The Billionaire's Blizzard Bait

I lived a life of enviable luxury in my pristine Colorado mountain cabin, nestled deep in the Rockies.

Then, I died, frozen solid just outside my own front door.

My last sight was Ethan, my boyfriend, feasting on my food inside, watching me claw at the glass until my fingers bled.

His family, the Scotts, laughed as I froze, adjusting curtains to block me out, celebrating my demise.

They left me to perish in the brutal blizzard, utterly and completely abandoned.

That death was absolute, excruciating, and unforgettable.

But then, I jolted awake, submerged in 1200-thread-count sheets, the Rockies bathed in sunlight outside my window.

It was ten days before the storm, before my betrayal.

A wave of nausea hit me, the phantom hunger and cold still clinging to my bones, but then a cold, hard fury replaced it.

This time, my cabin, my wealth, and my meticulous planning wouldn' t be my downfall; they would be my ultimate weapon.

I died just outside my own front door, frozen solid in the Colorado snow.

The last thing I saw was Ethan' s face, my boyfriend, framed in the window of my mountain cabin. He was warm. He was eating my food. He watched me scratch at the door until my fingers bled, then he just turned away.

His family, the Scotts, were with him. His father, a man who smelled like stale beer and sweat, had laughed. His mother, a woman whose passive aggression could cut glass, just adjusted the curtains to block me out. His younger brother probably broke something of mine to celebrate.

They left me to die. And I did.

Then, I jolted awake.

The air was warm. The sheets on my king-sized bed were 1200-thread-count Egyptian cotton. Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, showing the pristine, green and brown slopes of the Rockies. My cabin. My perfect, luxurious cabin near Aspen.

It was clean. Untouched. Not the pigsty the Scotts had turned it into.

On the large flat-screen TV across the room, a NOAA weather alert banner scrolled across the bottom of the screen.

"UNPRECEDENTED POLAR VORTEX EVENT EXPECTED TO HIT THE ROCKY MOUNTAIN REGION IN TEN DAYS. RESIDENTS ARE ADVISED TO PREPARE FOR RECORD-BREAKING LOW TEMPERATURES AND BLIZZARD CONDITIONS."

Ten days.

I was back. I had ten days.

A wave of nausea hit me, and I ran to the bathroom, throwing up into the toilet. The memory of starvation was so real I could feel my stomach eating itself. The memory of the cold was so intense my teeth started chattering, even in the heated room.

I looked at myself in the mirror. Gabrielle Smith, 24 years old. Healthy. Alive. Rich. My tech-mogul parents were always too busy for me, but they made sure I never wanted for anything. This cabin, with its fallout-shelter-grade basement, was a testament to their paranoid generosity.

Last time, that generosity got me killed. This time, it would be my weapon.

I walked back into the bedroom, my bare feet sinking into the plush carpet. I went to the kitchen and pulled a bottle of expensive, filtered water from the fridge. I drank the whole thing in one go, the cold liquid a shock to my system. It was the most incredible thing I had ever tasted.

Then, my phone rang.

The custom ringtone, a cheesy pop song Ethan loved, sent a jolt of pure fear through me. It was a Pavlovian response, a leftover from a life of trying to please him, of dreading his moods.

I remembered his call from the last life.

"Hey, babe! Guess what? My parents want to meet you! And with this crazy storm coming, I was thinking, why don't we all come up to your cabin for a little family vacation? Get away from the city, you know?"

I had been so excited. So naive. I agreed instantly. I even remembered asking him how he knew about the cabin' s remote location, since I' d never told him the exact address.

"Oh, Molly told me all about it," he'd said casually. "She said it was your secret getaway spot."

Molly. My "best friend." My co-worker at the non-profit where I volunteered to feel like I was doing something with my life. Molly, who listened to all my problems. Molly, who was secretly sleeping with my boyfriend and feeding him information about my wealth.

The phone kept ringing.

