Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
FINN
The flash flood tore through camp, leaving a wreck.
Everyone made it to the ridge—that's something.
Most of our gear didn't. Some tents ripped to shreds, cameras soaked, food gone.
I stand at the edge of the devastation, tallying the damage while the crew pokes through the mud for anything worth saving. Not much left.
“We're down to half rations,” I announce, finishing my inventory. “Four tents saved out of seven, most sleeping bags intact but soaked. One satellite phone still working, and our water purification equipment survived.”
Elliott paces, his clipboard abandoned in favor of his satellite phone. “The network is going to lose their minds when they hear we're behind schedule.”
“The network will be more concerned about keeping their star alive,” I counter, my attention on Lena across the clearing.
She works alongside Carlos, dabbing water from soaked camera cases, her movements quick and efficient, removing memory cards and batteries from the equipment that might be salvageable.
“At least we got incredible footage of the flood,” Elliott says, already focused on ratings. “Lena's reaction when she saw that wall of debris coming was priceless. Pure terror, what we needed.”
I turn to face him. “You understand we're in actual danger here, right? This isn't a performance.”
He has the decency to look embarrassed. “Of course. Safety first. But we might as well capture interesting footage while we're at it.”
We move toward the center of our makeshift camp, grateful no one had been inside the tents when the flood hit.
The ground is saturated now, which eliminates the risk of wildfire—good, because we'll need heat fast. Carlos and Javier shake out wet sleeping bags, searching for a place to dry them.
We have to get a fire started—the sooner we generate enough heat, the faster we can dry what's left of our gear.
With eight people and only four shelters, we'll need to double up tonight, relying on body heat to keep warm when the temperatures drop.
My attention drifts to Lena as she checks the tent poles, her hands now steady and sure, making quick work of the task.
There's no hesitation, no need to prove anything—quiet skill and focus.
The realization hits me hard—how much I've misjudged her.
Not because she put on an act, but because I was too damn stubborn to see past the Hollywood bullshit.
Dave's shout slices through the clearing. “Hey, boss! Found a beehive the flood knocked down.”
“Stay clear of it,” I call back, moving toward him. “If the colony survived, they'll be aggressive.”
Dave gives a nod but leans closer. “Think there's any honey? I've seen survival shows where they?—”
“Dave, back away. Now.” Too late. His startled yelp echoes through the trees as he stumbles back, swatting at his arms and neck. “They're on me! Get them off!”
I break into a run as he collapses to his knees, welts blooming across his skin.
Carlos throws the med kit my way. I tear it open and curse.
No EpiPen. No antihistamines. Gauze, antiseptic, aspirin.
The backup kit. The other one went downstream.
Dave's breath comes fast, his skin flushed and swelling.
“I saw plantain by the creek,” Lena says, her voice cutting through the rising panic.
“I'll get it.” Before I can even process what she's said, let alone give an okay, she's moving.
Despite that ankle, she's running—favoring the leg, yeah, but fast. Plantain?
How the hell does she know about plantain?
The rest of us huddle around Dave, trying to keep him calm. She returns minutes later, breathless, muddy, and clutching a bundle of broad green leaves.
“Here it is,” she says, dropping to her knees. “I need water and a cloth. Honey if we have it.”
Carlos passes her a canteen. Elliott pulls a bandana from his pocket. Someone hands her a honey packet from the salvaged food rations. She crushes the leaves between two flat rocks, adding water and honey until it becomes a thick green paste.
As she works, I can’t help thinking the tin of salve May gave me—the one that worked wonders on bites—would’ve been perfect for this. But it’s long gone, swept away with the rest of our gear in the flood.
She applies the paste to Dave’s arms and neck, her movements deliberate and sure. “This should pull out the venom and calm the inflammation. Keep him upright and monitor his breathing.”
Dave flinches at first but then lets out a shaky breath. The panic in his eyes fade. The welts stop growing. His breathing evens out.
