The fluorescent lights above buzzed like insects trapped in glass, a low, grating hum that turned the endless rows of cubicles into something closer to a hive. Naya Carter rubbed her temple and willed the headache away, though it had already taken root hours ago.
"Naya!" Her supervisor's voice cracked like a whip from the bullpen. "Customer on line four. Don't keep them waiting."
"On it," she muttered, shoving her headset on. She smoothed the exasperation out of her tone, forcing her voice into professional calm. "Tech support, this is Naya. Can you describe the issue?"
On the other end, a man cursed about his frozen laptop. She typed commands faster than she could think, guiding him step by step until the system rebooted. Same script, different caller. By the time he muttered a grudging thanks, her temples throbbed like someone had been drumming on the inside of her skull.
The call dropped. Relief lasted only seconds before her phone screen lit up again.
Hospital Billing: Payment Overdue.
Another three thousand dollars.
Her chest tightened, like a fist clamping around her ribs. She clicked the notification away, but the number branded itself on the back of her eyes.
"You're gonna drop dead from stress one of these days."
Jerry, her cubicle-mate, leaned back so far in his chair she half-expected him to topple over. He spun in slow circles, chewing on the mangled cap of his pen, his sneakers kicked up on the desk.
"Got a better plan?" Naya asked, sharper than she meant to.
"Yeah." He counted on his fingers. "Win the lottery. Rob a bank. Or my personal favorite marry a billionaire."
She barked a laugh, quick and humorless. "Right. Because billionaires are out here scouting broke IT girls with overdue rent and secondhand laptops."
"Hey." He pointed the pen at her. "Don't sell yourself short. Some guys like fixer uppers."
"Wow. Inspirational. You missed your calling as a life coach."
Jerry grinned, unfazed. "Think about it. If some rich guy walked through here right now and offered you a way out, you'd take it in a heartbeat."
Naya rolled her eyes, but his words stuck. They always did, because Jerry had a talent for poking straight through her armor.
Her phone buzzed again.
Subject: Invitation – Summit of Innovators: Exclusive Access Granted.
Naya frowned, opening the email. Sleek gold lettering spilled across the screen, the kind of branding that practically smelled of old money and power.
Bellview Grand Hotel.
Three days of private panels. Investor dinners. Exclusive networking.
Entry strictly limited to billionaires, heirs, and global industry leaders.
Her stomach tightened. She scrolled down, then stopped.
Recipient: Damian Voss.
Naya froze.
Everyone in tech knew the name. The Voss empire was legend patents, devices, deals that shaped the industry. Damian Voss was the ghost prince of tech, a man who supposedly existed but never showed his face. No interviews. No public appearances. No verified photos. Just rumors. Some whispered he was a recluse, others that he was brilliant but cruel. A few swore he didn't exist at all.
Naya let out a shaky laugh. "Well, they definitely didn't mean me."
Her finger hovered over Delete. Then her phone chimed again.
Hospital Billing Reminder.
Her pulse spiked. She stared at the two screens, debt and opportunity, and suddenly they felt like dueling devils on her shoulders.
Jerry leaned over the cubicle wall. "What's that?"
"Spam," she snapped too quickly, shutting her phone.
"Spam with gold fonts?" He arched a brow. "That's some high-class junk mail."
"Forget it." She shoved the phone deep into her pocket and clicked back into her system.
Jerry studied her longer than usual, his smirk fading. "Hey. You okay?"
She forced a smile without looking at him. "Peachy."
But her thoughts refused to return to work. All afternoon, while frantic customers begged her to fix their broken logins and crashed browsers, the invitation glowed like a dare in the back of her mind.
By the time she trudged home, she couldn't stop replaying the words.
The apartment smelled faintly of soup and disinfectant. The single lamp in the living room cast a pale glow over the couch, where her mother sat curled under a blanket. Her face looked smaller every week, cheeks hollowed, skin pale beneath the warm lamplight.
"Hey, sweetheart." Her mother smiled, thin and tired. "Long day?"
"The usual." Naya forced cheer into her voice as she dropped her bag by the door. "How are you feeling?"
Her mother hesitated before shrugging. "The doctors… they want to try a stronger treatment."
Naya's stomach sank. "And?"
"They said they'll need last month's payment before they can continue."
The vise tightened around Naya's chest again. She crouched beside the couch, taking her mother's hand. It felt fragile, paper-thin. "Don't worry about it. I'll handle it."
"You're working yourself into the ground, Naya."
Her throat closed, but she forced the words out. "Mom, I'll find a way. I promise."
Her mother squeezed her hand weakly, eyes shimmering. "You shouldn't have to carry this alone."
But she did. Who else would?
***
Later, when her mother was asleep, Naya sat at the kitchen table with her laptop. The glow of the screen painted her face in tired blues. Stacks of overdue notices, rent reminders, and rejection emails stared back at her like silent judges.
Her inbox blinked again.
The invitation sat at the top, daring her to click it open.
She read every word again. The Bellview Grand Hotel. Three days. Investors with more money than she could imagine. And at the bottom: Damian Voss.
Her pulse hammered.
Nobody really knew what Damian looked like. His family had spent years shielding him from the spotlight. If he walked into that summit tomorrow, half the people wouldn't recognize him.
The thought slithered into her brain, dangerous, impossible. But once it was there, it wouldn't leave.
It was reckless. Insane. Illegal.
Her phone buzzed again. Another hospital reminder. Final Notice. Treatment Suspended Pending Payment.
The kitchen swam in silence except for her own harsh breathing.
Jerry's words floated back, mocking yet sharp. If some rich guy walked through here right now and offered you a way out, you'd take it in a heartbeat.
Her mind twisted it, reshaped it. What if she could be that rich person? Just for a weekend. Just long enough to get her voice heard.
She whispered into the empty air, "One weekend. One pitch. Then I'm gone."
She imagined herself standing before investors, commanding their attention. Not as Naya Carter, broke IT support worker, but as someone they couldn't dismiss. Someone whose voice mattered.
Her hands trembled as she began to type.
Reply: Confirmed Attendance.
The cursor blinked at the bottom of the email like it was daring her to follow through.
Her chest squeezed tighter. Fraud. Jail. Exposure.
But then she saw her mother's face again, pale beneath the lamplight, whispering, You shouldn't have to carry this alone.
And she thought: If I don't, she won't survive.
Naya clenched her jaw, whispered a single word:
"Please."
She pressed the key.
The invitation was no longer Damian Voss's.
It was hers.