Maya felt the trap closing around her. Every instinct screamed at her to deflect, to escape, to maintain her invisibility. But the music... God, the way he was butchering Beethoven.
"He's very enthusiastic," she managed.
Webb's laugh was sharp as broken glass. "Enthusiastic! Did you hear that, boys? Our waitress here is a music critic."
The table erupted in cruel laughter. Other diners began to notice the commotion, turning to watch the show.
"I bet you know all about music," Webb continued, his voice rising. "What is it they say about people in your position? Failed dreams and all that?"
Maya's composure cracked just slightly. Webb had found her pressure point and was pressing hard.
"I should check on my other tables—"
"No, no, no." Webb's hand shot out, not quite touching her, but blocking her escape. "You started this conversation. Finish it. What's wrong with the piano player?"
The question hung in the air like a blade. Maya could feel every eye in the restaurant turning toward them. The moment balanced on a knife's edge. She had two choices: walk away and let him win, or step into the ring and fight back. But with what weapons? She was a waitress with student debt and a useless degree; he was a billionaire with an audience and nothing to lose.
Maya took a breath, made her choice. "If you really want to know," she said quietly, "he's destroying everything beautiful about that piece."
Webb's smile turned predatory. He'd found his entertainment for the evening. The silence at Table 12 stretched like a held breath. Webb leaned back in his chair, studying Maya with the focused attention of a cat watching a mouse. His friends sensed blood in the water and moved closer, forming a circle of expensive suits and cruel anticipation.
"Destroying it, you say?" Webb's voice carried across the restaurant. Other conversations died as diners turned to watch the show. "That's a strong word from someone who serves soup for a living."
The insult landed exactly as intended. Maya felt heat rise in her cheeks, but years of classical training had taught her something Webb couldn't buy: discipline under pressure.
"I apologize if I overstepped," she began.
"Oh, you did," Webb cut her off, savoring every syllable. "But now I'm curious. Since you're such an expert, why don't you tell us what he should be playing?"
His friends chuckled, cruel sounds that echoed off the crystal chandeliers. Maya glanced around the room: 30 tables of New York's elite, all watching her humiliation unfold like dinner theater. The pianist had moved on to some generic background music, but the damage was done. Webb had her cornered, and they both knew it.
"I'm sure you're very busy, people," Maya tried again.
"Not too busy for education," Webb interrupted. "See, boys, this is what's wrong with America. Everyone thinks they're entitled to opinions about things they don't understand." He gestured broadly, playing to his audience. "Our server here probably took one music appreciation class at community college and thinks she knows better than a professional pianist."
Maya's jaw tightened. Community college? The assumption cut deeper than he knew, but not for the reasons he imagined. She thought of her acceptance letter to Juilliard, the full scholarship that had made her parents cry with pride. She thought of her senior recital, the standing ovation from professors who'd seen true talent. She thought of everything she'd lost when the real world came calling.
"Actually," she said quietly, "I attended—"
"Let me guess," Webb rode over her words. "You wanted to be a professional musician, but couldn't cut it. So now you're bitter about everyone who actually made it." His voice carried perfect cruelty, each word calculated to inflict maximum damage. "That's why you're working here instead of Carnegie Hall, right, sweetheart?"
The mention of Carnegie Hall hit like a physical blow. Maya had performed there, had felt those legendary acoustics wrap around her Rachmaninoff like a living thing, had stood on that stage and known for 18 perfect minutes that she was exactly where she belonged. But Webb couldn't know that. To him, she was just another failed dreamer serving drinks to her betters, just another cautionary tale about reaching too high.
"I think," Webb continued, warming to his theme, "our little music critic needs to learn some humility. What do you think, boys? Should we give her a chance to put her money where her mouth is?"
The table erupted in agreement, voices overlapping in cruel harmony.
"Marcus, you're terrible," one of his friends laughed. "But I love where this is going."
"Make her sing," another called out. "Karaoke night!"
"No, no, no." Webb held up a hand, his eyes glittering with malicious inspiration. "Something better. Much better."
He stood slowly, commanding the attention of the entire restaurant. Conversations died table by table as diners turned to watch the spectacle.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Webb announced, his voice carrying to every corner of Lumière. "We have a treat tonight. Our server here is apparently a musical expert who thinks our pianist isn't up to her standards."
Nervous laughter rippled through the room. Some diners looked uncomfortable, but no one moved to stop what was happening. Maya felt the walls closing in. Every face in the restaurant was turned toward her, waiting for the show to begin. She thought about walking away, about maintaining her dignity and her job. But Webb's words echoed in her head: Couldn't cut it. Community college. Failed dreamer.
Each assumption was wrong. Each insult missed its mark. But together they formed a picture she recognized: the way the world saw her now. A waitress with delusions. A nobody with opinions above her station.