Chapter 10 Evie
Evie
The sign on the door captures my attention first.
CLOSED — PRIVATE EVENT (Reopening tomorrow)
It’s handwritten on cardstock and taped crooked, like whoever put it up was annoyed. I’d know that handwriting anywhere. Gus. Of course.
I stop on the sidewalk, keys still in my fist, and stare through the glass.
The Lighthouse Diner looks… too clean. Not “wipe the counter and call it good” clean, which is usually where I end up at the end of my shift.
Corporate clean.
Chairs stacked with military precision. Booths wiped until they shine. Floor dry, no coffee smears, no broken glass, and definitely no sign that last night tried to kill me in here. Like Kaia’s people came through with a mop and a mandate and scrubbed the fear right out of the tile.
No tourists. No late-night pie hunters like Mr. Alvarez. No Tasha doing that thing where she pretends she’s not checking her phone every three seconds.
Just Gus behind the counter with his arms crossed like he’s guarding the gates of hell.
He sees me, sighs like I’m the problem, and unlocks the door.
“Come on,” he grunts.
I step in. The bell jingles. It sounds wrong in the quiet.
“Private event?” I ask, pulling my hood down. My hair is still damp from the fog. My nerves are still damp from everything else. “Since when do we do private events?”
Gus locks the door again with a heavy click. “Since tonight.”
“I’m scheduled,” I say, because I am, and because routine is the only thing keeping my brain from replaying last night’s demon karaoke.
“You’re still working."
I blink. “Then why is the diner closed?”
Gus scratches his jaw. “Because I’m not having a bunch of screaming idiots in here.”
“Gus,” I say slowly, “that is… most of our business model.”
He grunts. “Not tonight.”
I set my bag down behind the counter, eyes narrowing. “What’s going on?”
He looks at me for a long second too long. Then he says, like it’s no big deal, “We got a call.”
My stomach drops. A cold tingle flicks under my skin at my wrist, where the invisible ribbon of magical binding now lives. It’s not pain. It’s a reminder.
Don’t talk. Don’t name it. Don’t—
I keep my voice level through my teeth. “A call from who?”
Gus’s eyes flick to my face, then away. He clears his throat. “Someone from Eon Entertainment. Blair? Blaine? Whatever.”
My pulse kicks.
“Blaire,” I correct automatically, like my mouth is ahead of my brain. Like I don’t hate that I know that. “That’s Midnight Halo’s manager.”
“Yeah, her.” He gestures vaguely, annoyed at the concept of explaining anything. “Said they needed a place to sit for a minute. Quiet. Private. A bite to eat. Something about a ‘homecoming’ photo. In and out. No wait staff except—”
Except.
I stare at him. “Except who?”
Gus jerks his chin at me. “You.”
The air in my lungs goes cold.
“They asked for me?” I echo.
Gus’s gaze sharpens, knowing creeping in. “Yeah. The girl group.”
My heart does that stupid stutter thing it does when my past shows up uninvited.
“No,” I say. “Nope. That’s not happening. If anyone’s waiting on them, it should be Tasha—she actually likes them.”
Gus lifts his brows like he’s daring me to make it his problem. “Sit down and breathe, Evie.”
“I am breathing,” I hiss.
Gus points at the private event sign. “They’re coming in through the back. They want to be discreet. They’re eating, doing some meeting, doing a quick photo shoot, then they’re leaving. That’s the deal.”
My wrist tingles again, like the world is amused by my fury. I clamp my hand around it.
“And you want me to serve them?”
Gus looks at me like I’m missing the obvious. “You are a server.”
“I am not their server.”
“You are tonight.”
Panic floods through me, followed closely by annoyance. I lean closer across the counter and lower my voice. “Gus. I am begging you to be a gruff little wall of stubbornness right now and tell them I’m not available.”
Gus’s expression softens a fraction, which is always terrifying because it means he cares.
“Evie,” he says, quieter. “Is this about Kaia?”
He doesn’t say her name like a celebrity. He says it like a kid he watched grow up.
“I remember you two,” he adds, gruffly. “Always in that booth. Like you were—”
“It’s not about Kaia,” I cut in too fast.
My wrist flares hot under my sleeve, an abrupt sting, like the air itself just snapped a rubber band against my skin. I shut my mouth instantly, anger swallowing itself.
Gus studies me for a beat. He doesn’t push. He just resets his expression into his usual armor and grunts, like feelings are a health hazard. “Alright, well,” he says, louder now, “you’re the only one who won’t lose her damn mind and ask for an autograph.”
“I will lose my damn mind,” I say.
Gus squints. “Not like Tasha would.”
That’s true, and I hate it. I can already picture her exploding through the roof when she figures out Midnight Halo ate here and she missed it.
