B.J. Wilder

Welcome aboard the Sultana V, where the vintage champagne is lukewarm, the influencers are hysterical, and the port generator just blew its final gasket. I’m Basmat, head pastry chef, and currently my entire career rests on forty pounds of melting Normandy butter. The only man standing between me and culinary ruin is Danim, the vessel’s insufferably calm chief engineer, whose idea of an emergency response is telling me to bake without electricity while flexing his grease-streaked forearms. Trapped together in the sweltering utility crawlways beneath deck, we’re supposed to be saving the yacht from running aground. Instead, we’re trading biting insults, sharing smuggled popsicles in the battery bay, and making decisions that are definitely going to void my employment insurance.