The schedule on the glossy program shimmered in Naya's trembling hands.
Day Two, 3:00 PM – Rising Innovators Panel.
Her name wasn't on it. His was.
Damian Voss.
Naya's mouth went dry. She whispered under her breath, "You've gotten yourself into a grave you can't climb out of."
A waiter appeared with a tray of sparkling water, his bow practiced and polite. "Mr. Voss? Would you like one?"
She nearly dropped the program. "Uh…yes. Thank you."
Her voice caught, but the man didn't notice. He only smiled, the same deferential smile she'd seen directed at every name badge with weight behind it.
Naya sipped the water, her pulse racing. Stay calm. You're supposed to be here.
She slipped into the prep room backstage. Assistants darted back and forth, juggling microphones, water bottles, and frantically flipping clipboards. Someone fussed with the stage lights. The hum of anticipation pressed into her like static.
"Mr. Voss?" A woman with a clipboard materialized in front of her, brisk and efficient. "We'll have you on the left podium. Five minutes until we start. Do you need notes?"
Naya's mouth was dust. "No." She dropped her voice half an octave, clipped. "I prefer to speak freely."
The coordinator's face lit up, as though this kind of confidence was precisely what she expected from a billionaire heir. "Of course. Right this way."
Naya's knees wanted to give out. She clenched her fists instead. She had no slides, no polished speech, no carefully massaged talking points. Just the concept she'd scribbled on scraps of paper during late-night shifts and hospital waiting rooms: her security software prototype. The idea she'd been laughed out of meetings for, dismissed by venture capitalists who didn't even glance past her cheap blazer.
Now it wasn't Naya Carter about to speak. It was Damian Voss.
She clutched the microphone as if it were the only solid thing in her hands.
The stage lights blinded her. Rows of investors, journalists, and heirs stared back, their tailored shoulders squared, their gazes sharp and expectant.
The moderator, a silver-haired man in an impeccable suit, smiled with the polish of someone who had introduced presidents. "Ladies and gentlemen, we are honored to begin with Damian Voss, whose family name has long been synonymous with innovation. Mr. Voss, the floor is yours."
Applause rippled through the room.
Naya forced herself upright, shoulders squared. Every eye burned into her skin.
"Thank you," she said, her voice lower, firmer. "Innovation isn't about tradition or comfort. It's about risk."
A murmur of approval swept through the crowd. Encouraged, she steadied her breath.
"My vision is a future where digital vulnerability is a myth. Where corporations and individuals can protect their information without sacrificing accessibility. My team has been developing a program that doesn't just defend against cyberattacks, it predicts them."
She paused, letting the silence stretch, willing them to believe.
For once, she didn't feel like the broke IT worker who begged for scraps. She felt powerful.
A hand rose from the front row. A heavyset man with gold cufflinks. "Predicts cyberattacks? That's a bold claim. How?"
Naya's mind raced. Don't overthink. Use what you know.
"By analyzing behavioral patterns," she said. "Most breaches don't start with brute force, they start with human error. A suspicious login attempt, unusual keystroke rhythms, odd data transfers. Our software builds adaptive profiles that flag threats before they become breaches."
The man leaned back, intrigued.
Another voice called from the side. A woman in pearl earrings. "That sounds expensive. What's the projected cost to scale?"
Her palms slicked with sweat. But her tongue found the answer anyway. "High at first. But what's more expensive, investment, or a single breach costing billions? Long-term, our model becomes cheaper than failure. The market isn't just ready, it's starving for it."
Nods spread through the rows like falling dominoes.
Then came another question, sharper: "And what about competitors? How do you outpace firms that already dominate the field?"
Naya inhaled slowly, holding their gaze. "By refusing to compete on reaction time. We're not here to patch holes after the flood. We're here to build the dam before the first drop falls."
A ripple of approval stirred. Pens scribbled. Phones tapped notes.
But then inevitable the journalist from the day before stood. Young, hungry, eyes bright. "Mr. Voss, what drives you personally toward cybersecurity? Surely your family empire doesn't lack protection."
Naya froze. Careful. One wrong answer and the mask would shatter.
She lifted her chin. "I'm not driven by what we have," she said, voice steady now. "I'm driven by what others stand to lose. Innovation without protection is chaos. And chaos costs lives, not just money."
The journalist scribbled as if her words were gold.
Applause erupted again, stronger this time. Some even stood.
Naya blinked into the lights, heart hammering so loud it drowned the sound. They were buying it. They were buying her.
Backstage, half-hidden by a velvet curtain, Damian Voss leaned casually against the wall, hands in his pockets.
He had planned to step out the moment she slipped. One stumble, one shallow answer, and he would have exposed her, end the charade before it grew teeth.
But she didn't stumble.
She shone.
Her disguise was laughably thin. Too-slick bun, wig slightly askew, voice pitched low like a school play. But her conviction was undeniable. She had the room not only believing, but applauding. His room.
Damian's lips curved. "Brazen little thief."
Instead of humiliation, she was crafting authority out of thin air. And the more she spoke, the more he recognized the mind behind it. Sharp. Agile. Not just bluffing, calculating.
It had been years since anyone dared to put words in his mouth. He almost admired the audacity. Almost.
The panel ended in a swell of applause, louder than for any speaker who followed.
Investors crowded her as she stepped off stage.
"Mr. Voss, I'd love to discuss partnerships!"
"Your concept could redefine the industry."
"Do you have availability for a private dinner?"
Cards piled in her hands until her pocket bulged with them. Compliments wrapped around her like a dizzying cloak.
For the first time in her life, her idea was being taken seriously. And yet each "Mr. Voss" jabbed like a knife. It wasn't her name echoing in the hall. It was his.
She ducked into the quieter hallway, tugging discreetly at the wig pressing her scalp raw. Her phone buzzed.
Jerry: Still alive? Or arrested yet?
Her reply shook as she typed: Alive. And…they actually liked it. They liked me.
The message sent with a tiny ping that felt unreal.
A woman in pearls passed by, pausing with a knowing smile. "Excellent speech, Mr. Voss. So refreshing to hear vision instead of recycled soundbites."
Naya's throat tightened. She forced a clipped, "Thank you."
When the woman disappeared, she leaned against the cool marble wall, dragging in shaky breaths. "One weekend," she whispered. "Just one weekend."
***
From across the grand hallway, Damian's gaze fixed on her.
Up close, the illusion didn't fool him, the delicate line of her jaw, the nervous flutter of her hands when she thought no one watched. A woman, wrapped in his name, parading through his world with stolen confidence.
And she was succeeding.
Not by accident, not by bluffing, but with a mind that sliced through skepticism and turned it into applause.
Instead of anger, intrigue uncoiled in his chest. When had anyone last surprised him? He tilted his head, studying her like a puzzle. She's either fearless, he thought, or completely insane.
And he wasn't sure which intrigued him more.
Naya's phone buzzed again, but she never got to read it.
A voice slid against her ear, low, deliberate, edged with steel.
"Enjoying my name, Miss…?"
Her blood iced. She spun—
And found herself staring into the eyes of Damian Voss himself.