How to dress for sun, sand and ‘The White Lotus’-style murder

He got in on the ground floor when everyone thought Bitcoin was that thing floating over Super Mario’s head. His outfits scream finance bro on vacation, an aesthetic that consists almost entirely of pastel polo shirts and shorts so aggressively tailored they may as well be briefs. His timepiece is some sort of fitness device on which he tracks his nightly *cough* conquests *cough*. LinkedIn is his primary dating app. Bitcoin bros tend to attract each other and travel in a pack. Is it called a pack or does all that squawking make them crows? In which case, it’s a murder.

She’s a 40? 50?... something-year-old with the emotional stability of yogurt left out in the sun too long. She is dedicated to her current husband (and the steady stream of Van Cleef and Arpels that comes her way). There’s a high chance that she’s got a couple of hidden (read: buried) exes who were unalived under ‘mysterious’ circumstances. No one actually knows how much she’s worth (except her lawyers), but one look at her designer bag collection might offer some indication. Her current jobby (hobby masquerading as job) is a kaftan line for dogs with hip displacement.

The last in a long line of old-money aristocrats who did something industrious in the 1800s (railroads? textiles? human suffering?). The picture of male privilege, he's effortlessly charming but fundamentally useless. Like a decorative Fabergé egg cosseted in a protective layer of Loro Piana and Zegna. He is on the board of directors of multiple companies and thinks that Economy is an old wives’ tale they tell children in First Class to get them to behave. The beaded bracelet he wears for good vibes is definitely assembled from crystals mined in a conflict-ridden country. If anyone gets bumped off, it should be him.

She’s not new money. She’s mysterious money. Did she inherit it? Feet pics? On a Dubai prince’s payroll? Underground poker racket? Orry? Unclear. It’s most likely she’s a power broker. But her full-time job would have to be looking exhausted but never actually really doing anything. She wears oversized sunglasses at all times, not to block out the sun but to mask the existential fatigue of having way too much free time. She knows everyone you have ever met but no one can really zero in on why she’s famous or rich. Her funeral will be the party of the year.

It’s hard to imagine that something so tiny could inconvenience that many wait staff. One minute tending to this pup’s needs is seven years in therapy. Fierce, fabulous, and all of 3 kgs (body goals). This poochie knows it’s, well, Pucci. He doesn’t fetch but you can fetch him some wagyu, A4 or higher. He doesn’t roll over, but I guess we’ll find out if he plays dead…