Chapter 4: NINETY DAYS TO PREPARE

POV: PHINA

The news anchor’s voice drifted through the leather interior of the town car, but my mind was already calculating the terrifying reality. The atmospheric pressure shift was happening early. The ninety days I thought I had were shrinking before my eyes.  

I couldn't afford to waste a single second.  

"Driver, change route," I commanded smoothly. "Take me straight to Hastings Tower."

If I began buying mountain loads of non-perishable food, military-grade medical supplies, and industrial generators under my personal name, Harrison’s legal team would immediately flag the purchases as reckless behavior. They would try to claim I was mentally unstable to freeze my trust fund.  

I had to play this smart.  

The moment I stepped into the top-floor executive suite at Hastings Tower, I summoned Edwin. Edwin was my grandfather’s former chief of staff and head butler, a sharp, quiet man in his sixties with slicked-back silver hair and absolute loyalty. In my previous life, when the frost first hit and Harrison locked me out of the main pantry, Edwin had secretly slipped me a warm blanket and a tin of soup. He was one of the very few human beings who had shown me genuine kindness when my world shattered.  

"Miss Phina," Edwin said, bowing with deep respect. "It is a privilege to see you standing in this office."  

"Edwin, I need your complete discretion," I said, leaning over the wide mahogany desk. "I am launching a massive corporate emergency preparedness initiative across three Hastings subsidiary companies. We are acquiring survival resources on a scale that could supply a small city, but every contract must be split across different entities so no single supplier sees the whole picture."  

Edwin didn't question my sanity or hesitate. He simply pulled out a leather notebook. "Where shall we begin, Miss Phina?"  

"Through Hastings Logistics, order thousands of tons of vacuum-sealed grains, freeze-dried protein powders, and canned meats, citing disaster-relief donations for international charities," I ordered rapidly. "Through Hastings Medical, secure industrial-grade antibiotics, trauma kits, surgical units, and blood plasma. Through Hastings Industrial, purchase water-purification systems, fifty thousand gallons of refined diesel, heavy solar generators, satellite communication gear, cold-weather tactical clothing, and reinforced vehicles."  

"Consider it handled," Edwin replied smoothly. "And the delivery destination?"  

"Highland Crest Manor," I said.  

Highland Crest was a heavily secluded, forty-acre architectural marvel nestled in the rugged hills two hours outside New York City. My grandfather had built it on deep bedrock foundations, complete with an independent natural freshwater spring and massive subterranean vaults beneath the private wine cellars. It was the ultimate refuge.  

Over the next two weeks, Highland Crest became a covert construction war zone. I hired private engineering crews under strict non-disclosure agreements to fortify the perimeter with twelve-foot steel-reinforced concrete walls, install independent solar-grid utilities, and fit the underground cellars with climate-controlled ventilation. Every night, as supply trucks arrived under the cover of darkness, I stood in the deep underground vault and used my spatial ability to sweep endless tons of supplies into my growing pocket dimension.  

My spatial storage expanded daily, turning into a vast, weightless sanctuary capable of holding cargo indefinitely without decay.  

But money and supplies alone wouldn't save me when society collapsed. In my previous life, I was physically weak, helpless, and easily overpowered. That would never happen again.  

I hired three former Special Forces instructors for intensive, eight-hour daily training sessions. They pushed my body to its absolute limits, teaching me hand-to-hand combat, tactical blade work, endurance, emergency response, and precision marksmanship. My muscles burned, my skin bruised, and my palms calloused, but every drop of sweat was a promise to my lost baby: I will never be a victim again.  

Meanwhile, across the city, Harrison Bennet was spiraling into paranoia.  

In his high-rise office, Harrison slammed his crystal tumbler onto his desk, shattering the glass. "What do you mean her personal accounts are empty?!" he roared at his financial manager.  

"Mr. Bennet, Mrs. Bennet has moved her liquid inheritance into international private holdings and corporate subsidiaries," the manager stammered, wiping sweat from his forehead. "She is liquidating assets at an unprecedented speed, but we can't track where the capital is going."  

Vera walked up behind Harrison, placing her hands on his tense shoulders, her voice dripping with subtle poison. "Harrison, darling... She's doing this on purpose to strip you of everything. If she drains all that money out of reach before the divorce is finalized, you won't get a single dollar. You have to fight back before she takes everything."  

Harrison’s eyes narrowed into slit-like embers of cold malice. "She thinks she can outsmart me? She's my wife. Everything she owns belongs to the Bennet family."  

He grabbed his phone and dialed his head legal counsel. "I don't care what judge you have to leverage," Harrison growled. "Lock her down now."  

Late that evening, while I was sitting in my study at Highland Crest reviewing supply manifests with Edwin, Arthur Pendleton's call came through.  

"Phina, we have a situation," Arthur said, his tone grim. "Harrison’s lawyer just filed an emergency ex parte motion with the High Court to freeze all your assets."