The Fiancé's High Altitude Hit Job

Hired as a featured photographer for National Geographic, I was on assignment to shoot the cover story at Mount Kemet.

Barely halfway up, my lungs burned, my head throbbed, and my temples hammered like a drum.

I recognized the sickening spiral of acute mountain sickness. I scrambled for my emergency oxygen canister and ripped off the cap.

But the moment the gas hit my lungs, I knew. I whipped my head toward my fiancé, Marcus, who was standing beside me.

“What is this?!”

My voice came out as a ridiculous, high-pitched, cartoonish squeak—a squealing toy trying to sound serious.

The sound sent Marcus and his intern, Skylar, into hysterical fits of laughter.

“Gah?! Hahahaha! Oh my god, Anya, you sound like a Chipmunk! I’m going to die laughing!”

They doubled over, shoulders shaking. Skylar even dramatically punched the snow with glee.

In that horrifying instant, I understood. As a prank, a cruel joke, they had secretly swapped my life-saving oxygen for helium.

When they finally managed to stifle their laughter, I fought through the nausea to gasp out the words to Marcus:

“…The… the spare oxygen. Give it to me!”

Marcus wiped a tear of laughter from his eye, utterly unconcerned, and waved a dismissive hand.

“Oh, come on, Anya. Skylar’s body is a little fragile; she has the spare. You’re a seasoned high-altitude pro. Just power through it.”

I didn’t argue. My trembling hand fumbled for the satellite phone.

“Editor Albright, my emergency oxygen has been maliciously swapped. I’m experiencing acute mountain sickness. I need immediate rescue and extraction.”

1

The moment I finished speaking, Marcus Reid snatched the satellite phone from my hand.

He saw the “distress signal sent” confirmation flash across the screen. His face flushed with anger, quickly twisting into a sneer.

“Anya Wells, are you seriously this dramatic?”

“It was a joke! A prank with a little helium! You’re calling in rescue for a mild headache? Do you know how long we’ve been planning this shoot? You can’t even handle this much altitude?”

He made a show of threatening to hurl the phone toward a distant crevasse in the ice.

I lunged, gripping his wrist with a death grip. The fierce headache and gut-wrenching nausea of the altitude sickness were already making my vision tunnel.

Marcus and Skylar both wore oxygen masks, their faces rosy, plenty of spare tanks clipped to their packs.

I was the only one clutching a ludicrous, useless helium canister.

Skylar stepped closer, her voice laced with false, saccharine concern.

“Anya, don’t blame Marcus. I’m just so useless; I got winded barely climbing this much…”

“Marcus said you’re a veteran mountain photographer, and this altitude is nothing to you…”

She took a deep, satisfying drag from the mask, then tilted her head, a hint of challenge in her eyes.

I had pulled strings through my contacts to get a customized, medical-grade, high-concentration oxygen supply for this crucial cover shoot. Now, it was clipped to this petulant intern.

Marcus adjusted her backpack strap, his tone sickeningly gentle.

“Ignore her, Skylar. She’s just spoiled, thinks she’s a celebrity, and can’t handle a little discomfort.”

When he turned to me, the impatience in his eyes was palpable.

“Stop acting, alright?”

“I looked it up. Altitude sickness is mostly psychosomatic. A little willpower and you’ll walk it off. It’s not that serious.”

“Your ‘medical-grade’ oxygen tank is just a psychological crutch, and it’s heavy as hell. Skylar is the future of the studio. Her being out of commission would be a much bigger loss to the project than yours.”

My hand trembled as I searched the outer pocket of my pack for the emergency altitude medication, but the pocket was empty.

Marcus suddenly pulled the familiar pill box from Skylar’s jacket pocket, shook out two tablets, and handed them to her.

“Keep these. You need them more than she does. Look, she can still stand up and fight for a phone. She’s hardly in distress.”

“Does she really think she’s some sort of national treasure photographer who can’t handle an ounce of pain?”

His self-righteousness was more suffocating than the thin air.

My custom oxygen, my emergency medication, all repurposed to pamper his protégé.

The other assistant photographers busied themselves with gear, pretending not to notice the conflict.

I was the only one fighting for my life, like a patient with their oxygen line disconnected.

“Acute mountain sickness can cause pulmonary and cerebral edema… It can kill you!” I managed to grind out through clenched teeth.

“Cerebral edema? Who are you trying to scare?” Marcus rolled his eyes.

Skylar played her part, shrinking behind him.

“Anya, I know you don’t like me… but Marcus said you’re so experienced, you’ll be fine with a little high-altitude fatigue.”

She even gave the Go-Pro clipped to her collar a small, satisfied smirk.

The sight of her face, the calculated malice behind the fake fear, made me dizzy with rage.

“Enough!”

I reached out to grab my oxygen tank back.

Marcus shoved me hard. I stumbled, nearly falling.

“What are you doing! If something happens to Skylar, can you handle the fallout?!”

Skylar immediately clutched her chest, her voice becoming thin and shaky.

