I leaped away from the vine as if it had lashed out at me, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. My shoulder... was it burning? I twisted my neck, trying to see the fabric of my jacket, panic clawing at my throat.

"Did it burn me?" I shrieked, frantically brushing at the cream-colored sleeve with shaking hands. "Is it poisonous? Will it blister? Oh my god, do I need an EpiPen?"

Jake didn't move. He stood perfectly still, his arms crossed over that massive chest, watching my meltdown with the detached scientific interest of a biologist observing a particularly noisy monkey. He wasn't laughing. He wasn't concerned. He was just... there. A solid, unyielding wall of indifference.

"No," his voice was flat. "You didn't break the leaf surface. The sap didn't touch you. But if you had leaned a fraction harder, that fashion-victim jacket of yours would be smoking right now. And your shoulder underneath it would look like raw, tenderized steak."

The image made my stomach lurch, but then humiliation, acrid and hot, washed over me, replacing the fear. He hadn't just scared me. He had watched me. He had waited.

"You..." I started, my voice trembling with a mix of adrenaline and pure rage. I took a step toward him, ignoring the mud squelching around my expensive boots. "You saw me! You stood there and saw me leaning against it! You were waiting for it to happen!"

He didn't back down. Instead, he took a step into my personal space, looming over me. The heat radiating from him was oppressive, like standing next to a furnace door.

"I was waiting for you to exhibit an ounce of common sense," he snarled, his green eyes flashing. "I'm not a babysitter, Ava. And the jungle isn't a film set with safety rails and craft services. It doesn't care about your feelings, your selfies, or your contract. It eats things that are weak and stupid."

He leaned down, his face inches from mine. "Rule two, princess: Don't touch anything. Did you learn it, or do I need to find a poisonous frog for you to lick next?"

I wanted to hit him. The urge was so visceral it shocked me. I wanted to kick him in his expensive tactical boot and wipe that look of superiority off his face. But more than that, I wanted him to stop being right. Because he was right, and that burned worse than any sap.

I balled my fists at my sides, my nails digging into my palms. "I'm not a princess. And I'm not stupid."

"Could have fooled me," he muttered, turning his back on me before I could retort. "Let's go. We're burning daylight, and I don't want to be out here after dark with you."

He started walking again, his stride long and effortless, slicing through the undergrowth. He didn't look back to see if I was following. He knew I had no choice.

I swallowed the lump of angry tears threatening to form in my throat and forced my legs to move. Every step was a battle. The mud seemed to have a personal vendetta against my boots, sucking them down with a wet schluck sound every time I lifted a foot. The humidity was suffocating, a physical weight that pressed against my lungs.

We walked in silence. A tense, angry, heavy silence.

I gave up on filming. My camera hung heavy around my neck, a useless accessory. I focused entirely on the ground—on placing my feet exactly where his boot prints were. I shrank into myself, tucking my elbows in, terrified that a leaf might brush against me. My world, usually so expansive and digital, had shrunk to the width of this muddy trail and the broad, khaki-clad back of the man I was rapidly starting to hate more than anyone I'd ever met.

Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. My legs burned. My breath came in short, ragged gasps. Just when I thought I was going to collapse and demand a break, the trees suddenly thinned.

"Finally," I wheezed. "Are we there?"

"Almost," Jake said. He stopped at the edge of a clearing. "We just have to cross this."

I stepped up beside him, expecting a stream. Maybe a log crossing.

Instead, I saw the void.

It wasn't just a gully. It was a canyon—a deep, jagged scar in the earth, carved by centuries of water. Far below, in the shadows, I could see jagged rocks and hear the faint rush of a stream. But that wasn't what made my blood run cold.

It was the bridge.

If you could even call it that. It was a suspension bridge in the loosest sense of the word—a skeleton of weathered wooden planks held together by ropes that looked like they belonged in a museum of maritime history. It sagged in the middle like a frown. And it was swaying. A steady wind howled up the gorge, catching the structure and making it dance a slow, sickening waltz over the abyss.

"Nope," I said immediately. The word popped out like a cork. "Absolutely not."

Jake was already walking toward the anchor post. He turned back, one eyebrow raised in that infuriating expression of mockery.

"What now? Don't tell me the internet celebrity is afraid of heights?"

"I'm not afraid of heights," I lied, my voice rising an octave. "I'm afraid of death. Look at that thing! It looks like it's held together by hope and termite spit."

"I check the rigging myself every week. It'll hold an elephant," he shot back, resting a hand on the guide rope. "Just walk in the center and don't look down."

"No! Find another way. A detour. There has to be a path around."

"There isn't," Jake said, his patience clearly evaporating. "This is the only way to the Elara Waterfall. Your 'Instagrammable' spot. Unless you want to rappel down a three-hundred-foot cliff face?"

He checked his watch, then looked at the sky. "We have forty-five minutes before we lose the light. You want the content, or do you want to go back to your tent and tell your millions of followers you got scared by a little wood and rope?"

He knew exactly where to hit. He played me. He knew that for someone in my position, failure wasn't an option. "No content" meant no engagement. No engagement meant no sponsors. No sponsors meant the house of cards my life was built on would collapse.

I looked at the bridge. Then I looked at him.

