He sits beside me, his presence solid and reassuring. “Does that surprise you?”
“It shouldn’t,” I admit. “But I thought this was supposed to help my image, not destroy the last shreds of my dignity.”
“Reality TV has never been about reality.”
“No, it’s always been about creating whatever story sells best.” My focus is on my tea. “And apparently, the story that sells is me being an incompetent princess who needs a big strong mountain man to save her.”
Finn says nothing, but his silence feels supportive rather than judgmental.
“You know what’s ironic?” I continue. “They’re working so hard to create this narrative of me being helpless in thewilderness, and meanwhile, they’re completely missing the real story.”
“Which is?”
“That every summer growing up, I learned from myabuela—my dad’s mother. She moved to Tennessee from the mountains of northern Mexico. Taught me how to find edible plants, how to treat a fever, how to read the wind. She was proud of who she was, even when I wasn’t.” I pause, the words catching at the back of my throat. “For a long time, I was ashamed of that part of me. Her accent. Her remedies. The way she made something from nothing. I wanted to fit in, to be shiny and smooth. So, I let Hollywood gut me and rewrite the rest.”
My eyes lift to his. “But out here ... with no one watching, I keep hearing her voice again. And I think—I think you can try to bury who you are, but it doesn’t stay buried. Not forever.”
The admission hangs between us. I’ve told no one in Hollywood about those summers, about the knowledge I deliberately buried to fit the image my agents created.
“Why hide it?” Finn asks, his voice low.
“Because no one sees it,” I say, my voice soft. “I’ve got blonde hair, blue eyes—on paper, I’m exactly what they want. Marketable.Safe.No one questions my background because I don’t look like someone with roots that stretch deep into a different culture.” My attention returns to my tea, willing the words to come out right. “But inside? I’m not simple. I’m not polished. I’m a girl who learned to crush herbs in a stone bowl and tie knots that hold through a storm. I’m half a world no one sees—and sometimes I wonder if I buried it so well that I forgot how to claim it.”
Finn is silent for a long moment. “So what are you going to do about it?”
His simple question hits me with unexpected force.Whatam I going to do?Keep fading into the version of me that sells—or finally show the one who survived?
“I don’t know yet,” I answer, my voice honest. “But I’m done letting them manipulate me.”
His expression shifts—just a trace of a grin. “Good.”
That night, long after the camp has fallen silent, I lie awake in my tent, thinking about choices and consequences. The satellite phone is with Elliott—I could ask to use it, call my agent, demand extraction from this disaster, fight the narrative he’s building. But running away solves nothing. It only confirms what they already believe—that I’m a diva who can’t handle challenges.
Sleep eventually claims me, pulling me into dreams filled with my grandmother’s voice. We’re in her small garden behind the house in Tennessee, her hands guiding mine as we crush herbs in a stone mortar.Estas plantas son tu herencia, Magdalena.These plants are your heritage. Knowledge passed from mother to daughter for generations.Never forget who you are.
I wake to shouting. For a disorienting moment, I think I’m still in my grandmother’s garden, but the voices outside my tent are urgent, panicked. Nothing like the peaceful morning I’d expected.
“The water’s rising too fast!” someone yells—Carlos, I think.
“Get everything to higher ground now!” Finn’s voice cuts through the chaos, commanding and tense in a way I haven’t heard before.
I scramble out of my sleeping bag, wincing as pain shoots through my ankle. When I unzip my tent, the scene that greets me steals my breath. Where our camp had been is now a churning pool of muddy water. The creek has swollen during the night, breaking its banks and advancing toward our tentswith frightening speed. The crew scrambles to save equipment, their movements frantic in the dim pre-dawn light.
And then I see it—hear it first, a low rumble like an approaching freight train—the massive wall of muddy water and debris tearing its way downstream toward us. Tree trunks, branches, what looks like shattered pieces of a bridge, all churning in a surge that will obliterate everything. My blood runs cold.
“Flash flood!” Finn shouts, his eyes finding mine across the chaos, stark with urgency. “Get to the ridge!”
I have seconds to decide—my pack is still in the tent, and the water is already lapping at the entrance. The debris wall is maybe thirty seconds from hitting camp. My ankle screams in protest as I turn to grab my pack. Knowledge is heritage. Identity is power. And sometimes, survival depends on knowing what to leave behind.
Chapter Eleven
FINN
The flash floodtore 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.”
