4; I Bought The Place They Would Beg For

Serelyn’s POV

I had survived betrayal, death, and being eaten alive. Now I had seventy-three days to become impossible to destroy.

The lottery numbers appeared on the screen at eight that evening. I sat alone at my dining table with the ticket beside my phone. The first number appeared. I checked mine—Match.

The second appeared.—Match.

My fingers tightened around the edge of the table.

Third, Fourth. Fifth. Sixth. Match. All of them. For several seconds, I simply stared at the screen.

I had remembered these numbers for years without knowing whether I would ever get the chance to use them. Now they were real.

I had won. I didn’t scream. I didn’t laugh. I didn’t even move. I just picked up the ticket and placed it inside an envelope. Then I locked it in the small safe under my desk. No celebration. No message to Darian. No excited phone call to a friend.

The next morning, I contacted the lottery office through a lawyer and began the claim process. After taxes and the required deductions, the amount left in my account was still enough to change everything. But I knew better than to behave like someone who had suddenly become rich. Money attracted people.

I had already spent one lifetime learning that lesson. So I opened a new private account under a separate financial structure. No Darian. No Mavelle. No shared access. No family members listed as emergency contacts.

Then I wrote three rules in a notebook.

I will not tell Darian.

I will not rescue Darian.

No one will know everything I own.

I stared at the page. Then I added a fourth.

I will prepare before anyone realizes there is a reason to prepare.

That was when the real work began. I didn’t spend millions in one afternoon. I made lists. Then I divided them. Food went to several suppliers instead of one. Rice, flour, canned meat, beans, cooking oil, salt, powdered milk, dried vegetables. Water storage was ordered separately. Generators came from different companies. Solar panels were purchased through another supplier. Medical equipment, antibiotics, bandages, disinfectants, surgical supplies and protective gear were handled through a licensed medical distributor. I bought tools, batteries, communication equipment, cold-weather clothing, seeds, water filtration systems and construction materials.

Nothing arrived in one enormous shipment. I didn’t want anyone asking why one woman needed enough supplies to support a small village. Every purchase had a reason. Every reason came from something I remembered. The water filters were because clean water became almost impossible to find.

The generators were because fuel became more valuable than gold. The medicine was because hospitals stopped functioning. The seeds were because food eventually became more important than money. And the construction materials were because I remembered what happened when people realized a place was safe.

They came. They begged. They threatened. They fought. I needed somewhere they couldn’t simply walk into. That was how I found Viremont Estate.

I remembered it from my first life. During the first major collapse, Viremont had become one of the few functioning safe zones in the region. It had survived because of its location, its water source, its farmland and its old emergency shelter beneath the main house.

By the time the apocalypse reached its worst stage, people were killing for information about it. I knew something they didn’t. The estate was still for sale. The owner had died years earlier, and the property had been sitting mostly unused.

I bought it within a week. The first time I drove through the gates, I stopped the car and stared. High stone walls surrounded the property. Beyond them were fields, several buildings, an old stable, a private water source and a large main house. The underground shelter was exactly where I remembered it. I walked down the concrete steps alone.

My shoes echoed against the floor. In my first life, I had never seen this place before the apocalypse.Now I knew what it would become.

Home. Not a beautiful home but a surviving one.

I hired a private security and emergency logistics company to inspect the property and reinforce it. They arrived three days later.  was standing over the estate plans when a man’s voice came from behind me.

“This wall is too low.”

I turned. The man standing near the table was tall, dressed simply in a dark jacket, with a tablet tucked beneath one arm. His expression was calm.

“Excuse me?”

He pointed at the blueprint.

“If someone reaches this section, they have a clear line of sight to the eastern entrance.”

I looked down. He was right.

“You’re Kaeldric Vane?”

“Yes.”

He offered his hand. I shook it. His grip was firm without trying to prove anything.

“I own the company handling your security and emergency logistics.”

“I thought your project manager would come.”

“I reviewed the property myself.”

He pulled out a chair.

“May I?”

I nodded.

He sat and began examining the plans.

“This is an unusual project.”

“How so?”

“You’ve requested three independent power sources.”

“Backup.”

“You’ve also requested enough water storage for dozens of people.”

“I don’t like being unprepared.”

He glanced at me.

“You’re also reinforcing the underground shelter, adding independent ventilation, expanding food storage and securing the agricultural area.”

I folded my arms.

“Is that a problem?”

“No.”

He tapped the plans.

“You aren’t preparing for a storm.”

My eyes met his.

“Does that bother you?”

“No.”

His answer came without hesitation.

“It makes me curious.”

I studied him. There was no amusement in his voice. No mockery. He wasn’t flirting with me. He wasn’t looking at my clothes, my car or the property documents.He was looking at the plans. That alone made him different. Kaeldric pointed toward the northern wall.

“I would move the secondary gate.”

“Why?”

“Too easy to breach.”

I leaned over the table.

“How?”

He explained the weakness. I listened. Then I asked another question. He answered it. Soon we were discussing cameras, blind spots, access routes, fuel storage and emergency exits. At one point, he circled an area on the map.

“If you’re expecting dozens of people, you need another medical room.”

“I have one.”

“You have a treatment room.”

He looked at me.

“That’s not the same thing.”

I raised an eyebrow, “What’s the difference?”

“A treatment room handles injuries. A medical room handles people who are going to stay injured.”

I looked at the plan again.

He was right.

“Add it.”

He nodded. No smug smile. No I told you so.Just a small note on his tablet. I found myself watching him for a second longer than necessary.

Darian had never looked at my plans like this.Darian looked at what my plans could buy him. Kaeldric looked at what could go wrong. It was a surprisingly refreshing difference.

By late afternoon, the inspection was finished. Kaeldric walked with me toward the front gate. I expected him to leave. Instead, he stopped. His gaze moved across the estate.The walls. The fields. The construction crews. Then he looked back at me.

“Whatever you’re preparing for, Mrs. Vale…”

His expression hardened slightly.

“You should prepare for people to come looking for what you have.”

I went still. The wind moved through the trees behind him. For a moment, I was no longer standing at Viremont. I was back at the shelter.

Back behind that steel door. I remembered the faces pressed against the glass. The hunger. The begging. The violence. People hadn’t only wanted food. They had wanted whatever someone else possessed. My blood ran cold.

Because Kaeldric had just described the future I already knew. He gave me one last look before turning toward the waiting vehicle. I watched him walk away. Then I looked at the walls surrounding Viremont Estate.

He was right. They would come. In my first life, I had spent everything trying to keep other people alive. This time, I would build something worth protecting. And I would make sure they had to get through me first.