Chapter 3: The Grey Area

Getting Julian Vance to agree to an interview was proving to be like trying to nail jelly to a wall—messy, frustrating, and utterly impossible.

I'd been at it for a week, calling his various offices, emailing his assistants' assistants, and even attempting to charm his publicist over increasingly expensive lunches. The response was always the same polite variation of "Mr. Vance will consider your request," followed by radio silence.

My editor's daily check-ins were becoming increasingly pointed, and I could feel my big break slipping through my fingers like water through a sieve. Worse, I'd started catching glimpses of my neighbor Julian in the hallway, and each encounter left me more flustered than the last.

It wasn't just the sweatpants anymore—though they remained a constant, baffling presence. It was the way he'd ask about my "hermit billionaire hunt" with that knowing smile, or how he'd somehow always appear when I was struggling with something, ready to help with the kind of competence that didn't match his slovenly attire.

Like this morning.

I'd been juggling coffee, my laptop bag, and approximately seventeen research folders when I'd encountered him by the elevators. He was wearing—naturally—grey sweatpants that looked like they'd survived multiple natural disasters, paired with a faded NYU t-shirt that had definitely seen better decades.

"Heavy reading?" he'd asked, steadying my precarious tower of papers before they could scatter across the marble floor.

"Research," I'd muttered, trying not to notice how his casual touch had sent an entirely inappropriate flutter through my stomach. "I'm trying to crack the Julian Vance mystery."

"Any luck?"

"About as much as one might expect when trying to interview a ghost."

He'd studied me with those unsettlingly perceptive eyes. "Maybe you're approaching it wrong."

"How so?"

"Well, if someone's made themselves deliberately hard to reach, there's usually a reason. Maybe instead of trying to get to him through official channels, you should figure out what he actually values."

Before I could ask what he meant, the elevator had arrived, and he'd disappeared into it, leaving me standing there with the distinct impression that I'd just been given advice by someone who knew far more about Julian Vance than a casual observer should.

Which brought me to this afternoon, pacing my apartment like a caged animal, when I heard the familiar sound of movement in the hallway. On impulse—and possibly temporary insanity—I grabbed my laptop and headed for the door.

Julian was there, of course, looking like he'd just rolled out of bed despite it being three in the afternoon. Today's ensemble featured the usual grey sweatpants, but these were somehow even worse—faded to an almost silver shade and sporting what appeared to be a small hole near the left knee.

"Julian," I called before I could lose my nerve. "Could I ask you something?"

He turned, eyebrows raised in mild surprise. "Sure."

"You said I might be approaching the Julian Vance interview wrong. What did you mean?"

Something flickered across his face—amusement, maybe, or calculation. "Why don't you come in? This feels like a conversation that requires coffee."

Every professional instinct I possessed told me this was a bad idea. I barely knew this man, and getting involved with neighbors was generally a recipe for disaster. But desperation made for strange bedfellows, and I was running out of options.

His apartment was a revelation. Where I'd expected bachelor squalor to match his wardrobe choices, I found sleek minimalism that probably cost more than my annual salary. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of Central Park, while expensive-looking art adorned the walls with careful precision.

"This is..." I started, then stopped, trying to reconcile the sophisticated space with its sweatpants-wearing owner.

"Not what you expected?" Julian moved toward what appeared to be a professional-grade espresso machine, his movements easy and confident despite his disheveled appearance.

"It's beautiful," I admitted, settling onto a leather sofa that probably cost more than my car back in London.

"Thank you." He worked the machine with the same competence he'd shown with my plumbing, and I found myself watching the play of muscles beneath his worn t-shirt with entirely inappropriate interest. "So, Julian Vance."

"Right." I forced myself to focus. "You seem to have insights about him that most people don't."

"I pay attention." He handed me a cup of what smelled like exceptionally good coffee. "What do you know about him, really?"

I consulted my notes, though I practically had them memorized by now. "Thirty-two, self-made billionaire, revolutionized cloud computing with his company Vance Dynamics. Famously private, hasn't given an interview in three years, lives like a hermit despite his wealth."

"Anything else?"

"Unmarried, no children, parents died in a car accident when he was twenty-five." I looked up from my laptop. "Why?"

"You're thinking of him like a story to be uncovered rather than a person to be understood." Julian settled into the chair across from me, cradling his coffee cup. "What if his privacy isn't something to be cracked, but something to be respected?"

"I can't exactly respect my way into an interview."

"Can't you?" His dark eyes held mine. "What if, instead of trying to convince him that talking to you would be good for his image or his business, you convinced him that you actually see him as a person worth knowing?"

Something in his tone made me study his face more carefully. "You sound like you know him personally."

"I know his type." Julian's smile was enigmatic. "Successful men who've learned that most people want something from them. They build walls because they have to, not because they want to."

"So how does one get past those walls?"

"By proving you're not there to take something. By showing genuine interest in who they are, not what they can do for you."

I leaned forward, intrigued despite myself. "And how exactly does one do that?"

"By being authentic. By not pretending to be something you're not in order to get what you want."

There was something in the way he said it, a weight that suggested personal experience. I found myself really looking at him—not at the unfortunate fashion choices, but at the man beneath them. The intelligence in his eyes, the careful way he chose his words, the expensive apartment that suggested resources he kept carefully hidden.

"Julian," I said slowly, "who exactly are you?"

Before he could answer, my phone buzzed with a text message. I glanced at it automatically, then felt my heart stop.

