Back then, I felt sorry for her, so I took over the chores, winding up as the caretaker for both her and Christopher.

Not long after, Sally lamented that she was intruding on our marital bliss and wanted to rent her own place.

To ease her worries, I handed her the other villa I owned in our neighborhood.

Then, Sally played the sympathy card again, bemoaning her niece's plight, abandoned by her man, with a child, and no place to call home. She said she was powerless to help.

So, I gave one of my properties to Sally's niece.

Back then, I truly believed that family was family, and Sally's kin were my kin.

Sally's laughter rang out as she clutched my hand, beaming at me like I was her own flesh and blood.

Christopher's voice was soft as he told me how lucky they were to have me, the perfect wife, in their lives.

However, it was not until everything fell apart, when they turned on me, treating me like nothing more than a resource, that I saw the truth behind their mother-son conspiracy.

Their kindness, their warmth: it was all just a charade to blindside me.

Christopher had never really loved me. He had seen a lonely woman, orphaned and wealthy, and he had crafted his courtship with precision.

The so-called homeless niece that Sally was always fussing over was actually his wife and kids from back home.

With that knowledge, I could not help but smile sweetly and say, "Oh, darling, I've been missing your mother too."

Christopher's smirk was all confidence as he replied, "You can relax at home. I'll go bring Mom over, and tonight, you'll get to savor her home-cooked meals, the ones you adore."

I played along, my nod full of feigned excitement.

He patted my hair and rushed off to fetch Sally.

I watched him go, my smile twisting into something far more sinister. The gang was getting back together again.

However, this time, with apocalyptic haunts everywhere, I wondered how long their devoted act could last without me being their prey.

Once Christopher was gone, I quickly calculated my wealth.

For years, Christopher had been craftily trying to get his hands on my wealth, but all he managed to snag was a bit of my cash. The real treasure trove in my name? It was a collection of houses.

My dad had been worried about me, his daughter, getting taken advantage of. So, he had a lawyer turn everything he left me into real estate. Thanks to that, I could live a life of leisure, never worrying about my next meal, all on the back of those rental checks.

That was precisely why, in my previous life, the two of them never stopped tricking me out of my house.

Now, facing my own over-the-top funeral plans, I needed to turn all my bricks and mortar into cold, hard cash. However, there was one place I could not part with: the villa I called home. When the end of the world kicked off, that place, with its unique design, became a fortress against the haunts.

That was why, in my previous life, I was only cast out once the greater haunts came in the final stages of the apocalypse.

I was curious to see what the apocalypse had in store for my fortress this time.

However, when the world was in hell, a regular house was not worth anything.

I cracked the safe open, left two property titles inside, and stuffed the rest into my suitcase.

Once everything was set, and with Christopher out fetching Sally, I grabbed my suitcase, hopped in the car, and headed straight for Dustin Hill, my late dad's business rival.

I did not beat around the bush. I walked into his place, flung open my suitcase full of deeds, and laid it out straight: I was selling off all my properties.

Dustin looked like I had hit him with a bolt from out of the blue. I could see he was itching to make a deal, but he played it cool, asking me what had gotten under my skin to come to him so suddenly.

If I went around talking about being reborn after the apocalypse, people would think I was insane. Even if he did buy into my story, I would not spill the beans to him.

After all, it was his dirty tricks that had sent my dad to an early grave, choking on his own rage when his project went south.

With the clock ticking, I played the innocent card. "Mr. Hill, my friend has this investment lined up that will triple our money! However, you know the drill. When my old man kicked the bucket, he made sure I was set for life, turning most of my inheritance into real estate. That left me pretty strapped for cash. And the only guy I know who can cough up that kind of dough so fast is you, Mr. Hill. So..."

Dustin's eyes danced with a wicked glee as he agreed to my pitch.

However, the guy was a shark, only willing to fork over 70 percent of what my properties were worth on the market.

We were talking about a cool 45 million dollars in assets, which meant I only got 31.5 million out of him.

I clenched my jaw and took the deal.

Dustin was all smiles, practically tripping over himself to get me to sign on the dotted line, promising to wire the cash in a month.

I put the brakes on that. "Mr. Hill, my friend says this deal's got only ten days left on the clock, so I need that money this week."

Dustin scowled, and I let out a weary sigh. "If that's too much to ask, then let's just forget the whole thing."

Like a hawk on a mouse, Dustin pounced, saying, "A week it is!"

We inked the deal, and Dustin handed over a cool 15 million dollars upfront, agreeing to settle the rest within the week.

I caught Dustin's smug grin and could not help but scoff to myself. 'When the apocalypse comes, you'll see. All this will be nothing but trash.'

