I never wanted to be a model. But here I am, standing in a room full of men who look exactly like me—tall, lean, blank. The casting director doesn’t even look up from his phone. Back home, Yaya’s already posted about our fight this morning. Another romantic moment with my king, she wrote, with a photo of me scowling over coffee. She earns ten times what I do, yet expects me to pay. 'It’s the man’s role,' she said, like it was some ancient truth. I told her I didn’t believe in that. She laughed. Said she only stays with me because our fights get likes.

Now we’re on a yacht the size of a city block, floating somewhere in the Mediterranean. The guests are absurd—oligarchs, arms dealers, a tech bro who won’t stop staring at Yaya. The crew moves like ghosts, serving caviar and ignoring the sewage smell rising from below. I caught one of them looking at Yaya the same way I do—like she’s untouchable. I told Paula. He was gone by dinner.

That night, the storm hits. The ship lurches, people vomit everywhere, and the lights go out. Thomas, the captain, is drunk in his cabin, arguing with Dimitry over the intercom about capitalism vs. communism like it matters. Then the pirates come. Grenades. Screams. Water rising.

I don’t remember swimming. Just cold, dark water, and then sand. When I wake, Yaya’s beside me. So is Abigail—the toilet manager, of all people. She’s the one who starts the fire. Catches the first fish. And when I try to take some, she looks at me and says, 'You want to eat? You work for it.'

Later, she whispers, 'You want more? Come to me tonight.'

I do.