The plane touched down with a bounce that made teeth click and elbows jam against armrests. Somewhere in the back, a baby screamed. In Row 14F, Maria Sullivan flinched as her elbow hit plastic. The woman beside her didn’t so much as blink, calmly reapplying lipstick with the practiced ease of someone unbothered by turbulence or human suffering.

  Maria wasn’t a seasoned traveler. She wasn’t seasoned in much of anything, really, unless you counted surviving four years of American high school with her brain intact and social status terminally flatlined.

  Outside the window, the Costa Rican sun flared with blinding confidence. Maria raised her hand, shielding her eyes. Palm trees blurred past the glass, and somewhere beyond the runway stretched Punta Norte Resort, or, as her best friend Sandra had texted earlier that morning, “a dreamy coastal oasis where you can finally unclench your soul, Mari.”

  Her soul remained clenched.

  The seatbelt sign dinged. Other passengers sprang up, sun-kissed couples, linen-clad retirees. Maria remained seated, arms folded, her old duffel half-crushed in the overhead.

  Everything about her, the black boots, the oversized hoodie, the frizzy ponytail, and the paperback sticking out of her bag, a dog-eared Stephen King, screamed wrong demographic. She looked like the type you see sitting alone in the library or sitting in a dark bedroom jamming to the Verve.

  Her phone buzzed. A graduation gift from her parents.

  Sandra: “You landed right??”

  Sandra: “I’m here. I’m at the resort. It’s so cute you’re going to die!”

  Sandra: “pls don’t be a hermit. Meet me at the pool bar in 20. Wear the dress I picked. Yes! the floral one.”

  Maria didn’t reply. Sandra would know she’d seen it. She always knew.

  The aisle cleared. Maria grabbed her bag, adjusted her hoodie, and followed the scent trail of coconut lotion and wealth down the jet bridge into a wall of heat that hit like a wet slap.

  Punta Norte’s terminal didn’t resemble an airport so much as a boutique spa with delusions of grandeur. The floors were tiled in blue and cream. The walls were paneled in polished wood. Lazy ceiling fans spun like they were conserving effort for some future emergency. A mural of a glowing sunset beach loomed over the baggage claim.

  Her duffel emerged battered but intact. She slung it over one shoulder, muttered a thanks to no one, and stepped into the sun.

  The shuttle van outside was waiting, painted a cheerful turquoise and driven by a man who smiled like he’d just won something. He handed Maria a bottle of water and a glossy tourist pamphlet titled Puntarenas: Jewel of the Pacific! She declined both and slumped into the nearest window seat.

  The van wound its way through the narrow streets of Puntarenas. Colorful houses crowded close to the road, their stucco walls peeling in places. Motorbikes zipped past open-air fruit stands. Chickens crossed the street without care.

  Maria barely noticed. Her phone buzzed again.

  Sandra: “They’re all here already. Emilia’s boyfriend brought a PlayStation for below deck. You’re going to love this yacht. promise.”

  Emilia Heart. The name turned her stomach. Cassy Hargrove would be next. And if they were both onboard, this wasn’t a vacation. It was a tropical ambush in hell. The weather already matched.

  Maria: “Kill me.”

  Sandra: “Nope. Your cute, introverted butt is gonna have a blast. See you soon!”

  The shuttle pulled through an ornate white-stone gate flanked by fountains and flowers too symmetrical to be natural. Punta Norte Resort rose ahead, a sprawling compound of whitewashed villas and blue-tiled balconies, the sort of place built for celebrities, heiresses, or minor royalty.

  The architecture said paradise. Maria said nothing.

  At the circular drive, a valet made a brave attempt to take her bag.

  “I got it,” she muttered.

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  He took a step back, confused but compliant.

  “Maria!”

  Sandra Carrington crossed the courtyard barefoot, neon bikini blinding in the sun, a sarong fluttering lazily at her hips. Glitter shimmered across her skin like something from a movie trailer.

  Maria didn’t smile. She braced.

  “Tell me you’re excited,” Sandra said, throwing her arms around her before Maria could dodge.

  “Sunburned. Dehydrated. Deeply underdressed,” She mumbled.

  “So... mildly excited?” Sandra grinned. “Come on. The others are already at the marina. I got you a room, but we’re not staying long. We board in twenty minutes .”

  “Wait, what? I thought we were…”

  “Nope,” Sandra cut in. “Cassy fast-tracked the departure. Wind shifts, or tides, or some sea thing. Look, just trust me. You’re going to have fun.”

  Maria had twenty-four questions and no time to ask them. Sandra was already dragging her toward a waiting golf cart that reeked of pineapple air freshener and urgency.

  They zipped past cabanas and spa lounges, pools with floating drink trays, and guests lounging under striped umbrellas, reading magazines that looked like they cost more than Maria’s plane ticket.