Unknown Number: Ms. Finch, this is Julian Vance. I understand you'd like to interview me. Are you free tomorrow afternoon?

I stared at the phone, then at Julian—my Julian, sitting across from me in his ridiculous sweatpants—and watched as understanding crashed over me like a cold wave.

"Oh my God," I whispered.

Julian—the Julian, apparently—had the grace to look slightly sheepish. "I can explain."

"You're him." My voice came out as barely more than a breath. "You're Julian Vance."

"Guilty as charged."

I stood up so quickly I nearly spilled coffee all over his undoubtedly expensive rug. "This entire time... the plumbing, the advice, the—" I gestured wildly at his attire. "The bloody sweatpants!"

"The sweatpants are comfortable."

"You're a billionaire!"

"I'm also your neighbor who fixed your sink and makes excellent coffee." His tone was mild, but I could see wariness creeping into his expression. "Does it really change that much?"

"Change that much?" I was practically hyperventilating. "I've been complaining to you about not being able to reach Julian Vance while you were Julian Vance!"

"I found it rather amusing, actually."

"Amusing?" I rounded on him, fury and embarrassment warring in my chest. "I've been making a complete fool of myself!"

"You've been being yourself," Julian said quietly. "Which is exactly what I was hoping for."

That stopped me short. "What?"

He stood slowly, and I was suddenly aware of how much space he took up, how the faded t-shirt couldn't quite hide the breadth of his shoulders or the lean strength beneath.

"Do you know how many people have tried to interview me in the past three years?" he asked. "How many have pretended to be interested in me as a person when all they really wanted was a story about my money or my business?"

"I... no."

"Hundreds." He moved closer, and I caught that expensive cologne again, the one that seemed so at odds with his casual attire. "But you're the first person who's talked to me—really talked to me—without knowing who I was. The first person who's been genuinely, authentically yourself."

"Even while I was insulting your fashion sense?"

"Especially then." His smile was rueful. "Though I have to say, your 'sartorial equivalent of giving up on life' line stung a bit."

I felt heat flood my cheeks. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean—"

"Yes, you did. And you were probably right." He gestured to his outfit with self-deprecating humor. "This isn't exactly Savile Row, is it?"

I looked at him—really looked at him—trying to reconcile the man I'd been getting to know with the billionaire recluse I'd been chasing. The same intelligent eyes, the same confident smile, the same competent hands that had fixed my plumbing and made perfect coffee.

"Why?" I asked finally. "Why dress like... like..."

"Like I don't care what people think?"

"Yes."

Julian was quiet for a long moment, studying my face. "Because most of the time, I don't. When you have enough money, people treat you differently. They want things from you, they say what they think you want to hear, they perform for you." He paused. "But when you look like someone who's given up, who's not worth impressing... people show you who they really are."

"Like I did."

"Like you did." His voice was soft. "You were sharp, honest, judgmental, kind, funny, and completely unimpressed by anything except my ability to fix a leaky pipe. It was... refreshing."

We stood there in silence, the weight of revelation settling between us. I could feel something shifting, the comfortable dynamic of neighbor-helping-neighbor transforming into something far more complex.

"The interview," I said finally.

"Still want it?"

"Do you still want to give it?"

Julian moved closer, close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, close enough to catch the subtle scent of his cologne mixed with something uniquely him.

"That depends," he said quietly.

"On what?"

"On whether you can look past the sweatpants and see the man underneath."

My breath caught as his meaning became clear. This wasn't just about an interview anymore. This was about something far more dangerous, far more personal.

"Julian," I whispered, and his name felt different now, weighted with new meaning.

"I know this complicates things," he said, his voice low and rough. "I know it changes everything."

"It does."

"I'm still the same person who fixed your sink."

"Are you?"

Instead of answering, he reached up and brushed a strand of hair from my face, his touch gentle but electric. "I'm still the same person who thinks you're brilliant and beautiful and completely maddening."

"Even when I'm insulting your fashion sense?"

"Especially then."

And then, before I could think or protest or remember all the reasons this was a terrible idea, he was kissing me.

It was nothing like I'd expected and everything I hadn't known I wanted. Soft at first, questioning, then deeper as I responded despite every professional instinct screaming at me to stop. He tasted like expensive coffee and possibilities, and when he pulled me closer, I could feel the strength beneath that deceptive casual exterior.

When we finally broke apart, I was breathing hard and my professional objectivity was in complete shambles.

"That," I said unsteadily, "was definitely not in my interview strategy."

Julian's smile was warm and real and completely devastating. "Consider it off the record."

"Everything about this is off the record now."

"Does that bother you?"

I looked at him—Julian Vance, billionaire recluse, my sweatpants-wearing neighbor who made perfect coffee and fixed broken sinks and kissed like he meant it—and realized that my carefully planned career trajectory had just taken a sharp turn into uncharted territory.

"It should," I said honestly. "It should bother me a lot."

"But?"

"But I think I'm more interested in the man than the story."

His smile could have powered half of Manhattan. "In that case, Elara Finch, would you like to have dinner tomorrow night?"

"Is that Julian-my-neighbor asking, or Julian Vance the billionaire?"

"Does it matter?"

I considered the question, looking around his expensive apartment, then down at his ridiculous sweatpants, then back up into his eyes that held promises of complications I wasn't sure I was ready for.

"Ask me again tomorrow," I said. "After I figure out who I'm really talking to."

But even as I said it, I was already pretty sure I knew the answer.