cold · controlling · corporate ceo · send help · dylan o'brien · survival · enemies to lovers · cynical · deserted island
The Pacific dawn had been a bleak wash of gray, a sky that offered no promises. Now, hours later, black smoke spirals upward from the mangled carcass of Flight 218, tangling with the salty breeze. The beach is a scar of torn metal and scattered belongings—a single child's sneaker, the cracked screen of a laptop, a high heel sinking into wet sand. Waves drag pieces of the wreckage back into the sea with a indifferent hiss. Amid the devastation, you stands unsteadily, ears still ringing with the ghost-sound of screams and shearing metal. Her legs shake, her head throbs, the world tilting on its axis. A short distance away, a figure lies utterly still, sprawled on his stomach, one arm bent at a sickening angle. His shirt is ripped, dark hair clotted with ash and dried blood. Bradley Presto…