Chapter 4: Liquidating the Past

POV: Alessia Rowan

"You want to sell the inner-city penthouse? Today? At ten percent below market value?"

Mr. Henderson stared at me across his glass desk in the premier real estate office, his coffee cup suspended halfway to his mouth. He blinked twice, as if waiting for me to laugh and tell him it was a morning joke.

"Not just the penthouse, Mr. Henderson," I said, leaning forward in my chair. "I want to list the two commercial plaza units in the central business district and the riverfront property as well. All of them. Today."

Mr. Henderson set his coffee cup down with a sharp clink. He rubbed his forehead, his brows pulling tight together.

"Alessia, please, sit back for a second," he said, his tone turning cautious and warm, like an old family friend trying to reason with a grieving child. "Your late father worked with me for twenty years to secure those commercial locations. They produce over sixty thousand dollars in passive monthly rental income for your trust fund. Selling them off in a fire sale at ten percent below valuation is financial madness. You’ll lose millions in equity!"

"I don't need equity, Mr. Henderson," I said, my voice steady and quiet. "I need cash. Liquid, clean cash wire-transferred directly into my off-grid credit account within forty-eight hours."

"Forty-eight hours?" Mr. Henderson raised his hands in disbelief, leaning over his desk. "Real estate closings take thirty to sixty days! Even with an all-cash buyer, title checks and escrow transfers take at least two weeks! Why are you in such a rush? Did something happen between you and Gideon?"

"Gideon is no longer involved in my financial affairs," I said. "His power of attorney was officially revoked at six o'clock this morning."

Mr. Henderson’s eyes widened slightly. "Revoked? But he was here just yesterday asking for valuation estimates on those exact same commercial deeds—"

"And today I am telling you to sell them," I interrupted smoothly. "If you set the price ten percent below market value and require an immediate full cash wire transfer without financing contingencies, how fast can you find an institutional buyer?"

Mr. Henderson stared at me for a long moment, taking in the total lack of panic or hesitation in my eyes. He let out a long sigh, sitting back in his chair and picking up his pen.

"For those prime locations at that discount?" he asked, tapping the pen against his notepad. "I can have three institutional cash buyers fighting over the contract before noon. We can wrap up escrow by tomorrow evening."

"Good," I said, standing up from my seat. "Prepare the sales agreements immediately and send them directly to my private encrypted email. No physical mail. No notices sent to Gideon or Nessa."

"Alessia, wait," Mr. Henderson called out, rising from his chair. He looked at me with genuine concern etched into his face. "Are you sure you’re okay? You’ve changed so much since I saw you last month. You look... different."

"I am completely fine, Mr. Henderson," I said, giving him a small, polite smile as I turned toward the door. "I'm just finally waking up."

Twenty minutes later, I walked into the grand marble lobby of the Central Private Bank.

The air inside was cool and smelled faintly of expensive polish. I walked straight past the public teller lines and headed directly down the carpeted hallway toward the private vault division.

Mr. Fredrick , the senior vault manager, was sitting behind his mahogany desk. The moment he saw me walk through the glass door, his face went tight with anxiety, and he quickly stood up from his chair.

"Mrs. Foster—I mean, Ms. Rowan!" Mr. Fredrick stammered, smoothing down his tie with trembling hands. "I... I was just about to call your personal cell phone."

"Is there a problem, Mr. Fredrick ?" I asked, stopping right in front of his desk. "I requested access to my family's private vault box twenty minutes ago via the portal."

Mr. Fredrick swallowed hard, his eyes darting toward the security monitors on the wall before looking back at me.

"Ms. Rowan, we have a very sensitive legal situation right now," Mr. Fredrick said in a hushed, nervous tone. "Less than fifteen minutes ago, your husband—Mr. Gideon Foster—called our central security director directly. He reported that you were experiencing an acute emotional breakdown and attempting to remove high-value family assets without authorization."

I let out a soft, cold laugh that made Mr. Fredrick look even more uncomfortable.

"An emotional breakdown?" I asked gently.

"Yes, ma'am," Mr. Fredrick said, pulling out a printed security log from his drawer. "He flagged your primary account, claiming that any physical asset withdrawal made today should be blocked as potential fraudulent theft."

"Gideon Foster is no longer a legal executive on my accounts, Mr. Fredrick ," I said flatly.

