Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
LENA
The metallic scrape of tent poles collapsing jolts me from a restless sleep.
Outside, the sounds of departure are underway—murmured voices, the clatter of cook gear being packed, the rustle of sleeping bags being stuffed into sacks.
It's the last morning of this. The finality of it sits like a stone in my stomach, mixing with the hurt that's been eating at me for days—ever since Finn chose his pride, his damn lodge, over us.
In my tent, listening to everyone else getting ready to leave together, I've never felt more alone.
Packing up is different today. There’s a sense of an ending, though whether it’s the end of the expedition or the end of something more fragile remains uncertain.
The crew moves with a subdued efficiency, the usual banter replaced by quiet focus.
We’re all tired, worn down by the challenges, ready for the relative comfort of the lodge. Ready for hot showers and real beds.
I avoid looking at Finn as we eat a quick breakfast of lukewarm oatmeal.
He stands apart, speaking in a low voice with Carlos about the route down, his face locked in the stoic mask he’s worn like armor these past few days.
He favors his left side, movements tight and deliberate, though he tries to hide it.
My eyes catch on the bandage peeking out beneath his rolled-up sleeve. Last night, sitting near the fire, he offered a clipped update—”Bandage is holding”—a statement more about pushing me away than keeping me informed. Not an invitation. Just a line drawn in the ash.
He made his choice. Handle it yourself.
We set out, leaving the basin behind, the sun climbing, promising warmth later in the day. The descent is easier than the climbs we’ve endured. The path, though still muddy in places and littered with debris from the flood, follows the stream’s gradient downward.
Yet, the easier terrain does little to ease the tension coiling inside me.
With every step taking us closer to the lodge, closer to reliable communication, closer to the life I left behind, the questions loom larger.
What happens now? What happens when the wilderness is no longer forcing us together, when the demands of our separate realities replace the demands of survival?
Finn walks point, setting a brisk pace—eager to get back as much as the rest of us, though probably for different reasons.
He moves with a relentless determination, pushing through pain I know is still there.
I watch the steady set of his shoulders, the way he reads the trail with instinct, making subtle adjustments to account for his injuries.
He’s a force of nature in his own right—rugged, unyielding, and as impenetrable right now.
I fall in behind Jake and Marco, letting space grow between me and Finn.
It’s easier this way. Less temptation to close the distance.
Less risk of being shut out again. I focus on the rhythm of hiking—the pressure of the trail beneath my boots; the forest sounds waking around us.
Birdsong. The rush of the stream growing louder as we descend.
The crunch of gravel underfoot. It’s peaceful, but my mind refuses to follow.
Elliott, sensing the end is near—and perhaps aware the drama has cooled into silence—mostly leaves us alone, focusing his crew on B-roll: sunlight through trees, water tumbling over rocks, wide shots of the trail.
Every so often, he directs me to look “thoughtfully reflective” or “wearily triumphant,” and I oblige.
The actress takes over, delivering on cue.
Slipping into that familiar role is easy, almost comforting.
But after the rawness of these past weeks, it doesn’t fit the way it used to.
We cover miles. The air grows warmer, heavier with the scent of damp earth and pine resin, replacing the thin, sharp edge of the high alpine meadows.
The trees rise taller now, crowding closer.
The world presses in—less exposed, more intimate.
Part of me welcomes the return to lower ground, the promise of comfort and safety.
Another part mourns the loss of the vast, stark beauty of the peaks—the raw simplicity, the clarity that came when life was stripped down to the bare bones.
By mid-afternoon, a familiar landmark comes into view.
It’s the stand of old-growth spruce near the trail junction leading back to Crystal Creek Retreat.
We’re close. An hour, perhaps less. A wave of conflicting emotions crashes in—relief at the thought of an actual bed, exhaustion deep in my bones, apprehension about what comes next, and a quiet, unexpected pang of sadness.
Sadness? For leaving this place that’s been equal parts terror and … something else? Surprising.
The final stretch is dreamlike. The trail flattens and smooths. Signs of human passage return—a faded trail marker, an old fire ring. Then, through the trees, it appears: the sprawling log structure of the main lodge, smoke curling from its stone chimney. Home. For now.
