Apocalypse Rebirth: Making Billions With My Fortune-Telling Skill

Just hours ago, after returning to the Reed estate from the boutique, Samuel had run a deep background check on the Morgan household.

While their public face was clean, he had unearthed buried dark web forums detailing horrific rumors of maids being mistreated, and a few even vanishing entirely.

He knew right then that April had survived an absolute hell. Yet, she had spoken about her past to him as if it were a minor, irrelevant hurdle. She was incredibly strong, incredibly brave—and he was going to protect that strength with everything he had.

​”Is defamation seriously something you yourself teach your household servants, Madam Morgan?” Samuel asked, his deep voice cutting through the local air like ice, entirely confusing the older woman. ”Earlier today, your housekeeper did the exact same thing, and now you mimic her. You look at one successful woman, and all your narrow mind can comprehend is someone who climbed the ladder through unsavory means. You truly are a horrible individual.”

​April looked at the two thick walls of muscle standing directly in front of her. I am not a fragile piece of glass, she muttered under her breath, though a rare, quiet wave of gratitude washed through her chest.

For a split second there, the sudden confrontation had made her lose her wits, but thanks to their immediate interference, she had fully regained her composure.

​”Wait, hold on a sec,” Nat piped up, a sudden, dangerous muscle jumping at the corner of his jaw.

​He looked like he was smiling, but there was absolutely nothing happy about the expression. It was the face of a psychopath looking at a target he wanted to dismantle piece by piece. With just a little more provocation, he would snap.

​”Old hag,” Nat rumbled, leaning down slightly so his dark lenses aligned with Madam Morgan’s pale face. ”Just now... were you referring to my little sweetheart? Can you repeat that last part out loud so I can hear it clearly? Just for context, you see. Because it seems I might be misunderstanding something very fundamental here.”

​Madam Morgan was completely taken aback. A cold sweat immediately broke out across her forehead, her designer clutch shaking in her grip.

Why on earth was the most feared man in the city’s underground actively defending a runaway maid?

She held her tongue because she knew Nat Collins wasn’t right in the head; he didn’t follow the laws of society. He could pick up a heavy champagne bottle right this instant, bash her skull in, and walk out of the building without a single cop daring to stop him.

So she could not afford to provoke him.

​By now, the ambient chatter of the pavilion had drastically died down. The surrounding circles of elites, politicians, and land developers were rapidly turning their heads toward the catering pillar, whispering frantically among themselves.

​”Is that Nat Collins?”

”Why is the Golden Dragon threatening the Morgan family?”

”Is someone going to die before the bidding even starts?”

​Listening to the rising murmurs, Madam Morgan remained completely paralyzed, the cold sweat now trickling down the side of her neck.

Her eyes darted frantically between the two terrifying men blocking her view, trying to catch a glimpse of the girl hiding behind them.

​”It seems the cat got your tongue,” April’s voice suddenly drifted out from the shadows.

​She stepped forward smoothly, her low heels clicking against the stone to show she was not hiding because she was scared of her. She just needed to catch her breath for a second.

She reached out, her hand resting gently on Samuel’s forearm, tapping it twice—a silent, meaningful signal that thanked him for his aid, but made it clear she was taking the reins from here.

​Samuel immediately stepped back, though his posture remained coiled and ready to strike, his dark eyes never leaving Madam Morgan’s slightly trembling figure.

​April stood perfectly straight in her midnight-black satin gown, her chin tilted slightly upward.

The subtle tremor that had rattled her spine moments ago was entirely gone, burned away by a cold detachment. She looked at the woman who had spent ten years treating her like disposable livestock, and she felt absolutely nothing but profound boredom.

​”Madam Morgan,” April called, her voice low and smooth, and it easily carried over the quiet murmurs of the gathering crowd.

”Have you finally decided to face me? You make this entire place stink with your filthy presence.” She had the galls to say, now that she no longer had Nat standing in front of her.

”You seem terribly confused.” April stared, her tone carrying a mocking cadence. ”Let me clarify the current situation for you. The only thing rotting in this room is your outdated perception of value.”

​Madam Morgan’s face flushed an even deeper shade of mottled purple, her manicured fingers clutching her designer clutch so hard the leather groaned.

”You... you arrogant little bitch! How dare you speak to me in that tone?” She hissed. ”Have you forgotten whose bread you ate for the last ten years? Have you forgotten who pulled you out of the gutter when you had nothing?”

April went silent for a second. She may not have her memories but she was sure that whatever gutter Madam Morgan pulled her out from was far better than the shit hole she dragged her in in the end.

​”I remember exactly what you provided, Madam,” April replied deadpan, her thumbs casually sliding her smartphone into her small evening purse. ”Ten years of structural labor, starvation, and a complete deficit in basic human compliance. If we are calculating back pay, the metrics are heavily in my favor. Consider my sudden departure your first major operational loss.”

​”You stinking, ungrateful—”

​”Mother, please,” Liora whispered frantically from behind, her face entirely pale as her wide, anxious blue eyes darted toward the surrounding circle of high-society tycoons.

Xavier Reed was already approaching from the edge of the pavilion, and beside him was Alexander Greels. ”Everyone is watching. Let’s just go to our seats.” Liora whispered.