“Thank you,” he wheezes, his attention riveted on Lena with new respect.
“Don’t thank me yet,” she says, preparing a fresh batch of the poultice. “We need to leave this on and make you a tea from the same plant. The reaction could return if we’re not careful.”
While she works, I check Dave’s pulse and airways, confirming what’s already clear—he’s out of immediate danger. The crew watches in silent amazement as Lena, covered in mud from the flash flood and working with primitive tools, continues to treat him with calm, steady hands.
As we lift Dave, Elliott regards her. “Where'd you learn to do all that?”
Lena doesn't hesitate. “Research for the role,” she says with an airy shrug. The actress is back. Smooth deflection. But why deflect now, after yesterday?
As we haul Dave to one of the tents, I look over at her. “You know,” I say, “you don't look like someone with a sprained ankle.”
She doesn't lift her eyes. “Adrenaline's a hell of a drug.”
I nod, but I'm not thinking about the adrenaline.
I'm thinking about her—the Lena beneath the image, the one who ran on an injured leg to grab leaves she remembered seeing in a patch of mud.
The one who moved like a woman trained by someone who loved her enough to pass down generations of knowledge.
“The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, huh?” I offer, trying to make it easy.
She huffs a soft laugh. “Oh, my mother was useless in a crisis. Perhaps that's why Memaw spent so much time with me. She wanted someone to carry it on.”
“She picked the right girl.”
She regards me, then turns away, busying herself with the poultice again. I let it go. For now.
Elliott's voice breaks the quiet. “Finn! How long before Dave can travel? We need to get moving if we're going to make up lost time.”
I finally turn on him, the anger I've been swallowing since the ravine incident boiling over.
“The only reason we've 'lost time,' Elliott, is because you wouldn't listen to me.
Lena's ankle, the flash flood, all of it—this entire mess is on you because you had to get your perfect shot,” I say, leaving no room for argument. “We're staying put.”
Elliott has the decency to flush, grumbling as he stalks away.
With Dave stable and the immediate crisis over, we turn our attention to making camp functional. The sun hangs low, casting long shadows across the clearing. Time to prioritize what matters most.
“First priority is fire,” I say, gathering the driest kindling I can find. “Then we pack the remaining food and secure the perimeter.”
Lena kneels beside me, arranging tinder. “I'll help. Once we get it going, we can start drying the sleeping bags.”
Our fingers work in tandem, building a small tepee of twigs and strips of birch bark I'd collected earlier. Within minutes, we have a spark caught and nursed into a flame. Lena feeds it with patience, adding fuel with precision, surprising me with her skill.
“Girl Scouts,” she offers, seeing my expression. “Plus, I’ve watched a few survival reality shows.”
Carlos and Dave construct a makeshift rack near the growing fire, where saturated sleeping bags hang steaming in the heat.
Elliott directs a camera operator to capture it all, the lens focusing on Lena's determined expressions as she sorts through the supplies, separating what can be saved from what cannot.
I turn back in time to see Lena kneeling by the stream, washing her hands with care. I join her, collecting water. “Dave's resting easier. Color's back.”
She nods. “Keep giving him the tea. It'll help.”
“I will. And thank you. ”
She shrugs. “Right plants. Right place.”
“No,” I say, my voice gentle. “That was you. That was knowledge.”
She meets my eyes at last. “My grandmother always said the plants know what to do. You have to listen.”
“Smart woman.”
Lena's lips curve. “The smartest. But the world I chose didn't value her kind of wisdom.”
“Perhaps you chose the wrong world.”
She doesn't respond at first, but then, in a low voice, she says, “Perhaps I did.”
A silence falls between us, warm and weighted. She lifts her hand from the water, droplets catching the sun. Without thinking, I catch one with my thumb. Her breath hitches. Our eyes meet and hold.
“Finn,” she whispers.
“Lena! We need you for the recovery scene!” Elliott again, with his impeccable timing.
She pulls her arm away, rising with a wince.
