an open-air botanical haven wrapped in light and citrus.

This is the moment.

A gentle breeze carries the fresh scent of lemon blossom and eucalyptus over sleek white lounge chairs.

Every detail is curated from the silk canopy tents in soft cream to the interactive skincare stations with gold-rimmed mirrors, “Glow Lounge” wellness nooks where guests sip citrus-infused water and try facial mists infused with white lotus and lemon balm.

Above the arched entrance, delicate script glows in the light:

Reclaim Your Glow

The new Lemon Glow collection tagline—part mantra, part mission.

I stand just beyond the main pavilion adjusting the lapels of my cream silk blazer. Beneath it, a champagne slip dress shimmers faintly in the sun. It’s the most “me” I’ve felt in weeks.

I glance at the expanse in front of me. Hundreds of guests gathered, from glossy influencers to longtime investors, editors from Elle and Byrdie, loyal customers, fans and curious media.

Raj is straightening a product pedestal again. Talia is deep in conversation with a Vogue contributor, nodding with just the right amount of charisma and authority. Jen is surrounded by admirers, all shining hair and laughter, making everyone feel like her new best friend.

And Sean. He’s posted near the garden entrance in a charcoal gray suit that fits like it was made for him.

His stance is calm, but I know better. I know the way he’s tracking entrances, watching hands, glancing toward me every thirty seconds.

Our eyes meet, and the pressure in my chest lightens for the first time all day.

“Five minutes, Ms. Sinclair,” a headset-wearing coordinator whispers beside me.

I nod. I’ve practiced this speech dozens of times, but at this moment, all I want is to say something real. Something true.

The soft chime of a bell echoes through the space as the crowd’s attention focuses toward the stage. The garden quietens and photographers reposition. The sun slips a bit behind a cloud, bathing everything in diffused light like even the sky is cooperating.

I step up onto the platform, the city unfolding behind me like a painted backdrop.

“Good afternoon,” I begin, voice steady despite the thundering of my heart. “First, thank you. For joining us here today. For believing in us. For riding the wave, even when the waters got choppy.”

A few smiles. Curious eyes. I keep going.

“When I started Lemon LLC six years ago, I didn’t have a boardroom.

I didn’t have investors or press coverage.

I had a toddler who pressed his little hand to my cheek and told me, ‘Mama smells happy.’” I smile, and a ripple of warm laughter passes through the crowd.

“I’d been using homemade lemon balm. That moment is where this began.

In a moment of connection. And joy. It became the foundation for everything we built. ”

“I won’t pretend the last few months have been easy.

The accusations… the betrayal… the public spectacle—it shook me.

But it also reminded me why this company exists.

Lemon LLC was never just about beauty. It’s always been about healing.

Creating products that soothe. That reminds us of who we are. ”

I pause, letting my gaze wander across the audience. When it lands on Sean, I feel steadier. Grounded.

“That’s why today’s launch matters. We’ve named this Lemon Glow collection, Narrative, because it’s time to reclaim our story.”

There’s a soft gasp as the curtain behind me draws back, revealing rows of minimalist ivory packaging etched with gold lotus petals, sitting atop glass pedestals with soft backlighting. Sleek. Pure. Hopeful.

“Narrative features our signature lemon extract now paired with white lotus. White lotus is a flower that rises through murky water to bloom in perfection. Just like all of us. We rise. We bloom. We glow.”

Camera shutters click. Phones lift. Applause trickles in, soft at first, then grows into a chorus.

“I want to thank my efficient team for their tireless work and dedication to make this day a reality. I have the best team in the world and I’ll never not be thankful for them. Here’s to doing more great stuff with you all.”

My eyes darts to my executive team gathered near the podium. Talia smiles, giving me a nod.

“There’s one more person I need to acknowledge. Someone who reminded me that strength doesn’t always look loud or fearless. Sometimes it’s quiet. Steady. Sometimes it shows up wearing faded blue jeans and a Dodgers cap and refuses to let you go through it alone.”

I don’t say his name, but I don’t have to. The cameras find Sean, but no one else but I knows how real that gratitude is. How much more it means.

“This isn’t just another line of skincare. It’s a declaration. It’s a reminder that we don’t break. It’s a reminder that beauty lives in the comeback.”

