The ferry coughed like a chain-smoker having an existential crisis as it limped toward Paradise Bay Resort, which was about as paradisiacal as a tax audit but significantly more expensive. Devon clutched the goddamn fruit basket—still perfectly arranged because apparently even his rage had standards—and watched the crystalline waters reveal their billion-dollar secret: this wasn't just some rich asshole playground. This was where rich assholes came to feel better about themselves by throwing money at wounded dolphins.

The dock stretched out like a manicured middle finger, all polished wood and brass fittings that probably cost more than Devon's annual rent. A pelican with what looked suspiciously like a designer leg brace hobbled past, because of course even the local wildlife had been accessorized by wealth.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Devon muttered, his black-painted nails digging into the wicker handle. Twenty-seven missed calls. Twenty-seven. And what did he get in return? A text message that read: Sent Dad a fruit basket. Should help with the nutrition thing. Love you!

Love you. Like love was a band-aid you could slap over the gaping wound of abandoning your family when shit got real.

The resort's main building rose ahead like some architectural fever dream—part tropical paradise, part marine biology lab, part monument to the kind of money that made regular people's problems disappear. Signs everywhere proclaimed their mission: "Healing Our Ocean's Most Vulnerable." Devon wondered if they had a program for healing families' most abandoned fathers, but somehow doubted it made the brochure.

A sleek golf cart whispered up to the dock, driven by someone who looked like they'd been genetically engineered to fold towels. "Welcome to Paradise Bay! Are you here for the Sea Turtle Recovery Experience or the Dolphin Therapy Sessions?"

"I'm here to commit a felony with citrus," Devon said, hefting the basket. The driver's smile flickered like a bad bulb.

"Oh. Um. Well, the main reception is—"

"I'll find it myself, thanks."

Devon stalked up the palm-lined path, his combat boots making satisfyingly aggressive sounds against the eco-friendly bamboo walkway. Everything here whispered money—the kind of money that made problems like "Dad can't remember your name anymore" seem like quaint little hiccups that could be solved with the right donation to the right charity.

A massive tank dominated the resort's center, where a sea turtle with a prosthetic flipper glided past like some aquatic cyborg. A small placard read: "Marina - Rescued from fishing nets, now an ambassador for ocean conservation." Even the fucking turtle had a better job than Devon.

He found the administration building tucked between the Meditation Pavilion (seriously?) and something called the Cetacean Wellness Center. The receptionist looked up from her computer with the kind of practiced smile that could defuse international incidents.

"Hi there! How can I help you experience Paradise Bay today?"

"I need to see my sister. She works here. Assistant to whoever runs this aquatic guilt-trip operation."

The smile held, but her eyes did a quick scan of Devon's black-on-black aesthetic. "And your sister's name?"

Devon provided her name, watching the woman's expression shift as she made the connection.

Ah. So his sister had made an impression here. Good for her. Bad for their father, who was probably sitting in his recliner right now, trying to remember why the house felt so empty.

"She's in a meeting with Mr. Castellanos—that's our director—but I can see if—"

"Tell her Devon's here. Tell her he brought the fruit basket. She'll understand."

The receptionist's phone conversation was a symphony of hushed tones and meaningful pauses. Devon used the time to admire a wall display about their "Miracle Recoveries"—photos of sea creatures before and after their stay at Hotel California for Fish. A stingray named Steve had apparently made a full recovery from a boat propeller injury and was now "living his best life" in the resort's lagoon.

Good for fucking Steve.

"She'll be right down," the receptionist said, her smile now tinged with the particular nervousness reserved for situations that might require security.

Devon settled into a chair made from what looked like recycled ocean plastic—because even the furniture here had to be morally superior—and waited. The fruit basket sat in his lap like a ticking bomb made of pears and good intentions.

Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, he could see guests in their resort wear, pointing excitedly at rehabilitated seals and taking selfies with recovered sea birds. All of them probably had parents who remembered their names, their birthdays, their faces and well..weren't fucking alcoholics.

The elevator dinged with the soft, expensive sound of money in motion. Devon stood up, the fruit basket suddenly feeling heavier than his father's diagnosis.

She appeared first—still his little sister despite everything, despite the years and the designer clothes that probably cost more than Dad's medication. But she wasn't alone. Behind her stood a man who looked like he'd stepped out of a cologne ad, all pepper hair and the kind of tan that came from yacht ownership rather than construction work.

"Well, well." Devon lifted the fruit basket like evidence in a murder trial. "Thought I'd return your thoughtful gift. Dad sends his regards. Oh wait, no he doesn't, because he can't fucking remember who you are half the time now."

The cologne ad—who had to be the boss, judging by the way he stepped slightly closer to her, protective but not quite touching—cleared his throat. "Maybe we should take this somewhere private."

"And you are?" Devon's eyes flicked between them, noting the body language, the way she unconsciously angled toward the guy like a plant reaching for sunlight. Oh, this was rich. This was fucking perfect.

"Rafael Castellanos. I run Paradise Bay." The man extended a hand that Devon pointedly ignored. "Your sister has never told me anything about you."

"Funny, she hasn't told me shit about you either." Devon's gaze fixed on his sister, watching her face change as the realization hit her,he knew. Jesus Christ. Their father was losing his mind, calling out for his dead wife and his missing daughter, and she was playing house with her boss in paradise.

"Let me guess," Devon continued, his voice getting sharper, "you're not just his assistant anymore, are you? Found yourself a nice sugar daddy with a rescue complex while Dad sits at home wondering why his little girl disappeared." He turned to Rafael, giving him the full force of his contempt. "What is it about broken things that gets you off? First the sea turtles, now my sis?"

Rafael's jaw tightened. "I think you're out of line."

"Oh, I'm out of line?" Devon laughed, the sound sharp enough to cut glass. "Twenty-seven missed calls, Rafael. Twenty-seven. And what does dear old Dad get? A fucking fruit basket." He hefted it again. "You know what's in here? Pears that'll rot before he remembers to eat them. Apples he'll forget he has. And a little card that says 'thinking of you'—which is rich, because she's obviously thinking of someone else entirely."

The lobby had gone quiet. Other guests were pretending not to stare while absolutely staring. The receptionist was doing that thing where she looked busy while clearly listening to every word.

A call. Rafael gave him that look, like he was the most calm person ever. He stepped away.

"How low did you fucking go? Did you forget literally everything we did?" Devon's voice was getting louder now, fed by months of rage and exhaustion and watching his father fade away one memory at a time. "Tell me, does it make you feel good? Rescuing things? Did you tell him about all the trauma he is helping you heal from?"