  Then the jungle broke. And the yacht came into view.

  Docked at the far end of a private pier, La Reina del Pacífico didn’t just float; it flexed. Sleek, blindingly white, layered like a birthday cake. Polished chrome railings. Curved decks. Too many flags.

  It didn’t just scream opulence, it screamed it in six languages and wore designer sunglasses.

  The name glimmered in scripted silver along the hull.

  “This looks like somewhere people do cocaine and get away with tax fraud,” Maria said.

  Sandra squealed. “I know, right?”

  The marina smelled like salt and sunscreen, with just a hint of diesel. A few other yachts bobbed lazily in their slips.

  Maria followed Sandra down the dock, heels clicking unevenly on the planks. Her duffel bag thumped against her hip. The yacht stretched three stories tall, brilliant white, as if daring the sun to compete. A man in mirrored sunglasses stood at the gangway in a white uniform.

  “Names?” he asked.

  “Sandra Carrington and party,” Sandra said, flashing a winning smile.

  The man checked a clipboard, then gave a nod and motioned them up.

  At the top of the gangway, Maria hesitated. The deck was teak, polished within an inch of its life. Two girls stood near the railing, holding drinks. One of them, tall, blonde, smirking, turned just enough to make eye contact.

  Cassy Hargrove.

  ‘Of course.’ Maria could already feel her energy being sapped out of her. She wanted to turn around and go back to the resort, or better yet, just go home. Why was she here again?

  Cassy wore white linen pants, a bikini top, and the smug expression of someone who believed the world was her oyster.

  “Welcome aboard,” Cassy said, her tone flat, as if the words were being forced from her.

  Next to her stood Emilia Heart, dark curls tucked under a designer visor, drink in hand, sunglasses perched low on her nose. She didn't sneer, didn’t smile. Just watched.

  On the dock below, three boys were hauling luggage toward the yacht. Maria recognized Sandra’s boyfriend, Samuel, tall, easygoing, wearing cargo shorts and aviators. Next to him, Jake Blake (his unfortunate real name), former quarterback, full-time douchebag. And finally, Clark Adams, who was dating Emilia, if memory served. Quiet, broad-shouldered, and as expressionless as a rock.

  Sandra waved at the boys. “Hey, babe!” she called to Samuel, who gave her a two-finger salute.

  “Look at this,” Cassy said softly to Emilia, just loud enough. “Little Maria actually showed.”

  Maria said nothing. She’d spent years learning that silence could sting more than a retort. She gave them a single nod, adjusted her grip on her bag, and followed Sandra below deck.

  The interior was cooler and quieter. Air conditioning hummed low behind teak panels. The yacht smelled of citrus and new leather. A narrow hallway branched into small private cabins. Maria’s had two bunks, a closet the size of a postage stamp, and a porthole view of the sea.

  She dropped her bag onto the lower bunk and sat down for exactly four seconds before Sandra burst in.

  “Okay, okay, okay, we have forty minutes until dinner, and you’re not wearing that hoodie.”

  Maria looked down. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “You look like you’re about rob a 7/11.”

  Maria frowned and looked down at her hoodie. “It’s my nicest one.”

  Sandra shook her head. She opened the closet and pulled out a summer dress, blue, floral, clearly chosen with intent. “You promised.”

  “You emotionally blackmailed me.” Maria corrected.

  “Same difference.”

  By the time the sun dipped low across the horizon, casting the marina in a caramel glow, the group was gathered on the upper deck. Dinner was being served in courses: ceviche, grilled snapper, and vegetables arranged like modern art.

  A private chef, apparently. Because of course there was.

  Maria sat between Sandra and Clark, who said maybe five words between mouthfuls. Across the table, Jake laughed too loud at his own story, while Cassy drank something neon and Emilia watched the waves like they were more interesting than everyone here combined.

  Then came the moment.

  Cassy stood. Glass raised. Her voice cut through the hum of conversation like a scalpel.

  “A toast,” she said.

  Everyone glanced up.

  “To Emmy’s yacht,” she began, motioning toward Emilia, who inclined her head like royalty. “And to freedom. No parents. No rules. No school. Just one last wild Latin adventure before college ruins our lives.”

  The glasses clinked. Maria’s stayed half-raised.

  Then Cassy added, too casually, “And to the island. Did you guys see it on the way in?”

  She gestured toward the fading shape on the horizon, just barely visible through the twilight haze.

  “That’s Isla Nublar,” she said.

  The name lingered like smoke.

  Jake raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t that the place with the dinosaurs?”

  Cassy grinned. “Exactly.”

  Sandra laughed. “Wait, you mean Jurassic Park? The tragedy?”

  “Yup,” Cassy grinned. Her eyes glinted in the twilight. “And tomorrow… we’re going ashore.”