As the evening progressed, Mateo fell into the rhythm of service: take orders, deliver food, refill drinks, clear plates, smile, nod, apologize when someone complained. The saxophonist continued playing throughout dinner, his music creating a pleasant ambiance that no one really listened to. Mateo tried not to listen either, but he couldn’t help it. He heard every phrase, every breath, every tiny mistake he made. It was torture and comfort all at once.
Around nine o’clock, as dessert was being served, Mateo noticed the saxophonist getting up from his stool. 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.
Mateo was in the kitchen loading dirty plates when he heard Mr. Peterson calling his name urgently. He hurried back into the ballroom, wondering what had gone wrong now. His manager’s face was red and flustered, sweat beading on his forehead. “Mateo,” he said in a low, urgent voice, “the saxophonist 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 saxophone?”
Mateo’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 Mateo could respond, Richard Westbrook himself approached, his voice booming across the ballroom. “What’s the holdup? Where’s our music?”
And that was when Mateo’s carefully constructed walls began to crumble, and a night he 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 saxophonist?” 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 Mateo could see the vein pulsing at his temple.
“Sir, perhaps we could play recorded music,” Mr. Peterson suggested weakly. “Recorded music? At a gala of this caliber?” Westbrook looked at him like he’d suggested serving fast food for dinner. “Absolutely not. This is a charity event attended by some of the most influential people in the city. We will have live music, or heads will roll.”