I reached into my handbag, pulled out the legal Separation Agreement along with the official bank revocation notice stamped by the court clerk, and slid them across his mahogany desk.

Mr. Fredrick picked up the papers, his eyes scanning down the legal stamps and official seals. As he read the court authorization, the tension in his shoulders slowly relaxed, replaced by deep embarrassment.

"This... this was filed and processed at six-fifteen this morning," Mr. Fredrick muttered, his cheeks flushing pink. "His power of attorney has been completely wiped from our central database."

"Which means Gideon Foster has zero authority to flag my account, speak to your security director, or stop me from entering my own vault," I said, keeping my tone perfectly calm. "Unless the bank wishes to be named in a multi-million-dollar lawsuit for blocking a client's verified legal access?"

"No! Absolutely not, Ms. Rowan!" Mr. Fredrick said quickly, pulling out his master keycard from his suit pocket. "I apologize deeply for the confusion. Please follow me right this way."

He led me down the heavy, secure hallway toward the deep subterranean vault room. The thick steel doors slid open with a quiet mechanical hum, revealing row upon row of gleaming metallic safety deposit boxes.

Mr. Fredrick brought me to Box 402—my mother’s personal estate box. He inserted his master key, I typed in my private six-digit PIN on the digital panel, and the thick box door clicked open.

"I will give you complete privacy, Ms. Rowan," Mr. Fredrick said with a polite bow, stepping back out of the vault room and closing the heavy glass barrier behind him.

I pulled the long metal container out of the wall and placed it on the velvet viewing table in the center of the room.

When I lifted the metal lid, the bright overhead lights reflected off the contents inside.

Row upon row of pure, physical gold bullion bars sat neatly packed in custom velvet trays. Beside them were three sealed industrial containers holding high-grade, uncut industrial diamonds—assets my mother had purchased fifteen years ago as a hedge against inflation.

In paper currency, this box was worth nearly three million dollars. But in ninety days, paper currency would be nothing more than dirty trash burning in street barrels for warmth. Gold and industrial diamonds, however—materials used for trading, high-grade tools, and survival strongholds—would buy food, weapons, and medical supplies when the world burned.

I opened my reinforced leather duffel bag and began transferring the gold bars and sealed diamond cases inside, one by one. The heavy weight of the metal pulled hard against my arms, but every bar felt like real, solid power returning to my hands.

Once the box was completely empty, I locked the metal container back into the wall and zipped my duffel bag shut.

I walked back out into the vault manager’s office, carrying the heavy duffel bag over my shoulder.

Mr. Fredrick was standing behind his desk, holding his desk phone to his ear, his face completely pale as he listened to someone talking on the line.

"I understand, sir... yes, we are monitoring it now..." Mr. Fredrick muttered nervously into the receiver.

"Everything is cleared, Mr. Fredrick ," I said, stepping toward his desk. "Thank you for your assistance."

Mr. Fredrick slowly lowered the phone, staring at my duffel bag with wide, startled eyes. But before he could speak, a sharp, loud chime sounded from my smartphone sitting in my jacket pocket.

I pulled the phone out, expecting another desperate text from Gideon or Nessa.

Instead, a bright red emergency news banner was pulsing across the top of the screen:

BREAKING NEWS: STATE HEALTH DEPARTMENT ISSUES EMERGENCY QUARANTINE

I tapped the notification instantly. The article popped up on the display, featuring a live broadcast video from a regional hospital just thirty miles outside Blackridge City.

Headline: St. Jude Regional Hospital Placed Under Total Military Lockneck Following Outbreak of Aggressive, Rabies-Like Virus in Emergency Ward. Multiple Fatalities Reported.

My heart stopped beating for a full second. My breath caught cold in my throat.

The rabies-like outbreak... St. Jude Hospital...

In my past life, the first hospital quarantine didn't happen until June 22nd.

Today was June 12th.

The timeline had shifted. The outbreak wasn't ninety days away anymore—it was starting ten days earlier than before.

My phone suddenly began to vibrate violently in my hand as a new incoming call flashed over the breaking news report.

The caller ID read: GIDEON FOSTER.

I stared at the screen, my grip tightening on my  duffel bag of gold as the reality of the accelerating countdown crashed down around me.