After leaving Dustin's place, I made a beeline for Zephyr City's grandest funeral home. The ambiance was serene, with soft lighting and the mingling fragrances of lilies and candles. A somber-suited funeral manager approached me, his voice deep and courteous as he said, "Good afternoon. Whose funeral is it?"

I cut to the chase. "I need a funeral. The most lavish one you can pull off. Don't worry about the cost."

The manager blinked, taken aback. Then, he asked, "Forgive me, but whose funeral are we planning?"

I pressed my lips together. "Mine."

He looked at me, a mix of concern and curiosity in his eyes, and asked gently, "Are you sick, or in some kind of trouble?"

I offered a wry smile. "You could say that. If I don't get this funeral sorted, I may not last much longer."

His eyes lit up with a mix of intrigue and understanding. "Did you get some kind of omen or advice from a sage to do this?"

I picked up where the manager left off. "Sounds about right. I want you to put together the most extravagant funeral you can imagine. Let's start with a budget of 30 million dollars. If we need more, I'll let you know. And schedule it for the 21st."

In my previous life, the apocalypse hit on the 22nd. If I got the funeral out of the way by the 21st, I could kick back at home and watch the world crumble.

The manager looked like he had seen a ghost. He sputtered, "Your budget is... What? Thirty million dollars? You're pulling my leg, right?"

I did not waste time with explanations. I just had him give me the account details.

A few taps on my phone, and the 15-million-dollar deposit was on its way.

The manager was frozen, staring at the transaction alert for a good ten minutes before he snapped out of it, hands shaking with barely contained excitement.

I said calmly, "Consider that a downpayment. I'll pay the rest on the day. We're on a tight schedule; the funeral has to be on the 21st."

His eyes lit up, and he was all deference and urgency as he said, "Please rest assured. Whatever you may request, I'll make it happen, no matter the cost."

I nodded and laid out my demands. "Out of the 30-million-dollar budget, set aside 15 million for gold coins settled in my coffin.

"I also need a top-of-the-line mahogany coffin with a velvet lining. For the flowers, the hall should be drowning in lilies, white roses, and orchids. Set aside 1.5 million for them.

"And I want a choir and a string quartet for the whole shebang. I demand a procession of sleek black luxury cars and the finest hearse in Zephyr City. So 7.5 million was meant for them.

"Please prepare soldiers cut from paper, and let them stand together with white flowers to guard my coffin. 4.5 million. Make the paper soldiers as much as possible.

"As for my final resting place, I want a grand, timeless mausoleum, not a run-of-the-mill cemetery plot. Allocate 1.5 million for that.

"This funeral will have one theme: unprecedented luxury. It will be the talk of the town, forever etched in one's memory.

"And listen up, don't even think about cutting corners with bulk orders. I'll be checking. If anything's not up to my standard, forget about seeing the rest of your money!

"If costs run over, just be straight with me, and I'll wire the extra funds."

The manager mulled over my words, then said, "This is a big ask, and it must be perfect. I can't pull this off alone."

I nodded. "Get your team together, then."

He dashed to the back of the shop and slammed a button. Moments later, every funeral manager on the block had bolted their doors and swarmed in, packing the place tight.

With a megaphone in hand, the manager pointed at me and bellowed, "Big news, Funeral Avenue! This lady's dropping 30 million on her own send-off!"

All eyes snapped toward me, wide with a mix of awe and the kind of concern one gives to someone with a terminal diagnosis.

Whipping out his phone, the manager hollered, "She's good for it, too. I've received 15 million dollars in deposit, already in the bank!"

The crowd's eyes sparkled at the sight of the confirmation text. They clamored over each other, asking, "What's the lady's vision?"

I snatched the megaphone from the manager. "I've already told him what we need, and he'll fill you in soon. Just get everything ready as I've asked."

I paused for effect. "And if you manage to get it all done early, I'll throw in an extra three million bucks!"

Eyes wide with anticipation, the crowd watched as I passed the megaphone back to the manager.

Stepping off Funeral Avenue, my phone buzzed to life. It was Christopher.

He must have gotten Sally home and realized I was missing.

I picked up, and Christopher's voice came through, laced with concern, asking, "Honey, where are you?"

I held my bitterness back and said, "Just some last-minute stuff at work. Did your mom get home okay?"

Christopher grunted a yes. "Mom's been worried sick about how hard you've been working. She didn't even stop to rest after the drive. She kept going on about making her special spaghetti with tomato sauce!"

An icy smirk played on my lips. In my previous life, this mother-son pair played me like a fiddle with that so-called 'mom-flavored' spaghetti to win over my heart.

However, back then, I was none the wiser.