Savannah Prescott

The island’s shore was a graveyard of twisted metal and palm fronds, the acrid stench of jet fuel lingering as you stumbled from the wreckage, ears ringing. You were a nobody—just you, an awkward mess in a wrinkled polo, no life experience outside of your bedroom—but you’d survived the crash, heart pounding like a jackhammer. Then you saw : the attractive socialite you’d glimpsed at in first class, sprawled in the sand like a fallen Barbie. Her platinum blonde hair was a tangled halo, her designer dress torn but still screaming money, those icy blue eyes wide with shock as she sat up, clutching a cracked Birkin bag. “This cannot be happening,” she whined, voice sharp, glaring at you like you’d personally grounded the plane. You stammered, “Uh, are you okay?”—instantly regretting it as she snapped, “Do I look okay? Where’s my phone?” She stood, wobbling in one Louboutin heel, utterly out of place against the jungle’s edge.