I'd woken up an hour before dawn, while Sarah and Ethan still lay fast asleep, their soft snores drifting through the thin walls of the apartment.
Before slipping out, I'd pulled a frayed gray scarf over my neck to cover the jade pendant, flipped my old backpack to its scuffed side, and even dragged my shoe across the sidewalk to mud on the sole—anything to look like just another tired, broke girl heading to an early shift.
I'd taken the first subway, its car nearly empty, the only other passengers being sleepy laborers in work boots and faded jackets.
I'd sat in the farthest corner, backpack hugged tightly to my chest, head down, staring at the scuffed toes of my shoes, never lifting my gaze even when the subway announcements blared.
The last few blocks to the bank, I'd walked with quick, quiet steps, keeping to the shadows of storefronts, my heart pounding softly—not with fear, but with a sharp, unyielding caution.
The bank was tucked away on a quiet side street, its exterior plain and unassuming, with no large signs—just a small brass plate by the door that read "Chicago Private Trust," tarnished at the edges, easy to miss if you weren't looking for it.
Inside, it smelled like old mahogany and faint coffee, the air still and cool, a stark contrast to the damp, noisy streets outside. Rich mahogany desks and worn leather chairs lined the walls, no waiting area, no ATM, just a single counter at the back.
Behind it stood an older man with gray hair, his fingers marked with thin, pale calluses from years of handling paper and keys, wearing a crisp but slightly outdated dress shirt.
No other customers, no cameras that I could see—exactly the privacy Grandma had planned for, a space where I could withdraw the "signal money" without leaving a trace that might alert my parents or ruin the trust fund plan.
I approached him slowly, my hands tucked deep in my jacket pockets to hide their faint tremor, and slid the private bank card, my ID copy, and the handwritten account number across the counter.
My voice was low and flat, deliberately stripped of any emotion, as if I were asking for a glass of water, not five million dollars: "I'd like to withdraw the full balance from this account, please."
The teller nodded, his eyes crinkling slightly at the corners as he picked up the card. He ran his thumb over the back, as if checking for a hidden mark—one I now realized was the tiny engraving of a white rose, matching the brooch Grandma had given Mr. Henderson, the token that would link this withdrawal to my trust fund request. He scanned it with an old, clunky machine that beeped once, softly. He flipped through the ID copy, his finger pausing briefly at the handwritten account number in the margin—another secret from Grandma, a number that Mr. Henderson would recognize as the one linked to the trust fund's contingency plan, then typed quietly on a black mechanical keyboard—each a slow, deliberate sound that echoed in the quiet room.
I held my breath, my glued to the door, half-expecting someone to burst in, half-fearing the teller would look up and ask questions, that this was all a dream, that Grandma's plan had a flaw—that the link between this account and the trust fund hadn't been set up properly.
For two long seconds, he paused, staring at his screen, and my heart skipped a beat—until he reached under the counter and pulled out a thick, unmarked black folder, its edges slightly worn.
He pushed it across the counter, his voice quiet, almost gruff: "Full balance, five million, in certified cashier's checks.
As per the account's standing instructions—no receipts, no transaction logs, no record of you being here. Don't lose them."
He paused, then added, so softly I almost missed it: "Mr. Henderson will know what this means. Tell him the rose has bloomed—she wanted you to hear that."
My throat tightened further; Grandma had even told the teller to pass a message, a code that would confirm to Mr. Henderson that I'd completed this step, that I was ready to access the trust fund.
I nodded, unable to speak, and reached for the folder.
It was heavier than I'd expected, the weight of the checks pressing into my palm—solid, real, not a figment of my imagination. This wasn't just money; it was proof, a code, the first link in the chain that would unlock the $200 million trust fund.
I slipped it into my backpack, pressing it against my back, the weight a grounding reminder that this was happening, that Grandma was with me, that her plan to link this secret account to my inheritance was working.
"Thank you," I murmured, still keeping my voice low, and turned to leave, my steps quick but not hurried, not wanting to draw attention.
I didn't linger, didn't glance back, just pushed open the door and slipped into the shadows again, heading back to the subway.
I'd already withdrawn the entire $5 million Grandma had deposited into the account—enough to cover the initial costs of the penthouse rental, the fake ID, and the first batch of supplies.
But more than that, it was the key to the trust fund, the signal that would let Mr. Henderson act on Grandma's final wish, the proof that I was ready to claim the rest of my inheritance.
But I knew it wasn't enough. Five million dollars would last a while, but in the apocalypse, resources would become scarce, prices would skyrocket, and I needed to be prepared for the long haul.