I settled into bed that night in a particularly good mood thinking about Jay. But my mood was sullied when I scrolled through my email and found one from the man who’d blown me off—Mister Moneybags.
Dear Ms. George,
Please accept my apologies for cancelling our meeting on such short notice. I’m afraid it was a personal emergency that couldn’t be helped.
Best,
Dexter Truitt
Really? “Best?” He wasn’t even going to propose a rain check? Did he have any clue how much his “emergency” set me back? I had a deadline, and the magazine was currently without its feature story. While it surprised me that someone like him even bothered to offer an apology, this was not okay. I decided to write back.
Mr. Truitt,
I’m afraid your “personal emergency” has put me in a very difficult position. We are running on a firm deadline. If the interview isn’t conducted soon, we are going to have to cancel the entire feature. When might you be able to reschedule?
A notification sounded within thirty seconds, signifying I’d received a new email. Dexter Truitt had written me back.
Ms. George,
How about right now?
Now? Was he nuts? He had some nerve expecting me to meet him at this time of night.
Mr. Truitt,
It’s eleven o’clock at night. I’m not able to meet you this late. When might you have availability during working hours this week?
Bouncing my knee anxiously, I waited for his response.
Ms. George,
I’m available now. We can conduct the interview via email. I would prefer written documentation of my answers in any case, so as to avoid my words being misinterpreted.
He couldn’t be serious. I typed.
Mr. Truitt,
Your agreement with the magazine was for an in-person interview. I was under the impression that the entire purpose of this feature was so that you could “go public.” An interview conducted over email would defeat the purpose.
Biting my nails, I stared at the screen.
Ms. George,
What agreement are you referring to? I never signed anything with your magazine. Therefore, there is no contractual obligation. I simply expressed interest in being interviewed. I’ve since thought better of doing it in person. If you’d like to conduct the interview with me now via email, I am more than happy to offer you that opportunity.
The keys of my laptop clicked loudly as I typed even faster this time.
Mr. Truitt,
Are you saying there was no actual personal emergency? You lied and cancelled our interview because you decided not to show your face after all?
Letting out a frustrated breath, I repositioned myself in bed as I waited for his response.
Ms. George,
I did experience an emergency, but I don’t believe I am under any obligation to offer an explanation into my personal affairs. As for showing my face, well, if you want the honest truth, my unexpected change of plans afforded me the time to think twice about such a life-altering decision. I’ve decided that I prefer to continue keeping my identity private.
Great. There is no story now.
Mr. Truitt,
It would have been nice to know this information before we made you the feature and spent money to promote it. The entire point of the piece was to document your coming out from under the rock you’ve been hiding beneath. I don’t believe we have a story anymore.
His response came even quicker this time.
Ms. George,
I am giving you the opportunity to ask me anything you want. Anything. I think that makes for quite a damn good story, actually. But I do have two conditions. The first is that I don’t have to be photographed. I think that’s pretty fair, considering I would be an open book, otherwise. Second, for every personal question you ask me, I get to ask you a comparable one. And you have to answer me. Since you seem to think baring one’s soul to the public is an easy feat, it might be nice for you to experience what it’s like to be on the other side of the fence. Deal?
What was this guy smoking? Maybe I should just ask him, seeing as though I could ask him “anything.” What the hell. I needed this story. And even without his face, it was better than any other exclusive we’d gotten in a long time.
Mr. Truitt,
We have a deal. Shall we begin?
Ms. George,
I’m all yours. Start with the business questions. Get them out of the way. You may work for Finance Times, but let’s face it, people aren’t really interested in how many shares of my company I’ve sold, so much as how many women I’m dating.
We’d switched to the Gmail chat feature and spent the better part of an hour going back and forth on how he came to eventually run his father’s venture capital firm.
In the past five years alone, Dex Jr. had been commended for diversifying the workplace, particularly hiring more women and minorities. He was known for taking even bigger investment risks than his father had.
Dex went over what a typical day was like, chock full of meetings mostly over the phone with entrepreneurs and portfolio companies. Every client and employee signed a non-disclosure agreement whereby they could neither reveal personal information about Dex nor photograph him.
Dex said he often wouldn’t sleep for days when he was close to the finish line on a deal. He ate, slept, and breathed his job.
When we’d run the gamut on the business questions, I started hitting him with the personal ones. Except, I had to think long and hard about my questions, knowing he was apparently going to hit me right back with the same ones.
Bianca: Tell me about your childhood.
Dex: I was the only child of Dexter Truitt and Suzanne Montague-Truitt. My mother’s father, Stuart Montague, actually founded the company. That’s where the name Montague Enterprises comes from. Stuart didn’t have a son, so he left the company to my father with the understanding that I would take it over someday. My dad was pretty much an absentee father, though. My childhood was what you would expect—privileged. But my parents were never home much.
Bianca: You were raised by nannies, then?
Dex: Yes. Well, one in particular named Alice Sugarbaker. I called her Sugie.
A smile spread across my face. I thought that was kind of cute, this big, powerful man recalling the nickname for the woman who basically raised him.
Bianca: Where are your parents now?
Dex: Dad’s retired, living in Palm Beach with his third wife. My mother was his second marriage. Mom lives here in the city, never remarried. I’m closer to her than my father. Anyway, you’re getting a little ahead of yourself. It’s my turn. Tell me about your childhood, Bianca.
