Chapter 2
1198 Words
The morning sunlight spilling through the thin curtains of my apartment felt almost unreal against my skin.
Outside, birds sang from the trees lining the street. Cars rolled past in the distance, and the smell of breakfast sandwiches drifted from a food truck parked nearby.
The world was still alive.
I lowered my eyes to my hands.
There was no frostbite. No split skin. No broken nails.
They looked exactly as they had before the Deep Freeze Apocalypse began, healthy, steady, and strong.
It felt as though God had given me a second chance.
My phone buzzed.
A text message appeared on the screen.
Scott: Morning. It's way too nice outside to waste the day. Want to grab coffee?
I stared at the message and couldn't help smiling.
That was unusual.
During the five years we'd been together, Scott had never been the one making plans. I was always the one calling first, texting first, showing up first.
Which meant there was only one reason for this sudden enthusiasm.
And if I was right, things were about to get very interesting.
I typed my reply.
Sandy: Of course, babe.
Scott suggested the Mexican restaurant we always went to.
I spotted him through the window before he came inside. He looked exactly the same as I remembered, handsome, polished, and carrying that easy smile people trusted instantly.
But now that smile made my skin crawl.
The day he sold me, the day he shoved me toward those men, he had been wearing the same expression.
Not once had it slipped.
I greeted him with the same sweet smile I'd worn in my previous life.
"Hey, babe. I already ordered your favorite burrito."
Instead of sitting down, he stopped beside the table and pulled something from behind his back.
A bouquet of flowers.
Leaning closer, he smiled.
"These are for you."
I stared at the flowers.
They were the first flowers he'd ever given me. The suspicion growing inside me hardened into certainty.
Even so, I widened my eyes and let them fill with tears.
"Oh, Scott."
I wrapped my arms around the bouquet before he could lean in any farther.
The flowers formed a neat barrier between us.
His kiss never happened.
'Good. Don't touch me.'
After lunch, he suggested we stop by a nearby outdoor gear store.
Perfect.
I had a theory of my own that needed confirmation.
While browsing the winter section, I picked up a thick down parka and held it against myself.
"This one's cute," I said. "It looks really warm too."
"Don't get that."
The response came instantly.
Scott reached for a technical shell jacket instead.
"You want layers. A thermal base layer, fleece in the middle, and a weatherproof shell on the outside. Down's great until it gets wet. Once that happens, it's useless."
The words came out so naturally that he didn't realize his mistake until it was too late.
His mouth snapped shut.
I carefully returned the parka to the rack.
On the surface, I didn't react at all.
Inside, my fingers tightened around the hanger.
Layering systems, weatherproof shells and cold-weather survival.
During our previous life, we'd spent months hiding in the maintenance basement beneath an abandoned truck stop while the temperature continued to fall. Scott had survived wrapped in an expensive shell jacket stripped from a corpse, while I sat nearby shivering in a soaked winter coat.
Not once had he offered to switch.
Not once.
The Scott I met before the apocalypse had grown up on the southern coastal city, where winter barely existed.
There was only one explanation. Scott had been reborn too, just like I had.
The smiling man beside me suddenly looked very different.
But now all I could see was a snake coiled beneath the mask.
I didn't know what he was planning yet.
Until I did, I needed him to believe I knew nothing.
So I slipped my arm through his and smiled.
"Wow, you're really good at this stuff, babe. Then let's get the shell jacket."
The tension immediately left his shoulders.
Over the next week, Scott transformed into the perfect boyfriend.
Every morning he showed up outside my apartment with breakfast. Whenever the weather forecast changed, he texted reminders to bring a jacket. After I casually mentioned that my lips felt dry, a brand-new lip balm appeared on my desk the very next day.
Even my elderly neighbor noticed.
One afternoon, she saw him waiting downstairs and smiled.
"That young man is a keeper."
I smiled back.
"Yeah. He really is."
The lie came easily.
Seven days later, Scott took me to an upscale restaurant I'd never visited before.
Halfway through dinner, he set down his fork, looked me straight in the eye, and finally brought up what he called an investment opportunity.
An outdoor brand factory had a huge stock of hardshell jackets they needed to clear out. Winter's peak buying season would hit in three months, so if we bought low now and sold high later, we could double our profit.
He threw around all the fancy jargon: inventory turnover, cash flow, doubled return on investment. When he got to how he'd crunched the profit numbers, he flipped his phone around to show me. A clean, detailed spreadsheet stared up at me, every single line item broken down clear as day.
"How much are we short?" I asked.
"Only eight thousand, baby." He locked eyes with me, his gaze swimming with soft warmth and devotion. "This is all for us—for our future, you and me."
Eight thousand dollars.
In my past life, I'd worked as an event coordinator at a wedding planning company, and it had taken me a full year to scrape that exact amount together. Back then, he'd told me we were saving it for our wedding fund.
That money ended up buying three barrels of diesel... and a contract that sold me out.
"...I'll go check my savings when I get home." I lifted my head to meet his gaze, my eyes sparkling with trust. "I believe you."
That night, I transferred the eight thousand dollars to his account. Then I opened my journal and jotted one short line: He thinks the fish took the bait. Transfer sent tonight, eight thousand.
Beneath the transfer note, I'd already logged a full breakdown of every asset I'd pulled together over the past three weeks. I'd color-coded every penny coming in and going out: red for every dollar that went straight into Scott's pocket, green for every dollar that trickled back into my own account. At that point, the ratio sat at three parts red to seven parts green.
He thought he was bleeding my savings dry. But for every cent he scammed out of me, I'd already tricked him into coughing up way more under the guise of a "joint investment."
"You have to trust me," I'd told him back then, my eyes glistening with tears. "This is my mom's retirement money. I'd never gamble with this money."
And he bought it. Why wouldn't he? This was me—the girl who never lied to him, who always supported him wholeheartedly, who never once doubted him.
- Writer
