In the water.
The words hit me like a physical blow. The world narrows, tunnel vision setting in as the sounds around me distort, the waterfall's roar becoming the rushing in my ears.
Don't panic. Don'tpanic. Don't panic.
But my body isn't listening to my mind anymore. My lungs constrict. Sweat breaks out across my skin despite the cool mist. The ground beneath my feet seems to tilt and sway.
"Excuse me, Ms. Sinclair?" A familiar voice cuts through the chaos, and suddenly Mateo is there, phone in hand, casual yet somehow commanding. "Sorry to interrupt, but there's an urgent call from your lawyer that you need to take immediately. Something about the contract terms." He says loudly to everyone hear. “Trust me.” he whispers just to me.
Before anyone can protest, he's guiding me away from the water's edge, his hand a steady pressure against the small of my back, his body a wall between me and the chaos behind us. "This way. I've set up a private area in the equipment tent."
I let him lead me, legs moving automatically, grateful beyond words for the rescue I didn't even need to request. Behind us, I hear Julian and Melissa's frustrated voices, but they fade as Mateo ushers me into the relative privacy of the large equipment tent.
Once inside, away from prying eyes, my legs finally give out. I sink onto a folding chair, breath coming in shallow gasps.
"Easy,mi reina." Mateo crouches before me, his voice low and steady. "Look at me. Right here." He taps his chest. "Breathe with me, okay? In through your nose, four counts."
I try to follow his instructions, but my lungs won't cooperate. "I can't…"
But Mateo's rhythm is hypnotic. Intentional. And most importantly, he is here!
"You can," he says firmly, taking my hands in his. "Watch me. In..." He demonstrates a slow inhale. "And out..." A measured exhale. "Again. In..."
I focus on his face, on his even breathing, trying to match it. Gradually, the vise around my chest loosens. The roaring in my ears subsides. The tent stops spinning.
"That's it," he encourages. "You're doing great."
After several minutes of guided breathing, I manage a shaky laugh. "Some professional I am. Can't even handle a little water."
"Hey." His voice sharpens slightly. "Don't do that. What happened to you wasn't 'a little water.' Someone tried to hurt you. Your body remembers that, even if your mind is telling you to push through. It's your brain doing exactly what it's supposed to do, trying to keep you safe."
The simple understanding in his words breaks something loose in my chest. "I thought I could handle it," I whisper. "I've been pushing through difficult shoots my entire career. Freezing temperatures, ridiculous poses, uncomfortable situations... but this... I keep feeling the pressure on my chest, the burning in my lungs..."
Mateo's thumbs trace gentle circles on the backs of my hands. "You don't have to push through this. Nottoday. Not ever, if you don't want to. You call the shots here. Say the word, and we're on the next plane home."
I blink in surprise. "Just... cancel? The entire shoot? Do you know how much money is at stake? How many people are counting on these images?"
He shrugs, unconcerned. "Don't care. Not my problem. My only concern is you. If this is too much, we walk away. Simple as that."
The casual way he dismisses what would be a catastrophic professional setback gives me pause. In all these years, I've never walked away from a shoot. Never put my own wellbeing above contractual obligations and others' expectations. It's not even an option I've allowed myself to consider.
"I can't just leave," I say finally. "But I don't know if I can get in that water either."
Mateo studies me for a long moment, then nods decisively. "Okay. Then we negotiate. You're Jade Sinclair. They'll accommodate."
"Accommodate what? My irrational fear?"
"It's not irrational." His voice is gentle but firm. "And we don't need to explain. We just need to offer alternatives." He glances around the tent, then grins as his gaze lands on something behind me. "I have an idea."
Before I can ask what he's thinking, he reaches past me and plucks something from a styling rack. When he turnsback, he's holding a delicate crown of tropical flowers, frangipani and orchids woven into a circle of green vines.
"What are you doing?" I ask as he approaches.
With unexpected gentleness, he places the crown atop my head, adjusting it carefully. "There," he says, satisfaction in his voice. "Mi reina."
"What does that mean?"
His smile softens. "My queen." He steps back, studying the effect with appreciative eyes. "Every queen deserves a crown. And every queen gets to set her own boundaries. They want photos with the waterfall? Fine. But you don't have to be in the water. You can be on that large flat rock at the edge, the one that's completely dry. The waterfall will still be your backdrop, but you'll be safe."