Was he seriously going to follow through with this game?
Bianca: Why do you even care?
Dex: Why wouldn’t I? You’re no less important than I am. So, tell me. Where did you grow up?
Bianca: Staten Island. Two hard-working parents. One sister.
Dex: Nice childhood?
Bianca: I had a good childhood up until the point when my parents divorced. Then things got ugly.
Dex: I get it. Same here on the divorce front, but I’m sorry to hear that.
Bianca: Thank you. Next question. When you got into Harvard, did you decide to major in business because it was something that truly interested you or because you always knew you would have to take over the family business?
Dex: Honestly? I didn’t know my ass from my elbow back then. So, yeah, I just majored in business because it seemed to make sense, given my inheritance and the expectations placed upon me. God, Bianca, these questions are fucking boring.
I laughed out loud a little. Well, fuck you, Dex!
Bianca: What do you suggest we talk about, then?
Dex: People don’t care about this shit. They read your magazine because they want to know how to be successful themselves. Where I went to school doesn’t matter. The truth is, this company was handed to me on a silver platter. I vowed not to waste that opportunity by making the same mistakes my father did. He wasn’t honest and screwed people out of a lot of money over the years. I can say that because it’s public knowledge now. I made a vow to do things differently, and that includes keeping out of the public eye.
Bianca: Why can’t you be an honest man and in the public eye at the same time?
Dex: I think I’ve proven that you don’t have to show your face to be successful. So, why bother dealing with all the social media and tabloid bullshit? They add no value. They add nothing but risk.
I couldn’t even argue with that.
Dex: Ask me something interesting now. Something people would want to know.
Bianca: Since you seem to be the authority on what makes a good interview question, why don’t you tell me what YOU want people to know about you.
There was a bit of a pause this time before he answered.
Dex: I want them to know that I’m more than just some entitled dude in a suit, that I wake up every day vowing to make the most of every hour and to make a difference whether big or small. I am certain there are a lot of preconceived notions about me. Almost all of them are untrue. People assume my keeping out of the public eye is a gimmick to somehow mystify myself as an elusive celebrity. The truth is…I’m just trying to grasp onto some semblance of normalcy. I’m a regular guy who wants peace in his life, Bianca. Not some big bad wolf who gets a rise out of cancelling on beautiful, brown-eyed girls from Staten Island.
That last line threw me for a loop and made my skin heat up.
Bianca: How do you know I have brown eyes?
Dex: I’m looking at your bio on the Finance Times website.
Feeling vulnerable that he was scrutinizing my looks, I tried to change the subject.
Bianca: What else do you think people want to know about you?
Dex: Don’t change the subject off of you. You’re beautiful, by the way. Let’s discuss that. It’s more fun than talking about me.
Bianca: Let’s not.
Dex: It’s my turn to ask you a question. Did you think I forgot?
Bianca: What?
Dex: What do you want people to know about you, Bianca George?
Bianca: I want to be taken seriously by millionaires I am trying to interview.
Dex: I’m taking you very seriously. And I want to know more. Now answer my question. What do you want people to know about you?
God, he was putting me on the spot. But for some odd reason, I was warming up to this man. I didn’t really feel like coming up with yet another sarcastic response when, in fact, he’d been nothing but completely genuine with me this entire time. It was much less exhausting to just be honest. So, I simply answered his question truthfully.
Bianca: I’m just a girl who wants to be happy. I don’t need money or a prestigious job. I left Wall Street because I couldn’t hack it. It’s why I do this for a living instead. I am not perfect. I do sometimes carry some preconceived notions about people of power, though. That probably comes from watching my hard-working parents get screwed over by such people over the years. But even in the little time that we have corresponded tonight, I can see that you’re quite different from what I expected. I made assumptions about you that were incorrect. So, one thing I definitely want people to know about me is that I am not afraid to admit when I’m wrong.
Dex: Thank you.
Bianca: Well, you’ve been very open with me. So, I felt I owed you that much.
Dex: Forget the interview. What do YOU want to know about me?
Bianca: If you want the shallow truth, I’m most curious about what you look like at this point. I’m really dying to know.
Dex: LOL. Bianca George, you are definitely nothing if not honest. So…what is it…you think I don’t allow myself to be photographed because I’m grossly unattractive?
Bianca: I didn’t say that.
Dex: But you’re thinking it.
I couldn’t stop smiling.
Dex: Would you like to see me?
My heart started to pound at the prospect of getting to see what he looked like. What was wrong with me? But there was only one answer to his question.
Bianca: Yes.
A few seconds later, he attached an image. After I clicked on it, I nearly lost my breath.
Oh.
It was a photo of a man lying back on his bed. His torso was ripped…tanned…almost bronze. It almost looked fake, because it was just too damn perfect. This was probably the most amazing chest and abs I’d ever seen. The photo cut off at the bottom, only showing the top of his black boxers that had Emporio Armani written on the band in white. A thin trail of hair ran down the center of his defined V muscle. Holy shit.
I couldn’t stop staring at it.
This was not what I was expecting. At all. In fact, I couldn’t believe it. It had to be a fake.
When I was finally able to pry my eyes away from the chiseled bronze statuette of a man, I typed.
Bianca: That is NOT you.