“Mr. Darcy,” Caroline said sweetly, too sweetly, “you sound positively taken.”
Darcy didn’t blink. “I’m not taken with Elizabeth Bennet. I’m not pursuing a relationship, nor am I interested in anyone at present.”
He held Caroline’s gaze just a second longer than necessary as he said it—calm, clipped, and unmistakably clear.
“Then why bother at all?” Mrs. Hurst asked.
Darcy turned to her calmly. “Because I built something that asks people to commit to process over impulse. I won’t exempt myself from it just because the match surprised me, you or anyone.”
Caroline’s expression hardened. “And after the third date?”
“Then the experiment ends.”
“And she?” Caroline pressed.
Darcy considered it for a second. “Then she goes on with her life. As do I.”
Caroline studied him now, something bitter slipping beneath her smile.
“Well,” she said finally, lifting her glass, “let’s hope she doesn’t get any ideas.”
Darcy didn’t respond.
Dinner resumed, but the tone of the evening had shifted. Even Mr. Hurst looked vaguely alert, sensing the undercurrent.
Darcy ate quietly, calm on the surface.
But underneath, a single thought pressed its way to the front:
Elizabeth Bennet hadn’t behaved like someone chasing wealth—or chasing anything at all.
And that, more than all the mockery and snide remarks at the table, was what unsettled him most.
***
After a sad meal of microwaved turkey and half a limp salad she didn't remember buying, Elizabeth sank into the couch, wrapped a blanket around her legs, and queued up the new episode ofNight Ward, the only medical drama absurd enough to keep her distracted. It was her only plan for the night—forty-five minutes of hospital chaos and dramatic music, plus a glass of wine that had already lost most of its charm.
Just as she began to watch, her phone chimed.
Jane? Mr F—Fitzwilliam Darcy. Mother. Kitty or Lydia?
She reached for it, half expecting nothing interesting.
Her eyes flew open the moment she saw the name, her breath catching mid-sip.
Wickham.
Her stomach gave a little drop. She sat up straighter, clutching the phone as though it might vanish.
His message was simple:
“Hey. Got your message—sorry it took a while. Training’s been brutal.”
She stared at the text for a second longer than necessary. There was a relaxed confidence in the tone. It was just… smooth. Like someone who knew how to talk to people without trying too hard.
She answered, fingers tapping more cautiously than she’d admit.
“Wasn’t sure I’d hear from you.”
