Page 4 of Fake Lemons Love and Luxury

SEAN

T he conference room at Montclair Protection Services feels like a war room today.

I've gathered my best people—my investigation team that handles the sensitive cases requiring more than muscle.

The morning light streams through the windows, casting long shadows across the polished oak table where three of my most trusted team members wait.

“What do we have on Camille Ross?” I drop her name like a grenade into the silent room.

Cal, our cyber specialist, clicks his laptop. His fingers move across the keyboard with practiced efficiency, the blue light from his screen reflecting off his glasses.

“On the surface? Twenty-seven, beauty blogger turned skincare influencer. Around twenty thousand followers before this drama. Now? Pushing three hundred thousand and climbing.”

“The general public loves a good scandal, huh,” I mutter, leaning against the edge of the table.

“That's just the beginning.” Cal turns his screen toward me. The graph on display shows a near-vertical line of growth. “Look at these analytics. Her engagement spiked almost overnight. That doesn't happen organically, not like this.”

“Bots?”

“Some. But there's more.” He pulls up another screen showing a timeline of posts and shares. “Her posts attacking Lemon LLC were amplified by several high-profile accounts within minutes of posting. Almost like…”

“Almost like they were waiting for it,” I finish. I feel a familiar tension in my shoulders. The kind I get when something doesn't add up on a protection detail.

Camille’s online footprint spreads out in front of me like a roadmap to nowhere. I scroll through a series of posts. I grunt. They’re too clean, too fast, too well-targeted for a small influencer without any backing.

Dani, my head of investigations, leans forward. Her dark hair is pulled back in a severe ponytail, matching her no-nonsense attitude. “We checked her background. Until two months ago, she was struggling. Missed rent twice. Then suddenly, new apartment, upgraded equipment, designer clothes.”

“Payoff?”

“We can’t prove it yet, but yeah, looks that way.

” She slides a folder across the table. “To everyone else, she went viral off one accusation.

The public reaction, influencer reposts, and press traction are given.

But here, credit card statements show purchases she couldn't afford before.

Someone's financing her newfound lifestyle.”

I rub my clean-shaven jaw. “Keep digging. Something doesn't add up.”

Marcus speaks up from the corner where he's been observing. “What about the timing of the attacks? Is there a pattern?”

“Great question.” Cal's voice drops as he pulls up a new window on his laptop. “There’s the curious question of the timing of her social posts. They're coordinated with major media outlets within minutes. Someone's feeding her information about when stories are dropping.”

“Or she's feeding them.” I stand up, pacing the length of the conference room. The city skyline stretches out beyond the windows, but my focus is on the case. “Or someone else is coordinating both.”

The room goes quiet as they watch me process. I've been in this business long enough to recognize a hit job. This isn't random internet drama. This is calculated.

“What about the package deliveries?” I ask, stopping my pacing. “Any leads on who sent them?”

Dani shakes her head. “One thing to keep in mind is that these hate mails aren’t out of nature during a hate train. Celebrities often get disturbing things delivered to them.”

“True. But based on how coordinated the media attacks are, this could also be orchestrated. Perhaps part crazies, part coordinated attack. They may be hoping this will blow over without proper investigation to prove that this might be a planned scheme.”

“I agree with Sean,” Marcus says. “The deliveries are paid in cash, different courier services each time. Whoever's doing this knows how to cover their tracks. And that suggests professional involvement. Not just an angry influencer with a grudge.”

I give a slow nod. “My thoughts as well. This is too coordinated, too precise.”

“What's your connection to Ms. Sinclair anyway?” Cal asks, his curiosity getting the better of him. “Jen mentioned you've known her for years.”

“Keep this quiet,” I say, ignoring his question. “I don't want anyone knowing what we've found until we're sure. Keep digging into Camille's finances, her connections, and her social circle. Find the link.”

“What about Ms. Sinclair?” Dani asks, closing her folder. “Will you be handling her security? Any of our top agents could do that. Nate is an excellent option.”

“I'll handle Wren.” The familiar way her name slips out catches me off guard. “Ms. Sinclair,” I correct myself, ignoring the knowing look Dani and Cal exchange.

“Dig deeper into her connections. Find out who she met within the last three months.”

“On it, boss.” Cal closes his laptop with a snap.

“And pull her travel records,” I add. “Credit card statements, hotel bookings. I want to know if she ever crossed paths with Wren—Ms. Sinclair—before this mess started.”

“You think they have history?” Marcus asks.

“I think nothing’s coincidental in cases like this.”

The meeting breaks up, my team filing out with their assignments.

I remain behind, staring at the photos of Camille Ross pinned to our evidence board.

I’ve watched her tearful videos claiming victimhood but I don't buy it. Not for a second. It’s insane to me how everyone else can’t see through the faux tears.

I gulp down my cup of coffee which have now turned lukewarm. But public opinion is fickle and whatever is trending is truth to most people. If this is an orchestrated attack, whoever the person leading is must be well-versed in stirring the public.

My phone buzzes with a text from Jen: How's it going? Wren okay?

I reply: Working on it. She's safe.

What I don't tell my daughter is how my professional detachment is slipping by the hour. How watching Wren maintain her composure through the vitriol stirs something in me I thought long buried.

It's past nine when I get back home. I head straight to my home office. The house is quiet after driving Wren home that evening to assess her place and meet her son. The contrast between the two homes is stark. Hers is filled with toys, colorful artwork, and the constant background noise of life being lived. Mine is a large and quiet bachelor’s den. Functional, not lived in.