Applause swells again as I step down. People swarm with congratulations, compliments, reporters with questions, cameras, cameras, cameras. I smile, I pose, I answer.

But my heart is somewhere else.

Later, I find him beneath the lemon trees. He’s watching me with that unreadable softness that makes me want to unravel.

“That was incredible,” he says, low and private, meant for my ears alone.

“I meant every word.” My voice wavers. “And the part about you.”

We speak at the same time. “Wren, I need to?—”

“Sean, I wanted to?—”

We laugh. The tension breaks.

“Let me go first,” I say, breath catching. “That night after the gala… it wasn’t pretend. None of this is pretend anymore. I know we said it would be temporary. Professional. But somewhere along the way, I—” My voice fails.

He’s still, his gaze holding me in place.

I continue.

“It scared me. That’s all. I thought… if I didn’t say it first, if I didn't call it a mistake, you would. I couldn't bear the thought.”

He steps closer, his hand grazing my face.

“It was never a mistake. I’ve been waiting for the best time to say this,” he says, his blue depths holding mine.

“To confess my feelings. I’m in love with you, Wren.

I love you and I don't want to keep it to myself anymore.

I want something real with you. I don't care for the cameras.

I don't care for whatever people on the internet have to say.

I don't care about the conspiracies or whatever. I know what's real. I just want…you.”

Joy swells inside me. And then?—

Oh God.

A wave of nausea crashes through me. I stagger.

His hand catches my elbow. “Wren?”

“You okay?”

“I... I think I need to sit down?—”

But it’s too late. I turn and bolt, making it to a nearby restroom just as I crash to my knees, the floor cold beneath me. I empty my stomach.

Humiliation burns hot through my veins. Of all the possible reactions to a love confession, this has to be the worst.

A soft knock. “Wren? Do you want me to get Jen?”

I rinse my mouth, my reflection pale and wide-eyed.

“I’m okay,” I lie. “Just... stress.”

“You’re not.” He presses the back of his hand to my forehead. “This isn’t the first time this week you’ve looked pale. I’m taking you to the hospital.”

“I can’t?—”

“Yes, you can.” His tone is final. “I’m taking you to the hospital. No arguing.”

I don’t. I’m too dizzy.

We slip out through the service corridor.

Talia catches my eye, her worry obvious, but I give her a small nod.

She’ll handle the rest of the event. Jen is sitting with Raj and Ava, laughing at something Raj said.

She walks over, offering to come with us but I know Raj is enjoying his conversation with her far too much.

I insist she enjoy the rest of the event.

At the hospital, everything moves fast. Blood is drawn. Blood pressure taken. Questions and more questions. Sean waits outside while I sit, feeling fragile in a way I haven’t since Eric was born.

The doctor returns with a kind smile and a clipboard.

“Ms. Sinclair,” she says. “You’re pregnant. About six weeks.”

The words flatten me.I blink.

“Pregnant?”

She nods. “Would you like me to send in your partner?”

Partner. The word makes my throat tighten. I nod.

The second she leaves, I feel the walls close in. Six weeks. The gala. The night everything changed.

Sean comes in, worry etched into every line of his face. I can’t even speak. I just look at him.

“What is it? Are you okay?”

“I’m pregnant,” I say.

His eyes widen and then soften.

“You’re pregnant,” he echoes. The way his voice changes with wonder softening every word makes my breath catch. “Our baby?”

I nod, already bracing for him to bolt. To back away.

My throat tightens. “I didn’t plan this. I don’t expect anything. If this is too much?—”

Sean silences me with his hand on mine.

“Wren.” His voice breaks a little. “Tonight I told you I love you. Why would it change now? Why would I leave? This doesn’t scare me. It makes me more sure. It grounds me. I want this. I want us.”

I shake my head, overwhelmed. “But we’re still figuring us out.”

“We’ll figure it out together.”

He kneels in front of me, hands cradling mine.

“I want you. I want Eric. I want this baby. I want a life that doesn’t end when the job does.”

“I love you,” I whisper. “I didn’t expect any of this but I love you. Even when I didn’t want to. Even when I was afraid.”

I sob. He gathers me close. His arms are strong and steady, and he holds me like he’s never letting go.

He murmurs into my hair, “This is real. This is everything.”

In his arms, beneath harsh hospital lights, for the first time in a long, long time, everything feels just right.