In the car, as the convoy descended into the valley, Layla Smith hadn't expected the land to be this vast. From the aerial maps taken via the Maxar Technologies GPS satellite system, she had seen numbers—one hundred miles from one end to the other—but numbers meant nothing compared to the sensation of standing in the valley itself. She had admired the landscape from the hilltop, posing for Instagram photos, but only now, when she was surrounded by it, did she truly grasp the immensity of it. It was as if time itself had become unmoored, as though she had stepped into a prehistoric world where humans were nothing more than specks against the raw vastness of nature.
Yet, she wasn't entirely severed from modernity. The sleek weight of her iPhone 15 Plus was still in her hand, anchoring her to civilization. She wanted to post a photo—wanted the world to see her beauty against the backdrop of untouched Alaska—but there was no signal. No bars. Just a blank screen. To make things worse, her battery was nearly dead.
Sighing, she leaned forward and handed the phone to T.B., who was focused on the rough, gravel-strewn road. "T.B., charge my phone."
T.B. took the phone, plugged in the charger, and handed it back. "Here you are, Ms. Layla Smith."
The Toyota Hilux jolted as the convoy moved onto the unpaved terrain. The smooth asphalt was gone, replaced by this bumpy, unpredictable path. Finally, T.B. turned the wheel and pulled into a clearing.
"We'll stop here for the night. Tomorrow morning, we'll head to the Kivalina Resources Limited site camp." He stepped out and waved at the other vehicles.
The convoy arranged itself in an arc, headlights illuminating the open space. The other two trucks, each with three men—one driver, two Kivalina employees—parked in formation. Engines shut down. Car doors opened. The men climbed out, stretching their stiff limbs, moving in a quiet, efficient rhythm. Folding chairs appeared, placed in a semicircle. A makeshift table was set up, its surface quickly covered with tin trays of meat, fish, and vegetables. A tent went up, the fabric catching in the wind before being secured by parachute cords and carbon-fiber poles.
Layla, still in the backseat, watched through the window. The glow of the travel lamp inside the tent gave it a soft, golden hue. Outside, T.B. was arranging stones for a fire pit while another employee gathered dry branches. Moments later, flames licked upward, crackling in the silence.
T.B. stretched, his broad shoulders rolling beneath his jacket, then reached into the Hilux to turn off the engine. "Ms. Layla Smith, you'll be in the tent. There's a backup charger if you still need to charge your phone. Mr. Anderson Jr. Seely, the men will rest near the fire or inside the vehicles if they prefer. Join us for dinner."
Layla entered her tent, sighing with satisfaction as the warm light enveloped her. Inside, her things were neatly arranged—a North Face sleeping bag in the corner, her bag of clothes, and beside it, the bottles of dry shower gel and shampoo that T.B. had bought for her. She picked up one of the bottles, tilting it in her hand.
Most people had never heard of dry bathing, but it was a necessity in places like this. Astronauts used it in space. Hospital patients used it. Travelers like her, stranded in the wilderness without running water, had no choice but to embrace its convenience. She squirted a bit into her palm, rubbed it over her arms, inhaling the cool, fresh scent. A simple towel would wipe it clean, leaving her skin refreshed, as if she had just stepped out of a real shower.
Outside, Anderson Jr. Seely and the men sat around the fire, their aluminum trays balanced on their laps. They ate in silence, plastic forks scraping against the metal. Someone set their tray on a tripod near the fire, waiting for the food to warm. No one needed to speak. They were used to this.
T.B. pulled up a chair next to Anderson. "Mr. Anderson Jr. Seely, we'll have fresh food like this for two days. After that, it's canned and frozen meals."
Anderson didn't respond. T.B. frowned. Under the flickering firelight, Anderson's eyes were wide, his mouth slightly open. The fork was frozen halfway to his lips. Around him, the other men were the same—silent, transfixed, staring in the same direction.
T.B. followed their gaze.
The wall of Layla's tent was glowing from within, illuminated by the travel lamp. And on that glowing canvas, a perfect shadow-play unfolded.
Layla had undressed.
Her silhouette moved with sensual grace, shifting as she rubbed the dry shower gel over her skin. The outline of her full, heavy breasts, the curve of her waist, the slope of her hips—all of it displayed in tantalizing clarity. The light caught her fingers as they moved over her body, massaging the gel into her skin, her hands sliding over her breasts, cupping, squeezing. Her head tilted back. Her arms lifted, fingers tangling in her hair. The men could see everything—the high arch of her back, the slow twist of her waist as she rubbed down to her thighs.
The fire crackled. Someone swallowed audibly. No one dared to move.
T.B. smirked. He had seen enough men lose themselves to Layla's effortless sensuality.
With a chuckle, he stood, walked to the Hilux, and turned on the headlights.
Blazing white light flooded the clearing, obliterating the golden glow of the tent. The erotic shadow-play vanished in an instant.
A groan rippled through the men, as if a collective spell had been broken. A few blinked, shaking their heads, exhaling sharply. Others cursed under their breath, shifting in their seats, adjusting the fabric of their pants.
T.B. laughed outright. "Come on, boys. Dinner's not over yet."
The men muttered, some chuckling, some glaring, but slowly, reluctantly, they turned back to their food.
Inside her tent, Layla smirked, running a towel over her damp skin. She knew exactly what had happened outside. And she didn't mind.
She liked being watched.