A few weeks later, the bunker was finished.
Rosalie stood inside it alone that morning, running her hand along the reinforced concrete walls, listening to the hum of the independent air system. Ahead of schedule.
Money spoke loudly.
Satisfied, she locked the biometric door behind her and drove back to the city.
She had left the children with the babysitter and told Dean she was going out to buy a birthday gift for his mother, Marilyn.
Dean had smiled at her in that approving way that used to make her feel warm.
"You're such a good wife for remembering," he'd said casually, sipping his coffee. "Mom likes expensive things, though. Don't go cheap."
Then, almost as an afterthought:
"Lilith already bought her a jewelry set. Something custom. So you might want to do better."
Rosalie had nodded.
Of course she had.
She'd smiled softly and asked what color stones Marilyn preferred.
Inside, she was burning.
As if she would spend a single dollar on that woman in this life.
Expensive gift.
Do better as his wife.
The audacity almost made her laugh.
She wasn't his wife.
And she never would be.
******************************************
Marilyn Henderson.
Widow.
Mother of four daughters and one son.
Dean, the youngest—and the only boy—was her crown jewel.
Her precious miracle baby.
The child who could do no wrong.
The older daughters—Sarah and Emma—had cut Marilyn out of their lives years ago.
No dramatic explosion.
No public scandal.
Just quiet distance.
They were tired of being compared.
Tired of being less.
The middle daughter, Kayla, still maintained contact.
Kayla was more like Marilyn—sharp-tongued, image-conscious, obsessed with appearances. She wasn't treated as poorly as the others, but even she had never reached Dean's pedestal.
Because Dean was the son.
The heir.
The baby boy who had lost his father.
Marilyn had raised them alone after her husband died when Dean was an infant.
In her past life, Rosalie had found their closeness sweet.
Admirable.
A devoted son caring for his widowed mother.
She used to feel proud watching him fix things at Marilyn's house, take her grocery shopping, call her every evening.
Now she saw it clearly.
Dean wasn't devoted.
He was dependent.
A mama's boy who had never learned to separate.
He sought Marilyn's approval before making decisions.
He let her opinions dictate their lives.
The reason they were still engaged—after seven children—wasn't complicated.
Every wedding date Rosalie suggested was somehow wrong.
Too soon.
Too rushed.
Too far.
Too close to a holiday.
And if Rosalie pushed back, Marilyn would cry.
Soft, trembling tears about "losing her baby."
Dean would turn cold.
"You made my mom cry."
And just like that, the wedding would be postponed.
Again.
Rosalie had accepted it before.
Told herself marriage was just paperwork.
That love mattered more.
Now she understood.
Marilyn never wanted her son fully claimed.
And Dean never wanted to disappoint his mother.
Seven children.
No wedding.
No legal protection.
No shared assets.
No security.
For the first time, Rosalie felt something close to gratitude.
If she had married him, disentangling herself would have been messy.
Legal battles.
Custody threats.
Financial warfare.
Now?
Five days before the apocalypse, she would end it.
Clean.
Final.
Let him run back to his mother's house.
Let him crawl into Lilith's bed.
Let Marilyn celebrate her precious baby boy.
When the heat came—
When the power grids failed—
When society fractured—
They could cling to each other.
Rosalie would be gone.
In her past life, she had felt obligated to help Marilyn and Kayla during the collapse.
They were "future family."
She had shared food.
Medicine.
Protection.
She remembered Marilyn complaining about the quality of rations while people starved outside the compound walls.
This time, there would be no obligation.
No moral leverage.
No guilt.
She would owe them nothing.
And if they tried to appeal to her humanity?
To the children's "grandmother"?
Rosalie's lips curved slightly.
You can't be morally blackmailed if you don't care.