She recognized some of the faces from previous events. There was the tech entrepreneur who never said thank you, the fashion designer who always sent her food back, the lawyer who'd once snapped his fingers at Maya like she was a dog.
And then there was tonight's host, Richard Westbrook, a real estate billionaire whose face appeared regularly in business magazines. He stood near the entrance, greeting guests with a wide smile and firm handshakes, his ego filling the room even more than his 6'3" frame.
Maya picked up a tray of champagne flutes and began circulating through the crowd.
"Champagne?" she offered with a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
Hands reached out without looking at her, taking glasses without acknowledgement. She was a moving table, nothing more.
As the evening progressed, Maya fell into the rhythm of service: take orders, deliver food, refill drinks, clear plates, smile, nod, apologize when someone complained.
The pianist continued playing throughout dinner, his music creating a pleasant ambiance that no one really listened to. Maya tried not to listen either, but she couldn't help it. She heard every note, every phrase, every tiny mistake he made. It was torture and comfort all at once.
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."