Chapter 3
Derek signed within eighteen hours. Faster than I expected.
Ruth called at 7 AM, almost laughing. "He didn't even negotiate. Just scrawled his name and practically threw the papers at my paralegal. I think you scared the hell out of him."
Good. Fear was the only language cowards understood.
The divorce gave me the SUV, half the savings, and—crucially—he relinquished any claim to Grandpa's farmhouse, which had been in Mom's family for three generations. He probably thought it was worthless. A rundown place in the hills, forty minutes from town, no HOA, no neighbors for a quarter mile.
He had no idea he'd just signed away the only safe place on the coast.
Mom and I didn't celebrate. We had five days left and a mountain of work to do.
The farmhouse was solid—Grandpa had been old-school, built with cinder block and rebar, a full basement with poured concrete walls. But it needed serious upgrades to survive what was coming.
We drove out there that morning, windows down, warm Gulf breeze blowing through the car. The sky was still absurdly blue. Birds singing. Sprinklers running on suburban lawns. Nobody had a clue.
The farmhouse sat on two acres of overgrown land on a hillside, a good 200 feet above sea level. The storm surge wouldn't reach us here. But the wind would be catastrophic—180 mph sustained, gusts over 200. Every window was a death trap.
I pulled out my phone and started making calls while Mom measured windows.
First call: a contractor who did storm shutters. I told him I was prepping for hurricane season early and offered double for a rush job. He could start tomorrow.
Second call: a generator company. I ordered two whole-house propane generators and 500 gallons of propane. The guy asked if I was running a compound. I told him I was paranoid.
Third call: a plumber who could install a rainwater collection system and connect it to a filtration unit. He said he had a cancellation and could come Thursday.
While I handled logistics, Mom attacked the supply list with terrifying efficiency.
She drove the SUV to three different Costco locations and a restaurant supply warehouse. She paid cash everywhere, never using the same store twice, never mentioning the farmhouse.
By evening, the SUV had made four trips. The basement was starting to fill up.
Rice: 400 pounds. Canned goods: 200 cans—beans, vegetables, tuna, chicken, fruit. Pasta and sauce: enough for three months. Powdered milk, protein bars, peanut butter, honey, oats. Cases of bottled water, plus purification tablets.
Medical supplies filled two shelving units: antibiotics, painkillers, first aid kits, a blood pressure monitor, antiseptic, surgical tape, prescription refills for Mom's thyroid medication.
Batteries. Flashlights. A hand-crank radio. Duct tape. Tarps. Rope.
I was organizing the basement shelves when Mom came down the stairs carrying a shopping bag with a sly grin.
"What's that?"
She pulled out two bottles of wine, a box of chocolate truffles, and a set of cozy pajamas—one for each of us.
"Olivia Marie Chen, we are surviving the apocalypse in style."
I actually laughed. For the first time since being reborn, I laughed.
That night, we ate takeout pasta on the farmhouse porch, watching the sunset paint the sky orange and pink. It was beautiful. Peaceful.
Mom set down her fork. "I've been thinking about something."
"What?"
"Derek's beach house is right on the waterfront. Ground floor. Floor-to-ceiling windows." She paused. "And Megan just moved in with him."
I looked at her.
She looked at me.
Neither of us said anything for a long moment.
Then Mom picked up her wine glass.
"I wonder," she said quietly, "if he even knows a hurricane is coming."
I thought about the meteorologists still calling it a "developing system." Thought about how Derek never watched the news, never prepared for anything, never believed bad things could happen to him.
"He doesn't."
Mom sipped her wine. "Shame."
I probably should have warned him. That's what the old Olivia would have done.
But the old Olivia died in that storm surge, calling for help while her husband walked away.
This time, I had nothing to say to Derek Hale.
What I did have was one more thing to set up at the farmhouse—something I hadn't told Mom about yet.
Because two days ago, while grabbing my winter coat from the bedroom closet at Derek's beach house, I'd tucked a tiny wireless camera behind the family photo on the mantle.
And another one inside the kitchen smoke detector.
I didn't plant them for fun. I planted them because I knew—I knew in my bones—that when the storm hit, when the food ran out, when the power died, those two would destroy each other.