The fear was gone now, replaced by something cold and hard. Fury.

I took a deep breath, smoothed my face into a mask of sweet, simple Gabby, and answered the phone.

"Ethan! Hi!" I chirped, my voice a higher pitch than normal.

"Hey, Gabby. Listen, I was just talking to my parents," he started, his tone smooth and confident.

I let him go through his whole manipulative speech. The one about his parents dying to meet me, about the "scary" storm coming, about how perfect it would be to have a "family vacation" at my cabin.

I played my part perfectly.

"Oh my god, Ethan, that's a wonderful idea! I'd love to finally meet them!"

"Great," he said, and I could hear the smug satisfaction in his voice. He thought I was so easy. "They're really traditional, so you'll need to impress them. We'll head up in about nine days, right before the storm hits. Make sure the place is ready for us."

"Of course! I'll get everything perfect for them!" I promised.

"Good girl," he said, the casual condescension making my hand grip the phone tighter. "See you then."

He hung up.

I stood in the silence of my kitchen for a full minute. Then I lowered the phone and calmly deleted his contact, his photos, and our entire message history.

I didn't run. I didn't call my parents. I didn't have a breakdown.

I started to prepare.

My first stop was online. I used my Amex Black Card, the one with no limit, and went on a spree. I hired an emergency contractor, the kind that specializes in discreet jobs for the ultra-wealthy. I paid a 200% premium for a rush job to be completed in five days.

Their task: fortify the basement.

The basement was already a reinforced concrete bunker, but I wanted more. I had them install a new, state-of-the-art ventilation system with independent power. They were to build a false wall in the back of the walk-in pantry, concealing a new, soundproofed, vault-like door.

Inside, I had them install a kitchenette, a bathroom with a high-end incinerating toilet, and hookups for my entertainment systems.

Next, the cameras. Tiny, hidden cameras in every single room of the main cabin. The living room, the kitchen, the bedrooms, the hallways. All of them feeding to a multi-screen monitor that would be installed in my new basement sanctuary.

While the contractors worked, I went on the biggest shopping trip of my life. I hit Costco, Whole Foods, and a specialty survivalist store.

At Costco, I filled three massive carts. Cases of bottled water, canned goods, giant bags of rice and beans, freeze-dried meals. The cashier gave me a weird look.

"Big party?" she asked.

"Pre-winter retreat for my charity group," I said with a bright, innocent smile. "We like to be prepared."

At Whole Foods, I bought the good stuff. Gourmet frozen meals, expensive cheeses, high-end coffee, cases of wine, and several large, beautiful cuts of steak. This was for me.

Finally, at the survivalist store, I bought propane tanks, medical kits, water purifiers, thermal blankets, and heavy-duty batteries.

As I loaded the last of the supplies into my Range Rover, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Molly.

"Hey! Just heard from Ethan that you guys are having a little family getaway at the cabin! So jealous! You have to tell me how it goes with his parents!!!"

The sheer audacity of it was breathtaking.

I typed back a reply. "I will! So excited! Wish you could be there!"

I added three smiley-face emojis, then blocked her number.

The last piece of my plan was the muscle. I found a private security firm online and requested their biggest, most intimidating-looking operative for a one-day job. I specified ex-military, if possible.

They sent me a man named Marcus. He was six-foot-five, built like a refrigerator, and had a face that looked like it had been used to stop a gravel truck. He was perfect.

I met him in a nearby town and gave him his instructions. He was to pose as the "property caretaker." He was not to speak unless spoken to. His only job was to intervene if, and only if, Ethan tried to put his hands on me.

On the ninth day, with my basement sanctuary complete and fully stocked, I moved all my comfortable furniture, my personal belongings, my clothes, and my entertainment systems downstairs. The main cabin was now staged like a sterile, high-end rental property. Impersonal. Cold.

Everything was ready. The storm was rolling in. And I was waiting.