Around 9:00, as dessert was being served, Maya noticed the pianist getting up from his bench. He looked pale, his hand pressed against his stomach. He spoke briefly with the event coordinator, then quickly left through a side door.
The music stopped abruptly, leaving an awkward silence in its wake.
Maya was in the kitchen loading dirty plates when she heard Mr. Peterson calling her name urgently. She hurried back into the ballroom, wondering what had gone wrong now. Her manager's face was red and flustered, sweat beading on his forehead.
"Maya," he said in a low, urgent voice, "the pianist is sick. He had to leave. Mr. Westbrook is furious that there's no music. I remembered you mentioning once that you studied music. Can you play the piano?"
Maya's stomach dropped. "I... I'm working. I'm a server."
"I know that," Mr. Peterson snapped. "But we have an emergency. Just play something simple. Background music, please."
Before Maya could respond, Richard Westbrook himself approached, his voice booming across the ballroom. "What's the holdup? Where's our music?"
And that was when Maya's carefully constructed walls began to crumble, and a night she would never forget began to unfold.
Richard Westbrook wasn't the kind of man who accepted inconvenience. He'd built his fortune on controlling every aspect of his business empire, and he expected the same level of control in every area of his life. When things didn't go according to plan, someone always paid the price.
"What do you mean there's no pianist?" His voice carried across the ballroom, causing several guests to turn and look. "I paid good money for this event to be perfect. This is unacceptable."
Mr. Peterson stammered something about the musician being ill, but Westbrook wasn't interested in excuses. His face had turned red, and Maya could see the vein pulsing at his temple. This was a man used to getting his way, and right now he was not getting his way.