Delano tossed his phone onto the glass coffee table. The screen went dark, but the image of that girl's defensive, knife-wielding stance in the forest remained burned into his mind. He leaned his head back against the leather chair, staring at the ceiling. She was a paradox-foraging in the dirt, yet pricing her goods like a seasoned luxury retailer.

In Manhattan, the atmosphere inside the Blackburn penthouse was toxic.

Dione Blackburn stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, her fingers aggressively massaging her temples. The silk collar of her blouse felt like a noose.

Her private assistant, a pale man named Elias, stood nervously by the mahogany dining table. He slid a manila folder across the polished wood.

"The background check on the Watkins girl, ma'am," Elias said, his voice tight.

Dione turned, her heels clicking sharply against the marble floor. She snatched the folder and flipped it open.

Inside were printed photos of a dilapidated farmhouse, a rusty bus stop, and Haven's high school transcripts. The grades were flawless. Straight A's. Advanced Placement scores that rivaled the best prep schools in the city.

Dione's stomach churned with a sudden, irrational revulsion.

"Look at this," Dione hissed, tapping a photo of Haven standing outside the public library, wearing faded jeans. "She's a parasite. She's using these grades to claw her way out of the gutter, and she's using my daughter as a stepping stone to get noticed."

Elias swallowed hard. "She hasn't actually done anything illegal, Mrs. Blackburn. She just... argued with Gloria."

Dione's head snapped up. Her eyes were cold and dead.

"I don't care what she's done," Dione said, her voice dropping to a terrifying whisper. "Gloria is traumatized. She's refusing her trust fund obligations because this... this nobody humiliated her. I want her crushed."

Dione slammed the folder shut.

"Call the PR firm," Dione ordered. "Find out where she's applying to college. Leak rumors about academic dishonesty. Plagiarism. Whatever it takes. I want her applications flagged and thrown in the trash."

"Yes, ma'am," Elias said, quickly gathering the folder and practically fleeing the room.

Across town, in a luxury high-rise apartment, Gloria lay sprawled across a velvet sofa. The television was playing a reality show on mute.

Gloria was aggressively scrolling through TikTok, her thumb swiping with angry, jerky movements. Her wrist still throbbed with a dull ache where Haven had grabbed her.

She swiped onto a video with a million views.

The sound of boots crunching on leaves filled her speakers. Gloria rolled her eyes, about to swipe past, when the camera panned down to show a woven bamboo basket.

Gloria froze.

Her heart gave a hard, painful thump against her ribs. She sat up, bringing the phone closer to her face.

She recognized that cheap windbreaker sleeve. The same faded, worn fabric she had seen on Haven at the school gates, when the girl had dared to humiliate her.

Gloria tapped the profile. Appalachian Pure. No face. Just hands.

She watched the video again. The dirt under the fingernails. The familiar, defiant set of the shoulders.

"It's her," Gloria whispered to the empty room.

A hot, suffocating wave of jealousy washed over her. Haven was supposed to be miserable. She was supposed to be crying in her trailer park. Instead, the comments were filled with people begging to buy her stupid mushrooms.

Gloria's fingers trembled as she tapped the comment box. She created a burner account on the spot.

@User998274: This is totally fake. Those mushrooms are probably from a dumpster behind a grocery store. You can literally smell the poverty through the screen.

She hit send.

The comment vanished instantly, buried under hundreds of new comments praising the aesthetic.

Gloria let out a scream of frustration. She threw her phone. It hit the wall, the screen shattering into a spiderweb of cracks, before dropping onto the plush carpet.

She buried her face in her hands, her breath coming in ragged, angry gasps. She wouldn't let Haven win. She couldn't.

The morning sun hit the wooden table in the farmhouse yard.

Haven stood over a stack of thick, eco-friendly cardboard boxes she had hauled from the local post office. Her movements were precise, almost mechanical.

She lined the bottom of the first box with dry pine needles she had gathered yesterday. She gently placed the golden chanterelles on top of the needles, ensuring they didn't touch each other.

Brenda watched from the porch, wiping her hands on her apron. "They look like they belong in a jewelry store, Haven."

Haven didn't look up. She grabbed a spool of rough twine, wrapping it around the box and tying a tight, elegant knot. She slipped a perfectly dried, red maple leaf under the twine.

Finally, she pulled out a heavy stock card and a fountain pen.

Her handwriting was a flowing, elegant script-a skill beaten into her during her past life when she was forced to write thank-you notes for Preston's corporate dinners.

Harvested at 5:00 AM. From the earth, to your kitchen. Thank you for valuing the wild.

She slipped the card under the twine and slapped the FedEx overnight cold-chain label onto the top.

An hour later, Haven pushed a borrowed, squeaky wheelbarrow into the town's small FedEx shipping center. The clerk's eyes widened at the cost of the expedited, refrigerated shipping, but he scanned the barcodes without a word.

Haven walked out of the store, the receipt clutched tightly in her fist. The $840 was locked in Shopify until the delivery was confirmed, but the hard part was done.

She crossed the street and walked into the local grocery store. The fluorescent lights buzzed loudly overhead.

She walked straight to the meat counter. The ribeye steaks were out of reach, but she spotted a package of two thick-cut pork chops on sale. She grabbed the package and checked the price. Four dollars. Enough to make the meal special without bleeding them dry. Today, they were celebrating.

As she turned down the next aisle to grab butter, she stopped.

Standing at the end of the aisle, near the locked liquor cabinet, was Mr. Harrison, the high school principal.

Haven's stomach tightened. In her past life, Harrison had taken bribes from the Boggs family to lose her scholarship paperwork, nearly ruining her life.

Harrison was looking around nervously. The aisle was empty.

Haven quickly pulled the hood of her sweatshirt over her head and stepped backward, hiding behind a massive display of paper towels.

She pulled out her phone and hit record.

Through the gap in the paper towels, she zoomed in. Harrison pulled a small crowbar from his briefcase. He wedged it into the cheap lock of the liquor cabinet and popped it open with a sharp crack.

He grabbed two bottles of top-shelf whiskey, shoved them into his leather briefcase, and snapped it shut. He power-walked toward the side fire exit, pushing the door open and disappearing into the alley.

Haven stopped the recording. Her heart was pounding, but a cold, vicious smile spread across her face.

She tapped the screen, uploading the video directly to her secure cloud drive. Insurance.

That evening, the farmhouse kitchen smelled of sizzling butter and seared meat.

Haven flipped the pork chops in the cast-iron skillet, the fat popping and hissing. Brenda sat at the table, staring at the pan as if the meal were a mirage.

"I can't remember the last time we had meat this thick," Brenda said, her voice thick with emotion.

Haven slid the chops onto a plate and set it in front of her mother. "Get used to it."

They ate in silence, savoring every bite. The grease glistened on their forks. Haven watched her mother close her eyes as she chewed, and something tight in her chest finally loosened.

The next evening, as Haven was scrubbing the skillet in the kitchen sink, her phone buzzed on the counter. She glanced at the screen. It was a new email notification. The sender was Ashtyn Massey, and the subject line read: 'Regarding Exclusive Supply of Appalachian Pure.' She opened it. 'Haven. This is Chef Ashtyn from Le Bernardin. The shipment arrived. The quality is stunning. Are you capable of supplying us exclusively for the season?'

Haven stopped scrubbing. She swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry. The adrenaline hit her bloodstream like a freight train.

Le Bernardin. A three-star Michelin establishment.

She set the sponge down. Her wet fingers hovered over the keyboard. The game had just changed.