My stomach drops; maybe they are going to ask for my passport again. I can see it now—they either force me out of the hotel for refusing to hand over any identifying paperwork or they kick me out for being a fake.
“Hellooooooo.” The word extends out my mouth like I’m pulling a piece of chewing gum.
“Good morning, I trust your stay has been enjoyable so far?” she asks with a sickly sweet smile across her face.
She knows. She definitely knows. I’m twelve hours in and have already been found out. Sweat runs down my back as I try to come up with any reasonable excuse that won’t have further repercussions. I could tell her I lost my passport on the way from the airport to the hotel, but a fancy hotel like this would quite happily book a car to send me straight to the British embassy. I need to be here monitoring and managing Spencer instead of being on a wild goose chase for nonexistent identification.
“Yes, everything has been lovely. Thank you so much.” I don’t know why I’m thanking the woman who was rude to me at check-in, but politeness seems to be the best way to get away with this.
“Excellent, I have a delivery for you.”
“What is it?” I ask cautiously.
She hands over a white dress bag with the hotel logo on a silver metal hanger. “Your dry cleaning.”
“Oh, great, thank you.” Relief flows over me, lowering my shoulders by several inches. Hopefully, she’s forgotten about the passport.
“I have a note for you also.” She flicks through a pile of papers on her desk until she finds a handwritten note and hands it to me.
If you change your mind, I’d love to buy you an apology drink. L’ultima Goccia 6 p.m.
—Oliver
I feel my cheeks redden as I scan the note, a small thrill bouncing in my stomach like a cat with a ball of yarn. Spencer and I didn’t stay for long, but my disappointment at the welcome drinks and competitor mixer last night had to be majorly tamped down when I didn’t see Oliver, formerly known as Coffee Guy, at the event. But something inside me warms at the thought of him looking out for me too.
Suits on suits on suits glide into the auditorium like lemmings off a cliff. I slide backstage, getting prepped for Spencer’s presentation. I slip on a blue Odericco-branded baseball cap from Spencer’s complimentary goody tote bag. I feel like I need to be hiding my face, but no one here will even know my face to misidentify. I’m completely anonymous. Unlike Spencer, who is sitting on the stage in a row of contestants in front of a huge audience.
Despite my pessimism about this plan as a whole, I can’t help but imagine how this would all play out if we were successful. If we were to win this competition and gain the backing of one of the biggest investment companies in the tech industry. I was never really the “face” of Wyst, but Pacha has done a great job of scrubbing my presence from our website and Cecily has edited or deleted any relevant social media posts. It’s like I never existed. Will people forever see Spencer as the heart and soul of Wyst? Will I ever be seen as the original creator? Wouldanyone ever believe the truth if we came clean? Could a fledgling company survive a scandal like this?
From the side of the stage, I watch the lights in the auditorium change color, projecting green spotlights up the walls. Dramatic music descends upon the spectacle, green lasers flowing over the crowd and twisting into a formation around the stage. A man with the sharpest suit and whitest teeth I have ever seen steps into the spotlight; he must be the competition presenter.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Dominic Odericco striding past me backstage, a gaggle of Odericco employees following behind.
“Where’s okay?” he asks, voice booming.
“Somewhere around here, sir,” a Brooks Brothers minion replies, a sheen of sweat licking their brow.
Odericco looks around for something with a furrowed brow as he straightens his collar and checks his shirt cuffs. Maybe he’s used to a nicer entrance than stepping over wires backstage. The other support crews for the competitors are scattered around backstage, running around looking at clipboards and whispering into phones. It feels like we’re all putting on a play. This is certainly a performance. I briefly thank my lucky stars I have a real actor in the midst of this pantomime.
The presenter taps against the microphone, sending a static whine-inducing feedback screech across the room. The crowd groans as the sound bursts from the speakers. “Sorry, sorry! Hello and welcome to Odericco Investments’ TechRumble Round One!” The crowd politely claps as their hearing returns to normal. “Our first round of investor pitches is about to begin. We encourage you all to photograph, film, and post all of our incredible competitors across social media; their handles and information are in the brochures under your seats along with...” He pauses for effect, pulling the microphone almost into his mouth. “Odericco Investments baseball caaaaaaps!” This gets the crowd going, with a few whooping at the free merchandise. Most of the men in this crowd are probably used to this kind of event, so it’s not exactly exciting. They are here for the potential investment opportunities, not the branded clothing.
This is the main reason I wanted to be involved with TechRumble, the idea of getting Wyst in front of thousands of business people in the tech space. If we get knocked out of the competition today, there’s a chance someone here will be interested in Wyst. Exposure is everything, but I know seeing images of Spencer in the position I always dreamed of being in will hurt more than I care to admit. But if I’m really honest with myself, I doubt I would ever have the courage to get on that stage.
“Now, without further ado,” the presenter shouts, “please welcome the founder of TechRumble, Dominic Odericco!” The crowd roars as Odericco straightens his suit jacket lapels, rolls his neck, and steps out onto the stage.
“You good?” I ask into my wireless headphones from the edge of the stage.
“Mm-hmm!” Spencer hums, his mouth still shut to not draw attention to the beige wireless headphone in one of his ears, which is just covered by his fluffy hair. He glances over to where I’m standing and shoots me a quick smile.
“We can do this,” I say more to myself than him.
He gives me a subtle nod in response as the crowd starts to die down.
After an hour of clenched buttocks, listening to group after group pitching their ideas, it’s our turn. As we are the latest addition to the group of competitors, we are the last of the day to present. A good 50 percent of the crowd has already filtered out of the auditorium, which makes my shoulders sag with both relief and disappointment. Hopefully, the majority of the absent consists of company team members, off to celebrate or commiserate the success of their endeavors, instead of the smaller investors and journalists.
“To finish things off for the day, we have a debut contender, representing the FemTech space. Presenting for Wyst, Spencer Cole.” A considerably less enthusiastic reception than the screams for the baseball-caps flitters around the auditorium.
Spencer steps into the spotlight, taking in the audience. He clears his throat, and it’s like he flips a switch. His shoulders straighten, chest broadens, and chin lifts. I can’t find a trace of the nerves I could see in his eyes earlier.
