“If you had,” she said, her voice soft but unrelenting, “you’d know love isn’t a mathematical equation.”
Darcy said nothing.
Jane grabbed her arm. “Sit. Now.”
Elizabeth agreed she had said enough.
“You’ve had too much wine,” Jane hissed.
“Two glasses aren’t too much.”
“For someone who barely drinks, it absolutely is. Why else would you be speaking like you’re auditioning for a TED Talk on crushing CEOs? You just embarrassed the man in front of half the city’s tech elite.”
Elizabeth chuckled. “I did him a favour. Someone had to tell him love isn’t a flowchart.”
Before Jane could respond, Darcy’s voice carried across the room. He said something dry, lightly self-deprecating, and just surprising enough to disarm the tension. Laughter followed—first scattered, then swelling—and with it, the mood shifted. The frost melted. The whole room clapped.
Moments later, the MC returned to the microphone to announce that dancing would commence shortly. As Elizabeth tried to recalibrate to the new, less hostile atmosphere, Charles Bingley appeared beside them, all dimples and good intentions.
“It’s lovely to finally meet you in person, Elizabeth,” he said brightly. “You certainly made an impression. I don’t think anyone’s ever interrupted one of Darcy’s keynotes before.”
“Doesn’t seem like anyone ever questions him at all,” Elizabeth replied.
Bingley laughed. “He might seem a bit sharp, but honestly, he’s harmless. Don’t let the brooding act fool you.”
“I wasn’t fooled. Just responding to what he said about your innovation.”
“Oh, that’s all Darcy’s,” Bingley said with an easy shrug. “I am just one of his investors.”
Elizabeth arched an eyebrow, but before she could follow up, Bingley had already turned to Jane.
“Would you join me for the first dance?”
Jane smiled, accepting his hand, but not before casting Elizabeth a look that read clearly: behave yourself—or else.
As soon as they were out of sight, Elizabeth made a beeline for the minibar. An invisible speaker somewhere above burst into Adele’s “Send My Love (To Your New Lover),” loud enough to feel vaguely personal.
Concluding that she hadn’t come to dance, Elizabeth glared preemptively at a man who looked as if he were mustering the courage to ask her to. He retreated. She carried on to the bar, where she spent the remainder of her evening in peace.
Until Fitzwilliam Darcy managed to ruin that, too.
***
What if I hadn’t come up with a joke to defuse the situation?
Darcy stared at his glass of scotch, swirling the amber liquid as though it might provide answers. From his post near the edge of the ballroom, he watched the dance floor in motion—silk and tuxedos spinning under chandeliers, smiles that looked rehearsed, affection that felt just convincing enough to pass. He had danced once that night, with Caroline Bingley, out of obligation rather than desire. She had simpered, clung, and insisted on calling him Will, a name he loathed. Now he stood afew feet from the bar, still as a mannequin, silent except for the twitch in his jaw.
The keynote should have been the crown jewel of the evening. Precise, polished, unprovocative. Instead, it had ended with a stranger’s voice echoing in his head:Have you ever been in love, sir?
Darcy took a measured sip of scotch and watched the dancers spin in and out of frame like pixels glitching across a screen. With his precision tonight, he should have felt triumphant. Instead, he felt cornered by something he couldn’t quite name.
“I hate seeing you standing here like this,” came Bingley’s voice, warm and winded from the dance floor. He appeared at Darcy’s side, radiant and rumpled, and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You’re at a gala, not a quarterly review. Try acting like it.”
Darcy offered him a dry glance.
“Come on,” Bingley urged. “You gave your big speech. Everyone clapped in the right places. Now it’s time to be human. Dance a little. Or at least look like you’re not calculating ROI.”
Darcy arched an eyebrow. “Is this one of those mandatory joy exercises?”