“You should rest that ankle,” I say.
“Some things are worth the pain,” she says, brushing my hand as she walks past.
I watch her cross the clearing. The crew nods as she passes. Even Elliott regards her differently. Something changed today. Not in them. In her. The mask isn't gone, but it's thinner now. And I wonder if what's underneath might be worth risking everything for.
As I prepare our reduced rations, my attention keeps sliding her way.
Once, our eyes meet across the camp, and she doesn’t look away.
A slight upturn tugs at the corner of her mouth—not the polished, on-cue smile she gives the camera, but something smaller.
Quieter. Real. Warmth meant only for me.
The realization hits with a dangerous jolt.
This expedition has enough complications without adding unexpected feelings for a woman who lives in a different world.
A woman who will return to Hollywood when this is over, slipping back into the role society expects her to play.
Yet as she helps distribute the meal, stopping to check on Dave with concern, I find it difficult to remember why maintaining professional distance matters.
Especially when her fingers brush mine as she accepts her portion, the contact brief but electric.
“Careful,” she says. “It's hot.” Her words could apply to more than the food and judging by the way her eyes linger on mine, she knows it too.
The sun drops behind the treetops, washing the sky in rust and fading gold. Around our fire, the sleeping bags finish drying, the last bit of steam gone from the fabric.
Elliott stands, clipboard in hand, assessing our four remaining tents. “Carlos, Dave and I will bunk with a crew member in three tents.” His eyes move meaningfully between Lena and me. “That leaves you two in the fourth.”
Lena rises from beside the fire, where she's been checking the dried sleeping bags. “You're sure that's the best arrangement?”
Elliott's lips curl into a smirk that doesn't reach his eyes.
“Absolutely. Makes the most logistical sense.” The way he says it makes it clear that logistics are the last thing on his mind.
I recognize the calculation instantly. The casual suggestion, the manufactured proximity—it's the tension he mentioned wanting to “play up” for the cameras.
The network's grand plan unfolding in real time.
“I'm fine with it if Finn is,” Lena says, turning to me. “You're the wilderness expert, after all.”
The crew exchanges knowing glances. Carlos finds his bootlaces fascinating. The others busy themselves with equipment, but not before I catch their raised eyebrows .
“Fine by me,” I say, keeping my voice neutral. “We need to conserve body heat.”
Elliott cannot hide his triumphant grin. “Perfect. The wilderness survival expert and the star sharing shelter. Very ... authentic.”
Lena gives him a cool stare. “Practical, Elliott. The word you're seeking is practical.”
But Elliott's expression tells me everything I need to know. This is what he wanted—physical proximity creating emotional stakes, the tension he promised the network. In his mind, the ratings are already climbing.
Night falls with unnerving speed across our makeshift camp. Stars pierce the darkness overhead—brilliant pinpricks through black velvet, untouched by city lights. The fire crackles, casting long shadows across tired faces as we finish our meager dinner and administer Dave's medicine.
“They all think we're waiting until they sleep before slipping away together,” she says, voice low enough that only I can hear.
I poke the dying embers. “Elliott probably has a camera ready.”
Her laugh comes soft in the darkness. “Wouldn't be the first time someone tried to manufacture a scandal around me.”
“Is that what this is? Manufacturing a scandal?”
She meets my eyes, the firelight casting her features in gold. “No. This is surviving.”
She registers my expression. “Stop looking like I surprise you by breathing. I'm capable of more than any of us thought, me included.”
“I could sleep by the fire,” I offer. “You don't have to sacrifice your privacy.”
“My privacy?” The bitter edge in her laugh surprises me. “That commodity got sold years ago. ”
One by one, headlamps extinguish as people retreat to their assigned shelters, bodies craving rest after the day's trials.
Professional boundaries be damned. We're in this situation together, and with each passing day, Lena Kensington is making it harder for me to remember why getting involved would be a terrible idea.
The worst part? I'm starting not to care.