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.
