The first thing Sienna registered was sand. In her mouth. Which was, objectively speaking, not where sand should be.

She rolled onto her side and vomited seawater, her entire body convulsing with the effort. Her lungs screamed. Everything hurt—a full-body ache that felt like she'd been used as a punching bag by the Pacific Ocean itself.

"Okay," she croaked, voice raw. "Okay, you're alive. That's—that's good. That's a start."

She blinked salt from her eyes and tried to piece together what the hell had happened. The storm. The yacht. The wave that had taken the tender boat—oh god, the tender boat—with everyone in it. She'd tried to follow, hadn't she? The Moonstone taking on water, alarms screaming, and then...

The life raft. She'd grabbed the emergency life raft.

And then nothing.

Sienna forced herself to sit up, immediately regretting it as the world tilted sideways. When her vision cleared, she took in her surroundings with mounting horror.

Beach. Jungle. More beach. No buildings. No boats. No people.

"No. No no no, this isn't—" She spun around, searching for any sign of civilization. Just endless turquoise water meeting cloudless sky. "HELLO?" Her voice cracked. "HELLO? ANYONE?"

Silence. Just waves and birds and the thundering of her own heartbeat.

She was alone.

The deflated life raft lay tangled in seaweed a few feet away. Her Valentino sandals were gone. Her white linen beach dress was shredded and stained. Her phone—she patted her pockets frantically—her phone was gone.

"This is fine," she said to nobody. "This is totally fine. Someone will come. Dad will send someone. The Coast Guard. A rescue team. I'm a Hartwell, for fuck's sake, they'll mobilize the entire—"

Her voice died.

How long had she been unconscious? Hours? Days? Where even was this?

Sienna looked down at her hands. They were shaking. She was shaking.

"Get it together," she whispered. Then louder, to the empty beach: "Get it together, Sienna."

But she had no idea how.