How Much Does A Two Story Shed Cost To Build?

After ten years studying interior design overseas, I came back to my hometown to do work that mattered to the people who raised me. I offered the full package, from site survey to soft furnishings. The materials were chosen by hand. The price was fair to the bone. The town had just gone through a redevelopment. Everyone was getting new units. With the new family policy, every family wanted a third bedroom too. My business was good. Customers from the next county were driving in. Then a girl just back from a city college kicked open my studio with her phone on a livestream and her neighbors at her shoulder. "This is the dishonest one. Look at her. She has been ripping the village off." "In the city, an eighty-square-meter unit can be done for twenty thousand dollars. She is charging eighty." "That's a sixty-thousand-dollar margin. Sixty thousand. Right out of our pockets." The village fell in line behind her. They demanded the difference back. When I refused, they smashed my studio. They beat me into a coma. The pile-on online killed me. When I opened my eyes again, I knew exactly what I was going to do. I would refund every single one of them. And then I would tear out every single thing I had installed. Let's see what twenty thousand dollars actually buys you.

On the first day of work, my boss, Wayne Richmond, gives everyone a nice bonus to start the year. Some receive 100 dollars, while others receive 200 dollars. When it's my turn, all I get is a piece of A4 paper. The rent, the management fee, and the utility bills, all from last year, are printed on the paper. At the end, I see Wayne's bank account number listed there. Wayne just looks at me haughtily as he says, "Meredith, you took the liberty to take on overtime shifts that last for more than a thousand hours last year. But despite the long hours, you didn't really bring much profit to the table. "That's why you should be the one paying for the property fees and the utility bills, seeing as you've wasted so much resources. This shouldn't be an outrageous request, right?" When I try to argue with Wayne, he just waves a hand at me impatiently. "I'm already charging you the lowest rate. Hurry up and pay the bills. Don't delay the work hours for everyone." As I stare at the piece of paper, I just smile instead of lashing out at Wayne. Everyone in the company doesn't know that I'm actually the owner of the building this company is based in. That means Wayne is giving me, the owner, the bill that he's supposed to be paying. In that case, I shall be retrieving every single cent that I've spent on this company. I won't be playing nice anymore.

After our father died, my sister and I inherited a fortune, a luxury villa, and a tiny convenience store. She took the money and the mansion without hesitation, leaving me with the old shop everyone looked down on. One month later, the apocalypse began. A zombie outbreak swept through the world overnight. The rich became trapped in their homes with no food, no power, and no way out. My sister, once proud of her mansion and millions, ended up starving behind locked gates. Meanwhile, I survived comfortably inside the convenience store I had rebuilt into a fortress, living off endless supplies of snacks, canned food, and soda. When my sister collapsed on the streets begging for help, I risked my life to save her. But greed was stronger than gratitude. After eating my food and recovering her strength, she waited until I fell asleep… then threw me outside to be torn apart by zombies. The moment I died, I opened my eyes again. I had returned to the day we divided the inheritance. This time, my sister smugly grabbed the convenience store first, convinced she had stolen the better deal. What she didn’t know was that I had been reborn too. And this time, I came back with a Apocalypse Survival System. While she fought over scraps, the villa she abandoned would become the safest shelter left in the world.

To take care of my mother after she fell and injured herself, I turned down a promotion and took a week off work to stay by her side. On the day she was discharged from the hospital, she smiled and handed me a small envelope. “Suzy, you’ve worked hard these past few days. This is just a little something from me. Go treat yourself to something good.” I wiped my hands, a quiet warmth spreading through my chest. When I opened the envelope, I froze for a moment. Inside was $2. Still, I told myself it didn’t matter. The amount wasn’t important. What mattered was the thought behind it. But the very next day, while scrolling through social media, I came across a post from my younger brother, the one who hadn’t shown his face at the hospital even once. Nine photos filled the post, all of them showing off a sprawling luxury mansion. In the center was a photo of the purchase contract. The caption read: “Officially the owner of a $2 million riverfront house. Big thanks to Mom for the support!”

I was always flying for work, so I left the whole renovation thing to my husband, Daxton Pruitt. This time, my flight got scrapped last minute, so I swung by the house to check in. The second I stepped inside, some woman named Mona Scambley, who claimed she was the designer, chucked a stack of invoices at me. Couples' lingerie display case: $15,000. High-end waterbed: $40,000. One glance at that pile of overpriced tacky nonsense made me nauseous. My brows pulled tight. "Ms. Scambley, this is a private house, not some couples' motel. What is all this?" Her face flipped in a heartbeat. She jabbed a finger at me. "The owner gave those orders. You're just the site supervisor. Disobey me again, and I'll have Mr. Pruitt fire you!" Then she spun around and called Daxton right there. I laughed, cold and low, about to ask what kind of clown show designer he'd hired—until I heard his voice. Gentle. Doting. "This is Mona and my love nest. We'll do whatever we want. Don't like it? Get out." I smiled, snatched the list from Mona, and nodded. "Sure." One week later, that overpriced waterbed showed up—Daxton, very much not smiling.

When I'm paying the heating bill, I find out that my wife, Violet Jensen, has two accounts under her name. The first account belongs to our home. The second account goes to a unit in a high-end private residential area. The remark on the account shows two words that say "love nest". Love nest. I don't know who on earth Violet is sharing that nest with, but I know where that address is. After all, that's the apartment I bought at full price before my marriage.