I exhale hard and straighten. “Fine. Where’s Tasha anyway?”
“Sent her home,” Gus says. “Told her the fryer needed maintenance.”
I snort. “She’s going to be so upset when she finds out they were here.”
Gus grunts like that’s between Tasha and God.
His gaze sharpens, and his voice drops. “Evie.”
“What?”
“You okay?”
I want to say yes.
I want to say no.
Instead I say, “I’m working.”
Gus grunts again, accepting it as the closest I’ll get to honesty. Then he jerks his chin toward the spotless counter, the stacked chairs, the floor that looks like it’s never seen spilled coffee in its life.
“You sure worked hard last night,” he mutters. “Haven’t seen this place so clean in years.”
Heat crawls up my neck. I don’t answer.
Gus jerks his chin toward the back hallway. “Put your apron on. And try not to start a war.”
“No promises.”
Gus’s mouth twitches. “That’s my girl.”
I hate that my throat tightens at that, too.
I tie my apron on with hands that are steadier than I feel. I stack coffee mugs, wipe down the already spotless counter, and try to pretend this is just a weird private party.
Outside, the town is still buzzing from last night.
Between festival week and Midnight Halo, the energy is high.
On my way here, I passed a group of girls, maybe sixteen, walking shoulder to shoulder and loudly singing a Midnight Halo hit.
After that, a car that passed me was blasting the same song.
Everyone’s got leftover music in their bones.
The back door clicks. Not the loud front-door bell. A controlled, quiet sound. My body goes rigid anyway. I turn before I mean to.
A woman steps in first. She’s maybe early forties and dressed like she could walk onto a red carpet or into a courtroom and win over either one.
Dark blazer, clean lines, hair pulled back with the kind of precision that says she doesn’t tolerate problems. There’s a headset tucked around her neck and a phone in her hand, screen lit up.
She scans the diner in one sweep—windows, corners, exits—then her gaze lands on me with quick, professional assessment.
Not a fan. Not a tourist. Definitely not someone here for pancakes.
Behind her comes Mr. Bane. The creepshow from last night. Same calm, same gloves, same briefcase as if he keeps nightmares filed alphabetically.
And then—
Then the world’s biggest girl group walks into the diner.
Jules first, looking like she woke up and decided chaos was a lifestyle: her hair is pulled up into a messy bun, big hoodie, ripped jeans, yellow-tinted sunglasses even though we’re indoors and it’s getting late.
She pauses, takes in the empty diner, and grins like she’s delighted to be somewhere unglamorous.
Mina follows, small and soft-eyed, hair loose, hands tucked into her sleeves like she’s trying not to touch anything without permission. Her gaze lands on me and sticks, surprisingly curious.
Remy comes in next. She’s in all black with a beanie pulled low and an expression that says she’s already ten steps ahead of everyone else. Her eyes sweep the diner like she’s reading it.
Then Kaia walks in.
Not glowing. Not armed. Not unreal.
Just the famous Kaia Rhee in a plain coat, hair down, face softer without the colorful stage makeup but still unmistakably her. Still too bright for this room. Still the kind of person who draws the eye even when she’s trying not to.
Her gaze pierces me, and my pulse jumps.
Kaia stops when she sees me, as if she didn’t expect me to be real after last night. Maybe she expected last night to be a nightmare too.
I lift my chin, because if I don’t, I’ll do something stupid like show emotion.
“Welcome to the Lighthouse Diner,” I say, voice flat and professionally pleasant.
The woman in the dark blazer steps forward before anyone answers.
“Hi,” she says, brisk but not unkind. “I’m Blaire. I manage the group. Thank you for accommodating us on short notice.”
I’m forced to drag my eyes off Kaia and look at Blaire properly.
“It was all Gus,” I say, because I refuse to sound like I’m hosting. “I just work here.”
She offers her hand anyway, professional, polite. I shake it because I’m not an animal.
“Thanks for making it work,” Blaire says.
I give her a tight little smile. “Sure.”
Gus appears from the kitchen like a bear emerging from a cave. He wipes his hands on a rag and grunts, “Yeah. Welcome.” Then his eyes land on Kaia. His voice shifts half a degree. Still gruff, but real. “Good to see you, Rhee.”
Kaia hesitates, then offers a small smile. “Gus,” she says quietly. “Good to see you too.”
Gus jerks his chin toward a few booths tucked deeper inside, away from the windows, private. “Go on, sit here.”
Jules salutes him. “Yes, sir.”
Mina whispers, “Hi,” as if she can’t help it.
Remy nods once.
Kaia doesn’t speak again. She just watches me like she’s trying to figure out how close she can stand without setting off a bomb.
I turn away first. Not because I’m weaker, but because I refuse to give her the satisfaction of seeing my face do anything except a customer-service smile.
They slide into the back booths.