72 Hours to the Apocalypse: Rebirth of the Heiress

Zomy POV

"Please, just let me in..."

My voice is nothing more than a dry rasp, scraping against a throat torn raw by screaming into the frozen wind. Outside the iron gates of the Blackwood estate, the snow is dyed a dark, ugly crimson where my bare fingers clawed at the frozen earth. Through the towering floor-to-ceiling windows of the grand ballroom, I can see the amber glow of the chandeliers. I can see the crystal flutes catching the light as Lucas and Christina raise them in a toast. They are laughing. They are celebrating the final seizure of everything my parents left me, while I freeze to death in the ruins of a dying world where the dead are already rising from the snowbanks.

A rotting groan echoes from the darkness behind me.

I turn my head, my vision blurring with black frost, and see a jagged silhouette stumbling toward me through the blizzard—a neighbor whose jaw is half-missing, eyes milky and dead.

I gave them my heart. I gave them my blood. I gave them my empire. And as the frozen jaws snap shut over my shoulder, my last thought shatters in the dark: They took even my death.

"Gasp!"

Air tears into my lungs like shattered glass.

I jolt forward, my hands slamming hard against polished marble. The harsh glare of vanity lights blinds me, reflecting off gold-rimmed mirrors. I am not lying in the freezing mud. I am sitting on the velvet stool of the VIP ladies' lounge on the second floor of the grand engagement venue. My skin is warm. My hands are clean, smooth, and entirely unscarred—no frostbite, no blood, no wounds.

I look down at the heavy silk fabric brushing against my knees. It is the emerald-green gown Lucas picked out for me, the one that makes me look pale and submissive, exactly how he likes me.

I check my gold wristwatch. Three days before the estate transfer signature. Three days before the end of the world begins.

A sharp, hysterical laugh breaks from my lips, a bitter, broken sound that echoes off the pristine bathroom tiles. I survived hell only to be dragged right back to the very moment the trap closed around my neck.

"Zomy? Are you decent in there? The guests are waiting for the toast!"

Christina’s shrill, sugary voice rings out from beyond the heavy oak door of the lounge.

My laughter cuts off instantly. My pulse hammers against my ribs, wild and furious. I stand up, smoothing down the emerald silk, every drop of blood in my veins turning to ice water.

I slip out of the private bathroom, staying close to the shadowed wall of the corridor. From the adjoining private VIP lounge, muffled sounds drift through the cracked wooden door. A soft gasp. The unmistakable rustle of expensive fabric.

I push the door open just an inch and peer through the narrow gap.

Lucas has Christina pressed hard against the mahogany bookshelf. His fingers are bunched inside the lace of her white designer dress, lifting it high against her thighs. Christina’s head is thrown back, her lips parted in a breathless moan as his mouth devours her neck.

"Lucas... stop... someone will see..." Christina whimpers, though her hips grind desperately against his groin.

Lucas pulls back, a dark, arrogant smirk twisting his handsome face as he adjusts his tie. "Let them look. Once she signs tomorrow, the entire estate is legally ours, Chris. Every last acre, every offshore account, every building."

Christina laughs, high and vicious, wrapping her arms around his neck. "And then we can finally stop pretending to care about the little orphan. God, watching her play the devoted fiancée makes me want to puke."

My blood doesn't just turn to ice—it flash-freezes. It wasn't just an affair. It was a calculated, cold-blooded heist designed to leave me destitute before the sky falls and the dead take the earth.

I don't burst in. I don't scream or claw their eyes out like the pathetic girl I used to be.

Instead, I step back into the hallway, pulling a compact mirror from my clutch. I fix my lipstick, smooth every stray strand of dark hair back into place, and breathe in deep, steadying the tremor in my hands. When I push open the main ballroom doors and walk back down the grand staircase, my posture is straight, my gaze entirely unfazed.

The crowd applauds softly as I glide across the parquet floor. Lucas is waiting at the foot of the stairs, holding two glasses of champagne, his public mask of devotion firmly back in place.

"There you are, my love," Lucas says smoothly, stepping forward to offer his arm. "Everyone is waiting for you to make an appearance."

I don't take his arm. Instead, I step closer, closing the distance until our chests nearly touch. I reach up, my fingers gently brushing against the lapel of his tailored tuxedo jacket, straightening it with agonizing slowness. I tilt my head up, letting my lips brush the shell of his ear.

"I know," I whisper.

Lucas freezes. The glass of champagne in his hand tilts dangerously, amber liquid sloshing over the rim.

His face drains of every drop of color, turning a sickly, ghastly white.

"What... what did you say?" he stammers, his voice dropping an octave, panic bleeding instantly into his tone.

I pull back just enough to meet his terrified eyes, offering him a sweet, chilling smile that doesn't reach my eyes.

"I said... enjoy the party while it lasts, Lucas. Because tomorrow, everything changes."

Before he can recover, before he can grab my wrist or demand an explanation, I turn on my heel and walk toward the terrace doors to catch my breath in the cool night air.

Ten minutes later, the ballroom music swells, drowning out the murmurs of the crowd. I slip back inside through the side service entrance, my eyes locking onto the empty VIP seating area where Lucas left his designer tuxedo jacket draped over a velvet armchair while he stepped away to answer an urgent phone call.

My heart thumps a frantic rhythm against my ribs as I approach the chair. I glance around—no one is looking. My trembling fingers dive into the deep interior pocket of his jacket, brushing past his leather cardholder and fountain pen, until they catch on a crisp, folded stack of heavy legal paper.

I pull the document out into the dim light of the corridor and unfold it.

At the top of the page, bold black letters stare back at me: Property Transfer Agreement.

My eyes race down the dense legal jargon until they hit the bottom signature line. My full name, Zomy Vance, is already scrawled there in dark blue ink. Except I have never laid eyes on this contract before today. My signature has been perfectly, flawlessly forged.

My breath catches in my throat, but the horror doesn't stop there. As my fingers fumble to unfold the second sheet tucked underneath the first, a fresh wave of cold sweat breaks out across my spine.

It is a second legal document—a multi-million-dollar life insurance policy naming me as the insured, with a handwritten rider attached to the back.

And the sole beneficiary listed to receive every single penny upon my sudden, tragic death... is Lucas.

Footsteps echo suddenly down the carpeted hallway behind me, heavy and fast, accompanied by the sharp chime of a phone ringing incessantly from inside the jacket I'm still holding.

"Zomy?" Lucas's cold, frantic voice calls out from just around the corner. "What are you doing over there?"