Her Celestial Farm on the Scrapyard Planet novel Chapter 351

Chapter 351 Open Season

“Elliot, I have every confidence in you” Richard’s tone left no room for argument. “Women are soft- hearted. That’s just the way it is. And let me be clear, this isn’t a request. This is your chance to make things right for this family and for NovaSea Transport. Claire made the mess. You’re going to help clean it up. Whatever approach it takes, humble yourself, show some remorse, offer compensation if you have to. The goal is simple-get close to that mother and son, and find a way to access what the farm is producing. Are we understood?”

Claire stood there with her mouth open. Richard wasn’t just refusing to take her side. He was sending Elliot to grovel at that woman’s feet.

She started to object. Richard’s look stopped her cold.

Elliot was quiet for a moment. Then, under the full weight of Richard’s expectations and that unblinking stare, he gave a slow nod. “Yes, Dad. I’ll… give it a try.”

Back on Planet A001, the contrast couldn’t have been sharper.

While the NovaSea Transport party was somewhere nursing its humiliation, the farm had erupted into something close to a carnival.

The military family delegation, having self-selected before departure, had come prepared and cleared the reservation process without a hitch. The moment they had their passes in hand, they poured into the small market nearby and went completely feral.

The lines at every stall stayed long from the moment they formed. Wives, heirs, and household names who’d spent their lives in Centria Planet comfort were craning their necks and pressing forward, eyes fixed on the gleaming, fragrant produce laid out before them.

“Strawberries! A hundred per box, give me one box! Actually, make it two!”

“These tomatoes look incredible. There are twelve of us, so that’s twelve hundred, right?”

“Cucumbers! The healing properties of these are unbelievable. A hundred, please!”

“Grapes! Even these tiny ones have a per-unit limit? A hundred grapes is nothing. That won’t last a day.”

The noise was constant. Farm staff moved at a dead sprint, weighing, wrapping, ringing up orders, and repeating the same lines on a loop.

“Purchase limits apply. Maximum of one hundred units per item per person. To keep things fair for all guests… anything over the limit is subject to tiered pricing…”

The limits didn’t slow anyone down. A hundred was the floor. Most people bought two hundred. Plenty went for three or four.

With over a dozen varieties on offer and storage buttons filling up fast, the temporary landing area near the farm entrance turned into an impromptu freight depot.

One general’s wife from the Second Military had arrived with a steward and four security staff. By the time every storage button in the group was full, there were still more than a dozen crates of assorted produce

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351 Open Season

stacked outside the ship.

A Hewitt family cousin from the First Military had it even worse, in the best possible way. He wasn’t just buying for himself. Half a dozen colleagues who’d missed the reservation window had pressed him into service as their personal proxy, each with a detailed list and very strong feelings about it.

He was simultaneously stuffing produce into three separate storage buttons while shouting into his communicator. “Get the freight hauler over here now! Right outside the gate! Yes, I mean now! I’m out of space, just load it straight onto the ship!”

The scene repeated itself up and down the entrance.

The farm gate looked like a wholesale produce market, with the slight surreal twist that one side of every transaction was a quietly dressed farm worker, and the other was someone in couture, either directing staff or, in several cases, hauling crates themselves without a second thought about their dignity.

The air smelled like fruit and money and barely contained excitement.

Among all the buyers, the First Military contingent had it best, and everyone else knew it. Because of Elizabeth’s relationship with the Hewitts, they’d been granted something no one else had, direct entry to the farm without a reservation.

On top of the same picking-and-browsing access everyone else had, they’d also been quietly handed something that made the rest of the visitors deeply, visibly envious.

Until today, the farm had never offered food service. At mealtimes, visitors fended for themselves, pulling out packed lunches, defaulting to liquid supplements, or just eating the produce raw off the vine. Nobody had thought much of it.

Then noon arrived. Fiona appeared and, with a gracious smile, guided the dozen or so First Military guests to a shaded pavilion beside the market, where long tables and benches had been set out simply but neatly.

A few farm staff followed behind, pushing insulated meal carts.

“It’s nothing fancy,” Fiona said, lifting the lid. “Just a simple lunch. We hope it’s enough.”

The smell hit first, a wave of it, rich and layered, the deep savoriness of seared fat, the clean sweetness of fresh vegetables, the warm, settled depth of steamed rice, all of it rolling through the pavilion like a depth charge and spreading outward into the open air.

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Chapter 82 Matt Meat

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the farm with logies going forward, so we conduit very well and you of wary

The Viru Military guests broke into broad smiles, thanking her they took their portions. When the

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The operates were ray and nevweetness, tified by past the nagon touch d wasoning, and the particular depth that comes from a properly heated pan. Simple technique, but the ingredients were so good that nothing more was needed,

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