Money is the backbone of survival in the apocalypse—without it, even the best-laid plans crumble into dust, and all the resolve in the world becomes useless.
I'd learned that lesson the hard way last time: I'd turned my back on my family's wealth, naively believing Ethan's lies that we could "build a life together" with nothing but love, refusing Grandma's secret savings because I'd thought it would make me "independent" in his eyes, and giving up my trust fund access without a second thought.
That foolish pride had left me starving, homeless, and ultimately dead, trapped in a flooded basement while Ethan and Sarah counted the money they'd stolen from me.
This time, I would cast aside all false pride, all hesitation—I would use every resource at my disposal, unapologetically, ruthlessly even.
Money wasn't just paper and numbers; it was the key to my fortress, the fuel for my supplies, the weapon that would keep me alive long enough to watch Ethan and Sarah pay.
As I stared at the cheap notebook in front of me, the words "Phase 1: Secure Funds" staring back at me like a promise, I felt the jade pendant at my neck grow warm against my skin—as if Grandma was nodding her approval, urging me forward.
My first move was Grandma's hidden envelope—the one I'd stowed away in the bottom of my suitcase, under a pile of old, worn clothes, where Sarah would never think to look. I'd avoided touching it for six months, ever since Grandma had pressed it into my hand on her deathbed, her voice weak but urgent: "Hide this, Rosie. Don't use it unless you have to—unless your life depends on it. And whatever you do, don't let it get wet, don't let anyone see the mark on the card's edge." Back then, I'd naively held her hand and argued: "Grandma, I don't need this. Ethan will take care of me, and we'll be fine. What mark? I don't see anything." Grandma had just sighed helplessly, her thin hand clutching mine tightly: "Silly girl, you can never truly know what's in someone's heart. Some dependencies are not as reliable as having confidence in your own hands. The mark will show when the time comes—when the sky weeps nonstop, and the ground can't hold the water anymore. Remember, this money is your retreat, not your burden." I'd never dared to touch it since then, and now, thinking back, I'd been incredibly foolish. I stood up quietly, tiptoeing to the closet where my suitcase sat, careful not to make a sound that would wake Sarah. The floor creaked slightly under my weight, and I froze for a heartbeat, my hand hovering over the closet doorknob—a memory of Sarah mocking me last night flashed in my mind. She'd leaned against the sofa, shaking the change in her hand, her tone contemptuous: "Rosie, you can't even afford a cup of coffee, yet you insist you don't care about your family's money? If I were you, I'd have begged my parents to take me back long ago. Besides, what's with that ugly jade around your neck? You wear it like it's a lifeline, but it's just a cheap trinket." I'd deliberately put on a wronged and stubborn look, lowering my head and muttering softly: "I won't beg them. I'll earn money to support myself someday. And it's not cheap—it was Grandma's. I'm not taking it off." Now, thinking about it, that fake argument had made her even more at ease. If she found this envelope, if she even suspected I had money hidden away, or if she figured out the jade's secret, all my plans would fall apart. But I pushed the fear down, gripping the doorknob tightly—this was for Grandma, for me, for the girl they'd killed. I pulled the suitcase out, unzipped it, and dug through the layers of clothes until my fingers brushed the thin, unmarked envelope. It felt light in my hand, but it held more weight than anything else—I knew it was my first step toward freedom, toward revenge.
I carried the envelope back to the coffee table, sitting down slowly, as if holding something fragile.
My hands were steady now, no more trembling—months of grief and hatred had hardened me, made me stronger than I'd ever been.
I slit the envelope open with the edge of the cheap ballpoint pen, careful not to tear the contents inside.
Out fell three items: a sleek, black private bank card, a small piece of lined paper covered in Grandma's shaky handwriting, and a copy of my ID with a tiny, handwritten account number scrawled in the margin—hidden so well, I would have missed it if I hadn't been looking for it.
I picked up the note first, my thumb brushing over Grandma's familiar script, the lines wobbly from her weakening hands but full of love.
"For when you need it most, my sweet Rosie,"
it read.
"Don't be proud to use it—survival is never a sin. This money is yours, earned by your grandfather's hard work, meant to protect you, not to be wasted on pride or lies.
I love you, always."
A tightness formed in my throat, but no tears came—tears were for the old Rosie, the one who'd cried when Grandma died, the one who'd believed Ethan's empty promises.
The new Rosie felt only resolve, a quiet fire burning in her chest.
Grandma had known, somehow, that I would need this—that Ethan and Sarah would betray me, that the world would flood, that I would need to fight to survive. She'd given me a head start, and I wasn't going to waste it.
I ran my thumb over the private bank card, its surface cool and smooth, a stark contrast to the worn envelope it had been hidden in.
I'd never seen this card before—Grandma had kept it a secret, even from my parents, I realized.
That was why it was safe; my parents couldn't freeze it, couldn't track it, because they didn't know it existed.
I flipped the card over, reading the tiny bank name printed on the back: Chicago Private Trust, a small, exclusive bank that catered to the wealthy, the kind that asked no questions and kept no unnecessary records.
Grandma had thought of everything—this account wasn't just emergency money, it was the key to unlocking my trust fund early.
She'd secretly linked it to the trust fund's contingency protocols months ago, working with Mr. Henderson, so that the withdrawal of this $5 million would serve as a "verification signal"—proof that I was acting on her wish, that I was ready to claim what was rightfully mine. It was her hidden loophole, a way to bypass my parents' freeze on the trust fund, to give me the leverage I needed to ask Mr. Henderson for help without raising suspicion.
Mr. Henderson here, full name Arthur Henderson, was our family's exclusive lawyer for many years and the person my grandfather trusted most during his lifetime.Since I could remember, he had often appeared at our home, witnessing my growth from childhood to adulthood, and he was even promoted by my grandfather—so it could be said that his entire career was inseparable from my grandfather's appreciation and help.He was calm and reliable, careful and thoughtful, always grateful and loyal to my grandfather and grandmother, and had always taken extra care of me.He was one of the few elders who truly treated me well, which was why my grandmother felt at ease entrusting the matters of my trust fund to him.
I tucked the card, the note, and the ID copy into the hidden pocket of my jeans—sewn into the waistband, a secret I'd learned from Grandma years ago, perfect for hiding small, important things.