I woke up with the image of Lucas Sterling's smirk still etched into the back of my mind. That grin, the way he didn't come in—just watched. It sat in my gut like undercooked eggs.
You're just being paranoid, I told myself as I brushed my teeth. He's rich. He's bored. Maybe he just liked the neon lights or was waiting for someone. Nothing more.
But my instincts—usually sharp, the kind that help me know when a customer's about to ask for extra syrup before they even open their mouth—kept whispering: Something's off.
Still, I buried it. There wasn't room for suspicion today. Not when Fork & Found was coming to feature Carter's.
By 6:30 a.m., I was already in the kitchen, laying out the new special: sweet cream cinnamon waffles with a homemade peach compote. I plated it carefully, cleaning the edges, letting the syrup drip just so.
The diner buzzed with life. The familiar sizzle of bacon on the flat-top, the soft hiss of steam from the coffee machine, the clatter of plates being stacked and orders shouted across the line. It was our kind of chaos. Comfortable. Real.
Dad was at the grill, flipping hash browns with the easy rhythm of muscle memory. Mom moved between tables with that warm smile she wore like armor—genuine, but meant to deflect worry. She squeezed my shoulder as she passed.
"You really think this blog thing could change things?" she asked quietly.
"I know it can," I said, meeting her eyes. "We've built something real here. I want people to see that. Not just our regulars. Everyone."
She nodded. "Then let's give them something worth remembering."
Even Dad cracked a small smile. "As long as they don't ask for avocado foam or any of that fusion nonsense."
I laughed, wiping my hands on a towel. "Not a single truffle oil bottle in sight."
But beneath our shared jokes, there was something else—hope. Heavy and fragile.
By midmorning, I texted Melanie to see if she'd stop by. No reply.
I tried again during my break. Still nothing.
She finally showed up outside the school gates just before lunch. Sunglasses on, face flushed like she'd been rushing—but not toward me.
"Hey," I said, walking up to her.
"Hey," she said, a beat too late.
She gave me a quick hug, stiff and sideways. Her hand clutched a small, glossy white shopping bag with Sterling Corp printed in gold on the front.
Something twisted in my stomach. "New bag?"
She hesitated. "Oh—yeah. It's not mine. My friend Bella asked me to drop it off."
I nodded slowly, not sure why the lie felt so loud in my ears. "You were with Bella this morning?"
"Mhm."
But she didn't meet my eyes. Not once.
I didn't push. Not yet.
Instead, I told her about the food blog visit, about the excitement building in the diner.
"That's great," she said, but her voice was far away. "But... don't you think you're aiming a little low?"
I blinked. "What?"
"I mean... you could be doing more, Ethan. You're smart. You're ambitious. The diner's sweet, but... maybe there's a bigger stage for you. Bigger than Carter's."
The words hit like cold water. Carter's was more than a diner. It was our legacy. Our life.
"I don't want to be anywhere else," I said softly. "That place made me who I am."
She gave me a tight smile, but her eyes were already drifting to her phone. A message lit up her screen—just a flash—but I caught the name: L. Sterling.
Later, during history class, I sat near the back, restless. Two guys in front of me whispered about something that pulled me straight upright.
"Did you hear Sterling's old man bought up three more restaurants this week? Dude's building an empire."
"Yeah, Henry Sterling doesn't mess around. If your place is in the way? Gone."
I stared at the back of their heads, heart ticking faster. Sterling. Henry Sterling. The name fit like a puzzle piece I didn't know was missing.
A corporate chain swallowing family joints. That's who Lucas's dad was?
Suddenly, the blog attention, the stranger's business card, Lucas's visit—all of it felt like less of a coincidence and more like strategy.
Was Carter's on their radar?
That evening, the sky was thick with the smell of summer rain that hadn't yet come. I was refilling the pie case when a black-uniformed courier walked in holding an envelope like it was made of crystal.
"For Ethan Carter," he said.
The envelope was smooth, white as bone, embossed with silver. The Sterling Corp logo sat at the top, understated but powerful.
Inside was a formal invitation on thick card stock, scented faintly of cedar and cologne.
The Sterling Corporation cordially invites the Carter family to a Business Recognition Banquet honoring exceptional culinary contributors to our city. Join us in celebrating your excellence and community impact.
Mom gasped softly as she read it. "Wow... this is—this is big."
Dad frowned. "Why would they invite us? We've never had any dealings with Sterling."
"Maybe they just saw the blog buzz," I said, though even I didn't believe it fully.
"They don't do anything without a reason," Dad said. "You think this is about recognition? It's about control."
"I don't know," Mom replied. "It could be a chance to network. Make connections. Maybe find support to help grow the diner."
They looked to me.
I didn't know what to say. I held the invitation in my hands, running my thumb along its edges. It was beautiful. Prestigious. And dangerous.
That night, under the soft glow of my desk lamp, I stared at the card again.
It shimmered like opportunity.
But my gut still whispered warnings in the quiet.
This could be the start of something big... or the beginning of the end.