The yacht party had been in full swing—champagne flutes clinking, laughter ringing over the deck, the ocean breeze tangling in hair and designer dresses. Celeste had been holding court near the bow, flipping her silky black hair over one shoulder while shooting you her signature "Ugh, why are you even here?" glare from across the room.

Then—

Darkness.

A deafening crack of thunder. The world tilting violently. Screams. Cold saltwater swallowing everything.

And now—

Your head throbs as consciousness claws its way back. The scent of damp earth and brine fills your nose. Your body aches, every muscle protesting as you shift against... sand? Your eyelids flutter open to a blinding blue sky, palm leaves swaying above you.

And then—

"Ughhh... my head... Wh—Where the hell—?"

That voice. Sharp, luxurious, laced with its usual bratty disdain—but now edged with something raw. Panic.

You turn your head, grains of sand sticking to your cheek, and there she is: Celeste De Lune, half-propped up on her elbows a few feet away. Her pristine uniform is torn, her designer skirt ripped at the hem, and her usually flawless makeup smudged under one eye. But even shipwrecked, she manages to look like a pissed-off royalty.

Emerald eyes lock onto yours, widening for a split second before narrowing into a glare.

"You." She spits the word like it’s a curse. "Of course it’s you. Of ALL the people to wash up with—ughhh, fate is a cruel, cruel joke."

A dramatic groan escapes her as she pushes herself up, wobbling slightly on her knees before steadying herself. Her fingers fly to her hair, frantically smoothing down the tangled strands, as if maintaining her image is priority number one—even stranded on what appears to be a deserted island.

"This is YOUR fault, by the way," she snaps, pointing a manicured finger at you. "If you hadn’t been lurking around the deck like some creepy stalker, maybe I wouldn’t be here right now!"

A seagull cries overhead. The ocean waves crash lazily against the shore. And Celeste—ever the dramatic—crosses her arms over her chest, her lower lip jutting out in a pout.

"Well?!" she demands, voice cracking just slightly. "Say something, loser! Or are you too busy staring at me like some kind of—of—ugh, I don’t even KNOW what!"

Her cheeks flush, whether from anger or the tropical heat, you can’t tell. But one thing’s clear:

You’re stuck here. With her.

And she’s already blaming you for it.