"I hate you," I said, the words low and venomous.

"Get in line," he smirked. "I'll go first. Watch where I step."

He stepped onto the bridge. It dipped under his weight, creaking loudly, but he moved with an infuriating grace, knees bent, absorbing the sway. He walked out to the middle and turned, waiting.

I took a deep breath, clutching my camera strap like a rosary. You can do this, Ava. You've walked runways in six-inch heels. This is just... a very wobbly runway.

I stepped onto the first plank.

It groaned. The whole structure shifted under me, alive and hostile. I let out a yelp and grabbed the rope handrails. They were damp, slick with moss and humidity. I squeezed my eyes shut for a second, fighting the vertigo.

"Keep moving!" Jake yelled from the center. "The longer you stand there, the worse it gets!"

I forced my eyes open. I didn't look down. I locked my gaze on Jake's chest and took another step. Then another.

The wind picked up, gusting through the canyon. The bridge swung to the left, lurching sickeningly. I gasped, freezing in place, my knuckles turning white on the ropes. I was suspended a hundred feet in the air on a glorified hammock.

"Don't stop!" Jake's voice was sharper now. "Ava, look at me. Just walk to me."

I shuffled forward, terrified tears prickling my eyes. I felt small. Fragile. Completely out of my element. When I finally reached the middle where he stood, I was shaking so hard my teeth chattered.

He didn't offer a hand. He just turned and kept walking backward, guiding me with his eyes, until his boots hit solid earth on the far side.

I practically threw myself off the last plank, landing on the dirt on my hands and knees. I wanted to kiss the ground. I wanted to cry.

"You're alive," he stated, looking down at me. "Dramatic, but alive. Up you get. The waterfall is right through there."

I dragged myself up, wiping mud from my palms onto my ruined pants. "I hope," I wheezed, "that this waterfall is the most beautiful thing on God's green earth."

He didn't answer, just turned and pushed through a curtain of ferns.

I followed him... and stopped dead.

"Oh," I breathed.

It was.

The Elara Waterfall wasn't massive, but it was perfection. Water cascaded down a moss-covered cliff face like liquid silk, falling into a perfectly circular, turquoise lagoon. The pool was framed by giant ferns and vibrant orchids. A fine mist hung in the air, catching a shaft of sunlight to create a permanent, shimmering rainbow right above the surface.

It was magical. It was worth the mud. It was worth the bridge.

Instantly, a switch flipped in my brain. The exhaustion faded. The fear receded. I was no longer Ava the scared tourist; I was Ava the Creator. I saw the angles. I saw the light. I saw the story.

"Okay," I said, my voice firming up. I pulled my camera up, checking the lens. "I need you to move. You're in the frame."

Jake blinked, clearly surprised by the sudden shift in my demeanor. "Excuse me?"

"Move to the left. Behind that fern. You're ruining the aesthetic. The light is perfect right now, I have maybe twenty minutes before the golden hour peaks."

I didn't wait for him to argue. I started moving, circling the lagoon, finding my spot. I set up the camera on a rock, checked the viewfinder, and wiped the sweat from my brow. Then, I transformed.

I smoothed my hair. I fixed my smile. I turned on the "Ava" persona—bubbly, effortless, living a life of envy.

"Hey guys!" I chirped at the lens, hitting record. "So, I literally just trekked through the wildest jungle to bring you this hidden gem. Look at this place! It is absolute paradise on earth. The energy here is just... cleansing."

I twirled, arms out, showing off the lagoon. I felt powerful again. This was my territory. I could control this.

"...and the water is so clear, you can see all the way to the bottom. It's just..."

I trailed off.

My smile faltered. I looked at the viewfinder screen. The image had changed.

The light. It had been a warm, golden honey color a second ago. Now... it was weird. The screen showed a sickly, yellowish-green cast.

I looked up from the camera. It wasn't the screen. It was the world.

The sunbeams that had been cutting through the canopy were gone. The sky above the opening, which had been blue, was now a churning, bruised purple. It looked like a fresh hematoma.

"Weird sunset," I murmured, frowning.

Then the air changed. The heavy, wet heat suddenly vanished, replaced by a strange, vacuum-like pressure. My ears popped, hard. The mist from the waterfall stopped drifting and seemed to hang suspended in the air. The sound of the falling water, usually a crisp roar, sounded muffled, like it was coming from underwater.

A chill that had nothing to do with the temperature skittered down my spine.

"Jake?" I turned around, looking for him.

He wasn't watching me. He wasn't looking at the waterfall. He was standing near the edge of the clearing, his back rigid, his head cocked to the side. He looked like a deer hearing a twig snap. He was sniffing the air, his whole body vibrating with tension.

"Jake, what..."

He whipped his head around. The look on his face stopped the words in my throat. The boredom was gone. The mockery was gone.

"Tour's over," he barked. The sound was sharp, like a gunshot in the sudden quiet.

He crossed the distance between us in three long strides. I didn't even have time to grab my camera before he was on me. He grabbed my upper arm, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.

"Hey! What are you doing? You're hurting me!"

He didn't listen. He spun me around, shoving me toward the trail we had just come from—toward the bridge.

"We're leaving," he said, his voice tight with something that sounded terrifyingly like panic. "Right now."