The crew lets out a collective whoop. Packs are dropped, shoulders are slapped.
Elliott beams, talking into his satellite phone, reporting our triumphant return to the network.
I stand apart, taking it all in—the solid reality of the lodge, the manicured path leading to the door, the waiting Polaris parked nearby.
It looks the same as when we left, what feels like a lifetime ago. But I’m different. Everything is.
Finn walks past me without a word, without so much as a glance in my direction, heading for the lodge entrance.
His face is grim, his limp more pronounced now that the adrenaline of the hike has clearly worn off.
He doesn’t turn back. And just like that, it’s over.
Whatever ‘it’ was. Part of me, the stupid, hopeful part, wilts.
Nash comes out of the lodge, wiping his hands on a rag. A broad smile spreads across his face when he sees the crew, but when his eyes land on me, they soften with something like sympathy. “Welcome back, Hollywood. Heard you had quite the adventure.”
“You could say that,” I reply, managing a weak smile. He watches Finn disappear into the lodge, brow furrowing at the stiffness in his brother’s stride. Then he looks back at me. “Is he moving okay? Looked like he was favoring that side pretty bad.”
“He took a fall,” I say, the words flat, stripped of the worry churning inside. “But he says he’s fine. You’re his brother—you know how stubborn he is.”
Nash nods, something settling behind his eyes. “Sounds about right. That brand of idiocy runs in the family.” He gestures toward Cabin Three. “Your cabin’s ready. Figured you’d want some privacy after roughing it.”
“Thanks, Nash.” I shoulder my pack, desperate to be alone. To breathe. To process the chaos of the past few weeks.
Walking the familiar path to the cabin is like slipping through a doorway into another life.
Inside, everything is as I left it. My suitcases rest against the wall, silent testaments to the woman who arrived here expecting a curated photo shoot, armed with designer clothes and overpriced skincare.
I stare at the luggage. Several large suitcases, packed with outfits for every conceivable rustic chic scenario.
Cashmere joggers I wore once. Silk blouses I never touched.
Louboutin heels sacrificed to the dock. It all seems absurd now—relics from a different life, a different woman.
Who was that person? What did she think she needed all this for?
A hollow laugh escapes me. After days in the same two pairs of hiking pants and borrowed thermals, the sheer volume of stuff is almost obscene.
But first, a shower. The thought alone is heavenly.
I turn the handle in the tiny bathroom, and the rush of steaming water hits like a miracle.
I stand under the spray, letting the heat sink into sore muscles, scrubbing away layers of trail dirt, sweat, and campfire smoke.
The grime runs off in streaks, revealing skin pale from lack of sun, dotted with scratches and bruises I don’t remember earning.
I wash my hair, savoring the scent of real shampoo, teasing out knots with generous handfuls of conditioner.
Stepping onto the bathmat, wrapped in a towel that felt cheap and thin a week ago but seems like pure luxury now, is like shedding an entire version of myself.
I'm lighter. Cleaner. But also exposed. The wilderness grime was a kind of armor.
Now, without it, I’m raw. Unfinished.
Back in the main room, I unzip one of the smaller suitcases, the one dedicated to skincare and makeup.
Bottles, jars, tubes, and palettes gleam up at me—an arsenal designed to perfect, protect, and project the image of Lena Kensington.
Hesitantly, then with growing autopilot familiarity, I begin the ritual.
Double cleanse—first the oil to dissolve grime and sunscreen, then the foaming cleanser.
Pat dry with a soft microfiber cloth reserved for my face.
The toner, applied with a specific organic cotton pad.
Essence patted into the skin. Then the serums—Vitamin C for brightness, hyaluronic acid for hydration, a peptide complex for firmness, each applied in a precise order, allowed moments to absorb.
Eye cream tapped around the orbital bone with my ring finger.
Finally, the moisturizer massaged in with upward strokes.
It takes nearly twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of patting, smoothing, waiting.
A ritual I’ve performed twice a day, for years.
It used to feel crucial—a non-negotiable part of maintaining the brand.
Now, standing back and looking at the array of expensive glass bottles cluttering the small cabin counter, it strikes me as excessive. Ridiculous.