Undercover Billionaire

My executive team thought I was taking a digital detox.

"Three weeks offline," I'd announced at the quarterly meeting I did not, in fact, cancel. "Working on strategy. No interruptions unless something is actually on fire."

They nodded like this was reasonable. They probably assumed I'd be on a beach somewhere, or at a silent meditation retreat, or whatever CEOs did when they needed to "recharge." They definitely didn't assume I'd be flying economy to Denver under a fake name.

Diana had created Evan Collins in four days.

He was twenty-eight (believable if I dressed young), a recent transplant from Austin, with three years of IT support experience at a company that had conveniently gone out of business. His apartment was a modest one-bedroom in a building where nobody would notice one more tech worker. His wardrobe came from Target.

"You look wrong," Diana said, surveying me in the mirror.

"Thanks."

"No, I mean—" She adjusted my collar, frowning. "You carry yourself like someone who gives orders. Evan Collins takes orders. You need to shrink."

"Shrink how?"

"Less eye contact. More uncertain pauses. When someone senior speaks, you defer. You don't challenge. You don't suggest." She stepped back. "Can you do that?"

I thought about the last decade of my life. Board meetings where I controlled every room. Investor calls where my word was law. A world built on the assumption that I was always the smartest person present.

"I have no idea," I admitted.

"Then you'd better learn fast."

The CrossTech Denver office was a converted warehouse in the RiNo district, all exposed brick and open floor plans and the carefully cultivated aesthetic of a company that wanted to look innovative without actually changing anything. I'd approved the design five years ago without ever visiting. Just another line item on a facilities budget.

Monday morning, 8:47 AM. I stood outside the entrance in my Target clothes, my fake employee badge clipped to my pocket, feeling more terrified than I had since presenting to my first investors.

"You can do this," I muttered. "You built a billion-dollar company. You can pretend to fix printers."

The doors slid open. The receptionist barely glanced at me.

"New hire?" She was already reaching for a visitor badge. "IT, right? Third floor. Ask for Marcus in the back."

"Thanks."

"Don't thank me yet. The coffee machine's broken and it's only Monday."

I took the stairs because Ethan Cross would have taken the elevator—he would have expected people to wait while he made his entrance. Evan Collins was a contractor who didn't deserve to inconvenience anyone.

The IT department was a cluster of desks in the far corner, separated from the main floor by a half-wall of dying plants. Three people were already there: a young man in a gaming headset, a middle-aged woman surrounded by ticket printouts, and a guy who looked like he'd been IT support since IT support was invented.

"You the new temp?" This from the older man—Marcus, presumably.

"That's me. Evan Collins."

"Great. Ticket queue's over there. You'll be doing Level One stuff—password resets, printer jams, the people who forgot how to use their mice. Any questions?"

"Where's the bathroom?"

"Down the hall, left, then left again, then pray the plumbing's working." He was already turning back to his screen. "Welcome to CrossTech."

I found an empty desk and logged into the system I'd helped design. The interface looked different from this side—cluttered, unintuitive, full of legacy features that nobody had bothered to clean up. How had I never noticed?

A ticket popped up in my queue. Printer not working, urgent, please help ASAP!!!

I walked to the printer. Looked at it. Opened a panel. Removed a paper jam that had been building for what looked like weeks.

The woman who'd submitted the ticket—a project manager in her late twenties, with natural hair and the focused intensity of someone used to solving problems—appeared beside me.

"Oh my God, you fixed it." She looked genuinely grateful. "The last IT person told me it was a hardware issue and submitted a replacement request. Six weeks ago."

"It was just jammed."

"Just jammed." She laughed, shaking her head. "I knew it was something simple. Nobody listens." She extended her hand. "Nadia Okonkwo. Project management."

"Evan. Collins. IT temp."

"Well, Evan Collins, IT Temp, you just saved my whole morning. Thank you."

She smiled at me—an actual, genuine smile, the kind I hadn't received at CrossTech in years. Everyone at headquarters smiled at me, but those smiles were calibrated, conscious of who I was and what I could do to their careers.

Nadia didn't know who I was. She was just grateful that her printer worked.

"Happy to help," I said, and meant it in a way that surprised me.

She headed back to her desk. I watched her go, then returned to my own corner of the IT department, where thirty-seven tickets were waiting and nobody expected anything from Evan Collins except competence.

For the first time in a decade, the pressure lifted.

Nobody knew me here. Nobody wanted anything from me. I was invisible—and it was the freest I'd felt in years.