The Villain's Popular Apocalyptic Bride

The screen refreshed. The available balance loaded.

$3,250.45.

Julia blinked. She rubbed her eyes and stared at the screen again. The numbers did not change.

She quickly tapped on the credit card tab. A list of five platinum cards appeared, every single one of them maxed out. The negative balances glowed in red, totaling over a hundred thousand dollars in debt.

Her knees went weak. She collapsed back into the velvet desk chair. The original host was a complete fraud. She lived in a mansion and wore diamonds, but she was living on empty credit.

Three thousand dollars would not even buy the air filtration system for a bunker.

Anxiety clawed at her chest. She bit down hard on her lower lip, tasting copper. Her eyes darted around the room and landed on the half-open doors of the walk-in closet.

She shot out of the chair and ran into the closet. She stared at the wall of Hermes Birkin bags, the Chanel tweed jackets, and the drawer full of Rolex watches.

She dragged two massive Rimowa suitcases out from the storage corner and threw them open on the bedroom carpet.

She grabbed the crocodile leather bags off the shelves. She did not bother with the dust bags. She shoved them violently into the suitcases, crushing the expensive leather. These were not accessories anymore; they were survival funds.

She grabbed a pair of diamond-encrusted heels and forced them into the corner of the suitcase. She pressed her entire body weight onto the lid, trying to force the zipper shut.

The bedroom door swung open without a knock.

Brenda McCoy, one of the manor's maids, walked in carrying an empty silver tray. She stopped and stared at the mess on the floor. A sneer twisted her lips.

"Playing the runaway game again, Miss?" Brenda asked, her tone dripping with blatant disrespect.

Julia froze. Her hands tightened on the zipper. The original host used to pack her bags and threaten to leave just to extort more allowance from her father.

Julia let go of the suitcase and slowly stood up. She turned to face the maid.

Brenda expected a tantrum. Instead, Julia felt a violent spike of adrenaline. Her first instinct was to shrink back, still haunted by the phantom pain of the torture room. But the ticking clock in her mind reminded her that weakness meant death. She forced herself to mimic the arrogant, untouchable aura of the original host. She locked her trembling knees, straightened her spine, and pushed all her lingering terror deep into the back of her eyes. When she looked up, she met the maid with a gaze so cold and heavy it made the air in the room feel thin.

Brenda's sneer faltered. She took a half-step back, the silver tray rattling slightly in her hands.

Julia closed the distance between them. She stopped inches from the maid.

"Who taught you to enter my room without knocking?" Julia asked. Her voice was low, flat, and carried absolute authority. "Get out."

Brenda's face flushed bright red. She opened her mouth to argue, but the sheer physical pressure of Julia's stare shut her up. She gritted her teeth, spun around, and practically fled the room.

Julia turned back to the suitcases. She yanked the zippers closed. The bags were incredibly heavy.

She grabbed the handles and dragged them out of the bedroom. The wheels bumped heavily against the Persian runner on the spiral staircase, making loud, rhythmic thuds all the way down to the first floor.

Her arms ached by the time she reached the marble foyer. She was panting, sweat forming at her hairline.

She leaned the suitcases against a marble pillar and walked over to the entryway table. She grabbed the keys to the Porsche Cayenne.

She checked the antique grandfather clock. Two in the afternoon. The luxury pawnshops in Los Angeles would be busy.

She bent down to grab the suitcase handles.

Tires screeched violently outside.

The heavy solid wood front doors were kicked open with a deafening crash. Julia flinched, pulling her hands back.

Two massive men in cheap black suits walked in. They smelled of stale cigarette smoke and fresh blood.

One of the thugs was dragging a body by the collar. He casually tossed the bleeding figure onto the pristine marble floor.

The body hit the stone with a sickening thud. A low, pained groan escaped the man's lips as he curled into a tight ball. Dark red blood dripped from his forehead, pooling instantly on the white marble.

Julia's lungs seized. Her eyes locked onto the torn white shirt.

"Brought your punching bag back, Miss," the thug announced loudly, spitting on the floor. "Kid's got a hard mouth."

On the floor, Byron Serrano slowly forced his swollen right eye open. Through the matted hair and the blood, his gaze found Julia.

The memory of the panic room crashed over her. The gunshot. The brain matter. The cold leather glove.

Her breath stopped completely.

The thug smiled a greasy smile. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a leather riding whip, the tip stained dark brown with dried blood. He held it out to her.

"You want to do the honors, Miss? Or should we break his other leg?"