The biting saltwater burned Henry's lungs as he clawed his way onto the unfamiliar shore, gasping, the taste of the sea still thick on his tongue. His yacht, his sanctuary of opulence, was gone, swallowed by the indifferent ocean. As he lay there, a ragged heap of human frailty, a soft voice cut through the haze of his exhaustion.

"Are you okay?" it asked, gentle as the lapping waves.

He pushed himself up, his muscles screaming in protest, and blinked. Standing over him was a girl, an ethereal vision with dark hair framing striking green eyes, dressed in a simple white sundress. She seemed to belong to the very sand and sea around them.

"Who are you?" Henry rasped, his voice raw.

"My name is Sharon," she replied, her gaze steady. "I live on this island."

He looked around, a billionaire stripped of everything, alone on a pristine, isolated beach, the endless blue sea his only witness. A primal fear, one money couldn't buy its way out of, began to coil in his gut. This was not his world. And he was utterly, irrevocably lost.