I pour myself two fingers of bourbon and open my laptop. The amber liquid gives a pleasurable burn as I settle into the familiar routine of late-night analysis.

The secured folder contains every threatening message Wren has received. They're organized by date, each one cataloged with its method of delivery and any forensic evidence my team could gather. Some are standard internet vitriol, the kind any public figure receives. Others are more sinister.

I scroll through them again, looking for something I missed. Social media hate, angry emails, the occasional disturbing letter. But there's a pattern in the escalation. The timing. The specificity.

One message catches my eye again: “You can't hide behind your fancy creams forever. I know where you sleep.”

It arrived the day after an exclusive home tour was published in a design magazine. The photo they ran showed her bedroom window. Not a coincidence.

I pull up the magazine spread on my second monitor. Wren standing in her bedroom, sunlight streaming through the distinctive bay window. The same window is visible from the street. A security nightmare that I've already addressed with additional monitoring.

My phone buzzes.

Cal: Found something. Camille Ross had dinner at Jerkins three months ago. Guess who else was there that night?

I wait, taking another sip of bourbon. The ice clinks against the glass in the silence of my empty house.

Marlowe Skye. Famous actress. Private room. No photos, but confirmed by staff.

Another text with a link to an interview of Marlowe Skye.

Search Marlowe Skye and Wren Sinclair. They were once co-stars and she launched her skincare line, Nova Grey, not too long ago. It hasn’t been well to match its enormous investment.

Marlowe Skye. I look her up. A glamorous and stunning A-list actress.

Wren's former co-star from her acting days. I scroll the internet, consuming news about the actress. She’s no stranger to drama at all.

From being embroiled in scandals on set to accepting an award half-drunk, her power couple relationship with a famous actor crumbling two years ago, to the actor getting married to another actress.

Marlowe Skye’s public persona is chaotic.

I scroll through the news of her new acting project directed by acclaimed director, Peeta Eduardo, and the new product launch of her beauty line.

It seems to be in line with her revamped public image to be classy yet ambitious.

I click on an article where the writer talks about the new product, which has been gaining buzz in light of the disappointing reveals concerning Lemon LLC.

The new Nova Grey light-weight miracle face cream is described as the saving grace of the company, which hasn’t performed as well as expected.

A piece clicks into place. The orchestrated media attacks. The inside information. The timed leaks.

I pull up Marlowe's social media profiles. Her last interview was two months ago before the scandal broke where she addressed consumer’s comments on her product.

On the surface, it appears like a normal interview but there is a recent repost of the article.

A part where she addressed the subject of truth and accountability in the beauty industry.

No direct mentions of Wren or Lemon LLC, of course. Too smart for that. But I don’t miss that the timing of her vague posts about “integrity” align with the attacks on Wren.

I lean into my chair, taking a long swallow of bourbon, letting it burn down my throat. My job is to keep clients safe. But this? This is different. Personal vendettas played out in the public eye, targeting not just Wren's business but her reputation, and her peace of mind.

I pull up Wren's file again, studying her face in the profile photo.

The confident smile in this photo against the tired smile she wears of late.

The vulnerability she's trying so hard to hide.

During my initial assessment, I saw beyond the polished CEO exterior.

I saw a woman fighting to protect what she's built from nothing.

What's Marlowe's angle? Professional jealousy? A business rivalry? Something more personal from their Hollywood days?

I make a note to have Marcus dig deeper into their shared history. There's always something. Perhaps an old slight, a role stolen, a man caught between them. All feuds spring from somewhere.

My phone rings, startling me. Wren's name flashes on the screen. It's almost 1 AM. Much too late for a routine call.

“Sean?” Her voice is small, tight with fear. “I got another package. On my doorstep. In my home.”

My body tenses, adrenaline washing away the bourbon's relaxing effects. “Don't touch it,” I say with controlled calm. “Where's Eric?”

“Asleep. It must’ve been there after you left. Saw it on my doorstep when I took out the trash.”

I glance at the time and frown. Why is she taking out trash at this hour? Then it hits me. She can't sleep either. The stress is eating at her just as it is me.

“What does it look like?”

I'm already grabbing my keys, tucking my gun into its holster at my lower back.

“A small box, gift-wrapped.” There’s a slight waver in her phone. “There's a card with my name on it.”

“I'm on my way. Don't touch it, don't move it. Stay inside, doors locked.”

“I know basic protocol, Sean.” A hint of her usual strength returns to her voice. “This isn't my first hate mail.”

“But it's escalating.” I'm already out the door, phone to my ear as I stride toward my SUV. “And now they're delivering at night.”

“I'll be there in fifteen minutes. Stay on the line with me.”

“I need to check on Eric.”

“Go ahead, but come right back.” I slide into the driver's seat, starting the engine. “Keep talking to me, Wren.”

I hear her soft footsteps, the gentle creak of a door opening. Her whispered reassurance that Eric is sound asleep. Her measured breathing as she returns to her living room, watching the front door as if it might burst open at any moment.

“Still there?” I ask as I navigate the empty streets.

“Still here.” She pauses. “I feel stupid now, calling you in the middle of the night.”

“Don't.” My voice comes out rougher than intended. “Never hesitate. That's what I'm here for.”

“To rush to my rescue at 1 AM?”

“If that's what it takes.”

“Thank you,” she says in a whisper so soft that I almost miss it.

“Almost there,” I respond, not trusting myself with anything more personal.