The music throbbed like a heartbeat in the walls of Ruin, the Castell brothers' private club perched above the city like a throne. The lights were low, the champagne poured like water, and Riven Castell had already lost track of the names of the women laughing around him. He didn't care. They were all the same-beautiful, expensive, temporary.

"Still not tired of being the headline every other day?" his twin brother, Rowan, asked dryly from across the leather booth. He wore a suit like he'd been born in it-sharp, spotless, and cold. Unlike Riven, who had his dress shirt half-unbuttoned, gold chain loose on his collarbone, eyes flickering over every body that passed.

"I'm giving the people what they want," Riven said, tipping his drink toward the ceiling like a toast to God. "They want scandal, heat, bad decisions. I'm doing a public service."

Rowan arched a brow. "Right. Because flashing your abs in Cannes and kissing a pop star on a yacht is a noble act of charity."

"It's inspirational," Riven smirked.

A woman beside him,long-legged, fake-laugh and ran a hand up his chest. "You're really not married?" she asked, pouty like it was a personal offense.

He leaned into her with a grin that had broken hearts across five continents. "Marriage is for people who want to live the same day on loop for fifty years."

"You don't believe in love?" she asked, teasing.

Riven's eyes darkened just slightly. "Love is a great way to lose yourself in someone who forgets your name when they're bored."

Rowan made a quiet sound. "Wow. Who hurt you?"

"No one," Riven said flatly. "I just figured out the trick to staying happy."

"Let me guess," Rowan said. "Don't feel anything?"

"Exactly."

Rowan stared at him. For a second, the music seemed to fade.

"You know," he said, "we're all waiting."

"For what?"

Rowan sipped his drink. "For the day you fall. Head over heels. Can't breathe. Can't think. We're betting it'll wreck you."

Riven laughed, loud and unbothered. "Not gonna happen. Love's a trap. And I don't do cages."

"You will," Rowan said, calm and sure. "One day."

There was something about the way he said it that left a taste in Riven's mouth he didn't like-like fate had already made plans for him and was just waiting for the right hour to strike.

Riven brushed it off. "Anyway. You're the one who gets off on spreadsheets and... feelings. I'll stick to jet engines and beautiful disasters."

Rowan stood. "Speaking of jet engines-your pilot called. Storm's moving fast. You're wheels up at seven."

Riven raised his glass. "Perfect. Nothing like a private flight to a private island to get away from the consequences of being too damn desirable."

Rowan didn't laugh. Just looked at him one more time and said:

"Just don't fall so hard you forget how to land."

The next morning, the sky was painted in strokes of gold and pink as the Castell jet sliced through the air like a silver bullet. Riven reclined in the plush leather seat, sunglasses on, glass of whiskey half-full, flipping through texts from women whose last names he couldn't remember.

"Need anything, Mr. Castell?" the flight attendant asked.

He didn't even look up. "Silence would be great."

She left without another word. Riven leaned back, closed his eyes, and let the hum of the engines lull him. He had a beachfront suite waiting, a party lined up, and two actresses flying in by nightfall. It was all perfect.

Too perfect.

It started with a flicker.

A rumble.

A pop.

Then metal screamed.

Riven jolted upright as the lights above began flashing red. The cabin tilted sharply, a roar filling the air like a monster had grabbed the plane and was shaking it out of the sky.

"What the hell.

The oxygen masks dropped. His glass exploded. Luggage tore loose. He slammed sideways against the wall as the jet dipped hard. Alarms wailed. The co-pilot's voice buzzed over the intercom, frantic and choppy: "-Mayday-systems down-engines failing-brace for impa-"

There was no time to scream.

The world flipped. Glass shattered. Then nothing.

Somewhere far away, he heard waves.

Soft at first. Then louder.

A gull cried overhead.

His eyes opened to sky-not ceilings. Not clubs. Not chandeliers.

Just sky. Wide and endless.

He was lying on sand. Shirtless. Barefoot. Soaked in seawater and blood. The sun was hot on his face. His head throbbed like it was caving in from the inside. When he tried to sit up, the pain in his ribs punched him flat again.

Where was he?

His lips cracked when he tried to speak. "Water..."

He looked around. No wreckage in sight. No phone. No one.

No name.

He couldn't remember his name.

Not where he came from. Not why he was here.

Only the cold realization that he was alone-not just physically, but in every way that mattered.

He didn't know his name.

Didn't know his story.

But somehow, deep in the hollow silence of his chest,

he felt like he had just lost everything worth knowing.

And somewhere in the distance, hidden in the trees and salt air...

someone was watching him.