I look into the darkness, the silence of the tent amplifying the hollowness inside me. I need to fix this. But how? An apology won't be enough. Words sound hollow after the way I acted. I need to show her. Show her I understand. Show her she matters more than the lodge, more than the money, more than my stubborn fear. The first step, the hardest one, is admitting I was wrong. Admitting I need help. Not only financially, but also to help see past one's blind spots.
Tomorrow.Tomorrow, Elliott plans to wrap filming here. Then we start the hike down. On the way down, away from the pressure of the Peaks, I can find a way. Find the words. Find the courage to tear down my walls instead of hers. If she'll let me close enough to try.
Chapter Twenty-Three
LENA
I wake up cold.It's more than the biting chill of the high-altitude morning seeping through the tent walls. It's a deeper, hollow coldness that has settled in my chest, opposite to the memory of Finn's warmth when we were last together. Alone. Again. The small tent stretches around me, the silence amplifying the emptiness where his solid presence had once been. Last night, sleep was fitful, punctuated by the wind rattling the thin fabric and the constant, tight knot of hurt and anger in my chest.
I push myself out of my sleeping bag, the silence amplifying my solitude. No quiet breathing beside me, no shared warmth. Just me and the spectacular, indifferent beauty of Painted Peaks visible through the small tent flap. He chose his pride, his lodge, over us. Over the connection I thought we’d forged. He dismissed my world, my potential sacrifice, as if it were trivial. The memory stings, fresh and sharp.
Getting dressed is mechanical. Cold layers. Laced boots—sturdy ones Finn insisted I buy. Boots that carried me further than I ever thought I’d go, both physically and emotionally. Now, they’re heavy.
Outside, the camp is stirring. The air is thin and clear, the sun beginning to touch the highest, snow-dusted peaks, turning them rose-gold. It’s the epic vista Elliott dreams of, but today, it looks desolate. Finn is by the fire pit, talking in a low voice with Carlos, probably about the day’s filming logistics. He moves with a pronounced stiffness, favoring his left side more than yesterday. He tries to hide it, straightening when he catches me watching, but the flash of pain in his eyes is unmistakable. He is hurting badly. And he’s too proud to admit it, even after I practically begged him to let me help, even after ... everything.
My worry wars with my anger. Part of me wants to march over there, check his bandage, demand he stop pretending. The other part, still smarting from his rejection, pulls on a layer of icy composure.Handle it yourself, I’d told him. Fine. Let him.
I pour myself coffee without acknowledging him, offering only a curt nod when he says, “Morning.” No warmth, no shared glances. The easy rhythm we’d fallen into is gone—replaced by a brittle formality that presses in, tight and suffocating.
Marco suddenly finds his boots fascinating. Elliott watches us with open curiosity, calculating behind his coffee cup.
Let them look. Lena Kensington is back on set.
“Alright, Lena!” Elliott booms, clipboard in hand. “Last day of filming up here! Let’s make it count! I want those final transformation shots. You, embracing the solitude. Finding peace in the wilderness. Connecting with your inner strength.”
Inner strength.Right now, mine is a knotted mess of hurt, anger, and a confusing residue of tenderness for the man who won’t meet my eyes. But I nod, summoning the actress. “Whatever you need, Elliott.”
The day blurs into a string of curated moments. Walk here. Look contemplative there. Kneel by the stream and identify the patch of alpine arnica I pointed out yesterday—reciting its uses for bruises, courtesy of Finn, while ignoring the fresh one blooming behind my ribs. Build a tidy little fire. Stare thoughtfully into the flames.
I hit every mark. Offer every look Elliott wants. Quiet strength, gentle focus. Lena Kensington has worn the mask of resilience for years. But today, it slips. Because this isn’t a performance. It feels like a betrayal—not of Finn, but of the woman he saw beneath the actress. The one I’d only begun to find again.
Finn stays mostly in the background, fulfilling his guide duties—checking the perimeter, monitoring the weather, ensuring the crew’s safety—but keeping a physical distance from me unless Elliott forces an interaction. Elliott tries once, wanting a shot of Finn showing me how to read the clouds. “Mentor passing on his wisdom,” Elliott directs. “Show that bond.”
I listen, nodding, aware of the few inches separating us, the weight of everything unspoken pressing between us.
During a lunch break—more tasteless, dehydrated rations—I find a spot away from the others, near the edge of the meadow, and pull out my sketchbook. Drawing has always been my escape, a way to process things without words. I sketch the jagged peaks opposite us, focusing on the harsh lines, the unyielding granite, pouring my frustration onto the page.
“Mind if I join you?” Carlos stands there, holding his ration pack, looking hesitant.
“Sure,” I say, closing the sketchbook. He sits down a comfortable distance away.
“Rough couple of days, huh?” he asks, his voice low.
“You could say that.”
“Listen, Lena,” he says, lowering his voice more. “About a few days ago ... Elliott filming your argument with Finn...” My head snaps up, and a sickening lurch goes through me.
“He filmed that?”
Carlos nods, looking miserable. “I tried to angle the camera away, but he insisted. Called it ‘raw conflict.’ He’s probably uploaded it already via the satellite link.”
A cold dread washes over me. Our private argument, Finn’s vulnerability about the lodge, my disastrous offer of help, his prideful rejection—all captured, likely dissected by network executives seeking exploitable drama. The violation runs deep.
“He had no right,” I whisper, clenching my fists.
“He never does,” Carlos says grimly. “But he has the contract. I wanted you to know.” He pauses. “Also … Finn. He looks like hell. Are you sure he’s okay to hike down tomorrow?”
“He insists he is,” I say, bitterness sharpening my voice. “Says he can handle it himself.”
