The thrift shop smelled faintly of mothballs and dust, the air heavy with the weight of a hundred discarded wardrobes. Rows of ill-fitting blazers sagged on metal racks, their shoulders bent out of shape, colors faded by years of neglect. None of them looked like the sleek billionaire style Naya imagined.
"This is insane," she muttered, flicking through jackets with jerky, frustrated motions. "Completely insane."
Jerry, who she had roped into this madness with the promise of pizza and unlimited sarcasm rights, leaned against a rack of trench coats. He tapped his sneaker against the floor like a metronome, chewing his ever-present pen cap. "Correction: this is hilarious. You pretending to be Damian Voss? That's like me pretending to be Beyoncé."
Naya yanked out a dark blazer and held it against herself in the cracked mirror. The fabric smelled faintly of mildew. The shoulders swallowed her. "Do I look like an empire's heir yet?"
Jerry squinted, head tilted. "You look like you raided your dad's closet after prom."
"Helpful." She shoved the blazer back with a scowl and grabbed another.
Jerry strolled over and picked one at random, holding it up. "Try this. It screams 'boardroom villain who secretly has a heart of gold.'"
She gave him a look. "You read way too many comic books."
"And you're rewriting your whole life like one," he shot back. "You could still back out, you know. Plenty of other ways to earn money that don't involve felony-level fraud."
Naya froze, blazer half on, her reflection warped in the mirror. "This isn't about money. It's about Mom. If they stop her treatment" Her throat closed. She forced the words through clenched teeth. "I can't let that happen."
Jerry's sarcasm dimmed, his pen cap falling still between his teeth. "I know. But if you get caught"
"Then I'm ruined," she finished for him. She tugged the blazer into place, smoothing the lapels with trembling hands. "But I'm ruined already, Jerry. This is my only shot."
For once, he didn't have a comeback. Just a long look that said everything he wasn't brave enough to say.
The day of the summit arrived too fast.
Naya stood in her tiny bathroom, staring at the stranger in the mirror. A crisp white shirt buttoned to the collar, a navy blazer that almost fit after desperate tailoring, slacks cinched with a borrowed belt.
Her hair was yanked into a slick, severe bun at the base of her neck, hidden beneath the short wig she had splurged on with her last paycheck and a small realistic looking mustache above her lips. From a distance, she looked sharp, masculine, intimidating. Up close, the disguise whispered of fragility.
She adjusted the wire-rim glasses on her face. They weren't prescription, just another layer of armor. Her lips pressed into a firm, unsmiling line.
Her reflection still looked like her, nervous eyes, clenched jaw but sharper, colder. Someone who could belong in marble hallways with people worth billions. Someone she had no business pretending to be.
Her phone buzzed.
A message from the hospital: Final Notice. Treatment suspended pending payment.
The screen blurred as tears threatened. She shoved the phone into her pocket. There was no turning back.
***
The Bellview Grand Hotel towered above her like a palace of glass and steel. Black cars lined the curb in perfect sequence, polished so well they gleamed like mirrors. Valets in red uniforms swept open doors, bowing as jeweled women and power-suited men stepped out, exuding perfume and privilege.
Naya's pulse thundered as she stepped from the taxi, blazer collar tight against her throat. She forced herself into steady, deliberate strides, each step measured, each breath an act of will.
The lobby swallowed her whole crystal chandeliers scattering light like diamonds, marble floors polished so smooth they reflected the crowd above. Conversations hummed in a dozen accents, the air rich with cologne and ambition.
A hostess with a headset appeared, smile practiced but deferential. "Welcome Sir, May I see your badge?"
Panic clawed at Naya's throat, cold and sharp. But she slid the lanyard across the counter. The badge, embossed with Damian Voss, glinted under the lights.
The hostess scanned it, then inclined her head with professional grace. "Of course. Right this way, sir."
Sir.
The word cracked something inside her. It was working.
The conference hall glittered with glass partitions and soft lighting, a cathedral of wealth. Waiters floated past with trays of champagne, their white gloves immaculate. Clusters of people in designer suits spoke in low, confident tones, their laughter like currency exchanged. Names like Hargrove, Sterling, and DuPont whispered through the air—names she'd only seen in Forbes.
Naya kept to the edges, posture rigid, hands clasped behind her like she'd seen in movies. She tried to look aloof, calculating. Inside, her stomach spun like a centrifuge.
A woman in a scarlet suit intercepted her. Mid-thirties, tall, polished. Her smile was edged with ambition. "Mr. Voss, isn't it?"
Naya's heart jolted, but she forced her voice lower. "Yes."
"I've heard of your family's investments in renewable tech," the woman said smoothly. "Fascinating direction. Will you be speaking on that today?"
Think fast. "We…prefer to let innovation speak for itself."
The woman's eyes lit. She leaned in, lowering her voice. "Mysterious. I like it." She winked, bold and knowing, before slipping a sleek business card into Naya's hand. "Perhaps we should talk privately later."
Naya tucked the card away with shaking fingers. A wink. She had just been winked at like she was what? Eligible? Dangerous? Desired?
Heat rose up her neck. Somehow, she was pulling this off.
She fled to the refreshments table, gripping a glass of water like a lifeline. Each smile, each nod of respect sent adrenaline coursing through her. For the first time in her life, people weren't ignoring her. They were watching. Listening. Believing.
Her phone buzzed under the table. Jerry.
How's billionaire cosplay going?
She typed quickly: Terrifying. But working.
She was about to slip the phone away when a shadow stretched across the table.
"Excuse me, Mr. Voss."
Naya looked up into the earnest face of a young journalist, notepad in hand. His eyes shone with that dangerous mix of curiosity and ambition.
"I'm writing a feature on heirs shaping the future of tech," he said eagerly. "Can I have a quote? Just a few words on your vision?"
Her pulse spiked. A journalist meant her words could end up in print, immortalized, undeniable. A lie carved in ink.
She forced herself to smile, lowering her tone. "Vision?" she echoed. "That innovation belongs to those bold enough to risk everything."
The journalist scribbled furiously. "Powerful. Thank you, sir."
When he walked away, Naya's knees nearly gave out.
***
Across the hall, partially hidden in the shadows of a marble column, Damian Voss watched her.
The impostor wore his name, his badge, his silence as a shield. She moved carefully, mimicking power like it was a language she half understood. Her disguise was clever, too clever. The wig, the glasses, the posture. She had studied him, anticipated the gaps where he was myth instead of man.
Damian's gaze lingered, catching details no one else would notice. The too smooth bun. The faint curve of her throat. The tremor in her hand when she lifted her glass.
His lips curved, not with anger but with amusement.
She thought she was invisible in her mask. To everyone else, she was.
But not to him.
He leaned back against the column, eyes glinting with something sharper than curiosity. "So," he murmured under his breath, "my impostor is a woman."
Instead of fury, intrigue tugged at him. Bold. Reckless. Clever enough to almost get away with it.
And suddenly, he had no desire to stop her.
Not yet.