Initially, Miles thought the most satisfying way to get back at Ella would be to beat her senseless or even end her life. But with the apocalypse approaching, he realized that merely dying would be merciful. True suffering would be reserved for those who survived yet could not endure the harsh conditions.
Now that he had settled matters with Ella, Miles had one final task: constructing a shelter strong enough to withstand any extreme catastrophe.
The scope of such a project required expertise beyond his knowledge, so he sought out the best. He contacted a renowned company specializing in custom builds—Majesty Constructions.
Majesty was Chicago's premier construction firm, one of the top names across the entire United States. Their clients included not only commercial developers but also the elite, with projects ranging from private estates in Los Angeles to exclusive clubhouses and high-end villa renovations.
In Chicago, when it came to sophisticated construction, no one outshone Majesty Constructions. With enough money, they could procure the world's highest-grade bulletproof glass and cutting-edge security systems.
Miles entered Majesty's sleek skyscraper, guided by reception to the office of the company's general manager.
"Good day, Mr. Miles. I'm Guy."
Inside, a middle-aged man in a well-tailored suit rose to greet him. After a brief exchange of pleasantries, Guy got straight to the point: "The receptionist mentioned you're interested in remodeling your villa?"
"Yes."
"And may I ask what budget you had in mind, Mr. Miles?"
Nowadays, money speaks in every venture, especially for something as extensive as a property remodel, where expenses could be astronomical.
Miles quickly calculated his available funds and replied casually, "Around thirty million… Money's no object. I'm willing to add more if needed. There's no upper limit."
As long as the shelter could be made impregnable, he would spare no expense. Even if he had to scrape together more money, he would find a way. This was about securing his future survival in a post-apocalyptic world; there could be no compromises.
Guy's previously casual expression turned serious upon hearing Miles' budget.
A massive deal had just landed.
Starting at thirty million with no cap? In all of Chicago, few of the city's wealthiest would even consider pouring this amount into a property remodel, much less one that wasn't a new purchase.
To put it into perspective, property prices in central Chicago averaged about eight thousand dollars per square meter, but Miles was ready to spend thirty million purely on renovations.
Guy's interest was piqued, and he asked, "Mr. Miles, if I may, where is this villa located?"
"Cloud City."
"Ah, an excellent choice."
Guy's mind quickly mapped out the neighborhood. "Cloud City is a mixed development, with residential high-rises and villa zones from sections A to D. Which section is yours?"
"Section D."
Cloud City was known as a haven for the wealthy, though even within the community, there were levels of affluence. Standard high-rise apartments ran about eight thousand per square meter, while villas in section D, like Miles', peaked at around twenty thousand. However, villas in sections A through C could range from fifty thousand to a million per square meter, rivaling New York's most exclusive neighborhoods.
In truth, Miles' villa in Section D was worth a maximum of thirty to forty million, yet he was ready to invest that same amount—or more—into renovations alone.
Guy hesitated, then ventured, "Mr. Miles, if I may, isn't this a rather steep investment? The cost-benefit ratio…"
Miles knew what he meant—essentially asking if he'd lost his mind.
"This isn't a mere house I'm building. It's a fortress, an indestructible sanctuary capable of withstanding any catastrophe, whether natural or man-made."
"You're preparing for… the end of the world?"
Guy asked cautiously, suppressing a smirk. Majesty Constructions regularly dealt with eccentric millionaires and billionaires with similar doomsday visions.
End-of-the-world bunkers, biowarfare shelters, extinction-proof residences—they'd heard it all before. Whether due to paranoia or vendettas, wealthy clients often sought such extreme safety measures.
A few years ago, a European tycoon spent nearly a billion dollars building a so-called "indestructible" safe house on his estate, rumored to withstand even a nuclear blast. Of course, that was likely exaggerated; no known material could truly withstand a direct nuclear strike. However, indirect damage was survivable, given the right construction.
Understanding Miles' objective, Guy quickly drafted a preliminary plan. He explained, "Mr. Miles, based on your requirements, all walls, including two subterranean floors, would need to be reinforced with the most durable composite metals available. Add to that the advanced, government-grade security system. At a conservative estimate, you're looking at around one hundred million."
"Fine."
Without batting an eye, Miles continued, "Per your policy, I'll pay a ten percent deposit upfront. I only have one condition: speed."
Money certainly made things easier.
Guy was both impressed and stunned by Miles' apparent extravagance, even as he mentally noted the man as "absurdly rich." He assured Miles, "Rest assured, Mr. Miles. We'll mobilize all resources to complete the renovations as quickly as possible. With sufficient funding, we could expedite the timeline to around thirty days, though, as you might guess, an operation of this scale…"
In other words, more money would speed things up.
Recognizing this as an attempt to squeeze him further, Miles merely smiled. "Not to worry, Mr. Guy. Focus on the quality, and as for the funds... I'll pay twenty percent of the total now."
Twenty percent—twenty million.
Even Guy, seasoned as he was, couldn't hide his excitement. He personally guaranteed that the project would be completed to the highest standards and within the shortest possible timeframe.
Miles didn't hesitate; he initiated a bank transfer to Majesty Constructions for twenty million on the spot.
With the apocalypse approaching, money was the last thing he cared about. Soon, it would be as worthless as scraps of paper, barely fit to wipe one's hands.