Chapter 3

The steak deliveries were a subtle thread, weaving a connection.

My real work was a sledgehammer.

My phone became my command center, the screen glowing with lists that would seem insane to anyone else.

I started with the obvious, the things that screamed ‘doomsday prepper’ to any watching algorithm.

A bulk delivery account at BJ’s Wholesale Club.

I filled a digital cart with enough bottled water to fill a swimming pool.

Canned goods followed—beans, soups, vegetables, mountains of fruit in syrup.

I added industrial quantities of toilet paper, bleach, and batteries.

Let them think I was just another paranoid rich girl with too much money and a Y2K complex.

Next, the weapons.

I found a reputable, if discreet, sporting goods store upstate that specialized in hunting rifles.

I placed an order for two sturdy, reliable bolt-action models, along with a significant amount of ammunition.

Everything legal, everything by the book, for a woman with a newly acquired hunting license.

The paperwork was a nuisance, but a necessary one.

A ghost of a smile touched my lips.

Luke would appreciate the choice. Practical, powerful, no-nonsense.

Just like him.

Then, I moved to the more interesting purchases.

An outdoor supply store yielded top-of-the-line backpacks, all-weather gear, water purification tablets, and enough freeze-dried camping meals to feed a small army for a month.

I ordered three heavy-duty diesel generators, the kind that could power a small neighborhood.

The delivery address was a anonymous storage unit I’d rented under a shell company name in Queens.

No one would connect it to Vivian Lin of the Upper East Side.

But survival wasn’t just about utility.

It was about sanity.

My final list was for me alone.

I called the pharmacies, ordering every antibiotic, painkiller, and medical supply I could think of, from sutures to antiseptics.

Then, I turned to the true lifeline: luxury.

I spent an afternoon on Fifth Avenue, not in the stores, but on my laptop.

Bergdorf Goodman, Saks.

I ordered cashmere sweaters and soft leather pants built for movement, not just show.

I bought the most durable, comfortable designer boots I could find.

I stocked up on my favorite French skincare, perfumes, and enough high-end coffee beans and dark chocolate to soothe a thousand frayed nerves.

This was my rebellion.

I would not just survive in rags, grubbing in the dirt.

I would face the end of the world with soft skin, a full stomach, and a cup of perfectly brewed espresso.

The deliveries started trickling in, small boxes of normalcy amidst the crates of survival gear.

Each one felt like a tiny victory.

But the sheer volume of it all was a problem.

The storage unit was filling up, a tangible monument to my impending reality.

I needed a better solution, a final, secure location.

A place where no one would ask questions.

A place where I could stage everything before the world went dark.

I needed to move it all, and soon.

But moving it required help.

Help I couldn’t hire through an app.

Help that needed to be utterly trustworthy, and utterly discreet.

My phone buzzed with a notification.

‘Your Peter Luger order has been delivered.’

Downstairs, Luke was eating his steak, a man of routine.

Up here, I was building a fortress out of consumer goods.

The two worlds were about to collide.

I knew exactly where to find the help I needed.

The question was, how much was I willing to reveal to get it?

The first test was coming.

And it wouldn’t involve a steak knife.