And I wanted to watch.
---
Ruth called at 7 AM, almost laughing. "He didn't even negotiate. Just scrawled his name and practically threw the papers at my paralegal. I think you scared the hell out of him."
Good. Fear was the only language cowards understood.
The divorce gave me the SUV, half the savings, and—crucially—he relinquished any claim to Grandpa's farmhouse, which had been in Mom's family for three generations. He probably thought it was worthless. A rundown place in the hills, forty minutes from town, no HOA, no neighbors for a quarter mile.
He had no idea he'd just signed away the only safe place on the coast.
Mom and I didn't celebrate. We had five days left and a mountain of work to do.
The farmhouse was solid—Grandpa had been old-school, built with cinder block and rebar, a full basement with poured concrete walls. But it needed serious upgrades to survive what was coming.
We drove out there that morning, windows down, warm Gulf breeze blowing through the car. The sky was still absurdly blue. Birds singing. Sprinklers running on suburban lawns. Nobody had a clue.
The farmhouse sat on two acres of overgrown land on a hillside, a good 200 feet above sea level. The storm surge wouldn't reach us here. But the wind would be catastrophic—180 mph sustained, gusts over 200. Every window was a death trap.
I pulled out my phone and started making calls while Mom measured windows.
First call: a contractor who did storm shutters. I told him I was prepping for hurricane season early and offered double for a rush job. He could start tomorrow.
Second call: a generator company. I ordered two whole-house propane generators and 500 gallons of propane. The guy asked if I was running a compound. I told him I was paranoid.
Third call: a plumber who could install a rainwater collection system and connect it to a filtration unit. He said he had a cancellation and could come Thursday.
While I handled logistics, Mom attacked the supply list with terrifying efficiency.
She drove the SUV to three different Costco locations and a restaurant supply warehouse. She paid cash everywhere, never using the same store twice, never mentioning the farmhouse.
By evening, the SUV had made four trips. The basement was starting to fill up.
Rice: 400 pounds. Canned goods: 200 cans—beans, vegetables, tuna, chicken, fruit. Pasta and sauce: enough for three months. Powdered milk, protein bars, peanut butter, honey, oats. Cases of bottled water, plus purification tablets.
Medical supplies filled two shelving units: antibiotics, painkillers, first aid kits, a blood pressure monitor, antiseptic, surgical tape, prescription refills for Mom's thyroid medication.
Batteries. Flashlights. A hand-crank radio. Duct tape. Tarps. Rope.
I was organizing the basement shelves when Mom came down the stairs carrying a shopping bag with a sly grin.
"What's that?"
She pulled out two bottles of wine, a box of chocolate truffles, and a set of cozy pajamas—one for each of us.
"Olivia Marie Chen, we are surviving the apocalypse in style."
I actually laughed. For the first time since being reborn, I laughed.
That night, we ate takeout pasta on the farmhouse porch, watching the sunset paint the sky orange and pink. It was beautiful. Peaceful.
Mom set down her fork. "I've been thinking about something."
"What?"
"Derek's beach house is right on the waterfront. Ground floor. Floor-to-ceiling windows." She paused. "And Megan just moved in with him."
I looked at her.
She looked at me.
Neither of us said anything for a long moment.
Then Mom picked up her wine glass.
"I wonder," she said quietly, "if he even knows a hurricane is coming."
I thought about the meteorologists still calling it a "developing system." Thought about how Derek never watched the news, never prepared for anything, never believed bad things could happen to him.
"He doesn't."
Mom sipped her wine. "Shame."
I probably should have warned him. That's what the old Olivia would have done.
But the old Olivia died in that storm surge, calling for help while her husband walked away.
This time, I had nothing to say to Derek Hale.
What I did have was one more thing to set up at the farmhouse—something I hadn't told Mom about yet.
Because two days ago, while grabbing my winter coat from the bedroom closet at Derek's beach house, I'd tucked a tiny wireless camera behind the family photo on the mantle.
And another one inside the kitchen smoke detector.
I didn't plant them for fun. I planted them because I knew—I knew in my bones—that when the storm hit, when the food ran out, when the power died, those two would destroy each other.
And I wanted to watch.
---