“Marcus, I feel a little light-headed again… Maybe I shouldn’t have come… Does Anya feel like I’m stealing her spotlight…”

“You’re fine. She’s just self-obsessed!”

Marcus quickly steadied her, his voice soft with concern.

“She’s been coddled her whole life. She thinks the world revolves around her.”

The wind and snow seemed to pick up, blurring my vision.

I watched them, a picture of two devoted lovers, huddling together for warmth, utterly oblivious to me, his actual fiancée.

Extreme fury and the primal terror of suffocation converged.

I swung the useless helium canister and smashed it against a nearby ice-covered rock.

“Marcus Reid! We are done! The engagement is canceled!”

Marcus froze, his face contorting with shock and then raw anger.

He stepped closer, his voice sharp and piercing.

“Anya Wells! What the hell is wrong with you! You’re ending us over a stupid joke? Do you even hear yourself?”

“A small thing?” I rasped, the sound torn from my chest. “Swapping my life-saving oxygen… is a small thing?”

Skylar immediately stepped in, her voice tremulous.

“Marcus, don’t be angry… It’s my fault for being so weak… Anya must be saying this out of anger because she hates me…”

She looked at me, a flicker of undetectable triumph hidden in her wide eyes.

A mountain guide named Gabe, who had been quietly adjusting his gear, looked up, his brow furrowed in concern.

“Mr. Reid, Ms. Wells looks genuinely unwell. Altitude sickness isn’t a game. Maybe we should consider descending first…”

“You don’t understand, Gabe!”

Marcus cut him off with brutal finality.

“She’s just out of shape and overdramatic! When is she not making a scene on a shoot? The last time, she had a heatstroke in the Mojave and held up the entire team. She’s doing the same thing now!”

His words struck me like icicles.

The last time, I had almost suffered heat stroke while risking everything to capture the perfect, fleeting light.

In his eyes, it was all theatrics.

“Exactly,” another assistant, who was friendly with Marcus, muttered under his breath.

“Anya, Marcus is looking out for the big picture. Skylar is new; this is her first high-altitude project. She needs the extra care. You’re the veteran. You can tough it out.”

Tears blurred my vision even more, not from sadness, but from physiological distress.

“Tough it out? How… how am I supposed to tough this out?”

My lungs felt packed with cement, my heart hammered madly, threatening to burst through my ribs.

The blood vessels in my temples pulsed violently, a countdown to rupture. I knew the signs—the onset of cerebral and pulmonary edema.

Seeing my condition, Skylar put on a show of great distress, her voice choked with tears.

“Anya, please don’t be like this. I’m so scared you two are fighting because of me…”

“Maybe… maybe I should just give you the oxygen back? I’ll be fine…”

She made a move to take off her mask.

Marcus slammed his hand over hers, his eyes filled with pity and rage.

“Skylar, don’t be an idiot! She’s trying to manipulate you! Playing the victim is her best move!”

He spun on me, his eyes cold with pure loathing.

“Anya Wells, I was wrong about you!”

“I never knew you were this selfish and petty, that you couldn’t tolerate a junior photographer! Does everyone have to bow down to your demands?”

“Who risked everything to get people to rescue you the last time you were in danger?”

“Now, because of a little headache, you want to ruin everyone’s hard work?”

He brought up a time when the danger was caused by a shoot for his father’s company. Now, it was his evidence against me.

The searing headache made it impossible to form a coherent defense. I could only gasp uselessly, broken, wheezing sounds rattling in my throat.

Skylar, still hiding behind Marcus, let a quick, satisfied smirk cross her lips, then spoke in a worried tone.

“Marcus, Anya looks terrible. She really might be…”

“She’s faking! It’s all an act!” Marcus declared, his voice cutting and final.

“She’s a great actress! She just wants to force me to cave, to get more control over me! I won’t let her!”

He took his thermal flask, unscrewed the top, and held it to Skylar’s lips.

“Here, Skylar, drink some hot water. Don’t mind her. She’ll calm down on her own.”

The steam from the warm water wafted past me, a stark contrast to the cold that was leaching the warmth from my body.

Despair, like the ancient ice under my feet, began to freeze me from the inside out.

I slumped against the ice rock, my body sliding down uncontrollably, my consciousness beginning to drift.

In my fading vision, Marcus protecting Skylar, their backs to me, and the other team members whispering as they packed gear, all blurred into swaying, monstrous shapes.

That life-saving altitude medicine was on the ground by Skylar’s boot.

Only three feet away, but impossibly distant, separated by a chasm of indifference.

It was then that Skylar quietly knelt in front of me.

She took off her mask, her face vibrant and healthy. She leaned down and spoke in a voice only I could hear.

“Anya, how does it feel to suffocate?”

A cruel, delighted smile spread across her face.

“Marcus has been so tired of your control for ages. He said you were stiff and boring, like a mannequin.”

“Once you’re out of the way, your reputation, your portfolio, and your man… I’ll be happy to take over.”