Chapter 3 CHAPTER 3 – WHEN YOUR MOUTH JUST WON’T CLOCK OUT.
Thump, thump, thump, thump.
My heart was doing a whole drumline routine, my stomach was trying to self-destruct and my hands were so sweaty the mic was starting to slip.
The words were still bouncing off the ballroom walls:
“Heart with the approximate temperature of an industrial freezer…”
And there I was. Frozen.
The ballroom, frozen.
The boss, frozen.
Adrian Vega didn’t even look human. He looked like an HD photograph: perfect dark suit, white shirt that had never heard of wrinkles, tense jaw, eyes locked on me. He didn’t blink. He didn’t smile. He didn’t move.
He just stared.
Dear floor, swallow me. Dear hotel, swallow me. Dear microphone, swallow me.
The silence stretched for a few more seconds, until someone at some table let out a nervous little giggle.
Then another.
Then a murmur.
Then a “how bold,” “was that part of the show?”, “ha, ha, ha.”
The human mass started moving again.
“Turn it off,” the tech whispered beside me, pale.
I reacted late. Very late.
Clack.
I switched off the microphone and felt like I’d just unplugged my own life support.
“I… I thought…” I stammered.
“That it was closed, I know,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “That one’s on me, I hit the wrong channel. But…”
But the one who had just called Adrian Vega an industrial freezer in front of the entire economic elite of the city was me.
Not the tech.
Me. With first and last name.
I swallowed hard. Gulp.
On the other side of the curtain, the music swelled and a voice took over the mic onstage.
“Please welcome our host for tonight…”
Protocol went on like nothing had happened.
Of course. The show had to go on.
I took two steps back, desperately wishing I could turn into a shadow, a cable, dust—anything.
“Hey, relax,” the tech tried, his smile shaking. “I’m sure no one took it that seriously. And… it was funny.”
I looked at him with so much despair he just shrugged and decided the safest move was to fiddle with the console.
“CAN SOMEONE EXPLAIN TO ME WHAT THAT WAS?”
Clara’s voice cut through me like a knife the second I saw her appear backstage. Her face was flushed, her bun slightly undone, her badge hanging crooked. Bad sign.
I briefly considered playing dead, but my feet refused to cooperate.
“It was… a sound check,” I said, lifting the folder a little like a shield. “The tech told me that—”
“A SOUND CHECK?” she repeated, so loud a cameraman turned his head. “You call the CEO an ‘industrial freezer’ in front of the entire board and you sum it up as a ‘sound check’?”
Thump, thump, thump.
Now my heart was trying to escape through my throat.
“I didn’t know the mic was open to the room, I swear,” I raised my hands. “I thought it was only going through the monitors…”
“Well, you thought wrong!” Clara snapped. “Do you have any idea what you just did, Moreno?”
I had an idea, yes. A very clear one, in the shape of the word fired spelled out in neon letters.
I tried to breathe.
“I can… apologize. An internal memo, something. There are ways to—”
“The only thing you’re allowed to do right now is not open your mouth again,” she cut in, jabbing a finger against my folder. “Stay here. Don’t move. Don’t breathe too loud. Don’t exist.”
And she turned to leave.
I stayed there, mouth half open.
“Clara,” I managed to call out.
She stopped, exasperated.
“What?”
“Am I going to… get fired?”
For a second, I almost thought I saw a flicker of pity in her eyes. Maybe I imagined it.
“I’m not the one who’ll decide that,” she said. “Mr. Vega asked for you to stay until the end of the event. He wants to talk to you.”
Crash.
It wasn’t a real sound. It was my brain smashing into the nearest wall.
“He… he asked…?” I repeated, tongue numb.
“Should I draw you a picture?” she huffed. “He’s expecting you. And if I were you, I’d start thinking of something better than bad jokes.”
She walked off, leaving me with the feeling that the air had suddenly turned way too thick.
The next two hours were slow torture.
From behind the stage I heard speeches, applause, laughter, music, toasts. I watched men in suits that cost as much as my entire college degree clink crystal glasses, and women in sequined gowns chat like nothing had happened.
And there I was, glued to a column, hugging my folder like it was a life jacket.
Every now and then, someone from the staff would shoot me a weird look. A couple of waiters laughed quietly to themselves whenever they walked by.
My phone was buzzing in my bag. Bzzz, bzzz, bzzz.
Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I pulled it out and saw the screen flooded with notifications.
Group “Las Caóticas”: 57 messages.
Mara: 12 voice notes.
Mom: 3 texts.
Work WhatsApp: 23 notifications.
I felt the blood drain from my face.
I opened Mara’s chat first. Priorities.
M: ARE YOU AT THE GALA???
M: Tell me you’re at the gala.
M: WAS THAT YOU??
M: There’s a video on Twitter.
M: Lia.
M: LIA ANSWER ME, FOR GOD’S SAKE.
My stomach did a full somersault.
I tapped the link she’d sent.
The video showed a shot of the empty stage, Vega Group’s logo glowing in the background. And my voice. Clear. Clean. HD.
“Tonight we’ll witness the mythical Adrian Vega in his natural habitat: perfect suit, half-millimeter smile and a heart with the approximate temperature of an industrial freezer…”
Then a choked laugh, someone saying “was that live?” and a panicked “oh no” somewhere in the background. The video cut off there.
It already had over ten thousand views.
And climbing.
“I’m… in trouble,” I whispered, as if anyone needed confirmation.
Another message from Mara popped up instantly.
M: GIRL. YOU’RE A MEME.
M: I LOVE YOU. BUT YOU’RE A MEME.
Great. Fantastic. Wonderful.
I shoved my phone back into my bag, not before skimming through the work chat.
COWORKER 1: was that you???
COWORKER 2: hahahaha i respect you so much rn
COWORKER 3: Clara is breathing fire
My head throbbed. Thump, thump, thump.
