Three dots pulsed on the screen. Then the response came:
“You and me both. I actually reached out when your gala moment went viral—kind of hard to miss. Gotta say, I admired it. That kind of honesty is rare. Especially in rooms like that... and with men like him.”
Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. She hadn’t expected that kind of direct praise.
“Thanks. It wasn’t exactly planned. But I stand by what I said.”
“Oh, I’m not here to argue. I’ve been circling the same thoughts about a certain someone for a while now. Guess I just never had the spotlight—or the nerve.”
Elizabeth’s pulse ticked a little faster as she typed her response.
“To be clear here, you’re talking about Fitzwilliam Darcy.”
“Forgive my manners. The name’s George, by the way. George Wickham. Probably should’ve led with that since my username just says Wickham. Now, to the subject at hand—yes, I’m speaking of Darcy.
“My father was close to his. Mr. Darcy Sr. was a simple man. My father started as the family gardener just as their business was picking up. For his loyalty, Mr. Darcy Sr. made him a close advisor. He gave him an apartment in the family compound, and I was naturally born there.”
“Wait,” Elizabeth typed. “You’re saying you grew up with Fitzwilliam Darcy?”
“The very same. I was more like a godson to his father. I was there for everything—family dinners, awkward holiday photos—the works. As little boys and even through our late teens, I would’ve thought I had a brother in him.”
Elizabeth leaned back into the couch, her fingers tightening around her wine glass.
“And what happened?”
“What always happens when you grow up around people like him. You learn fast that everything’s a transaction. Darcy doesn’t touch anything unless it pays off. Socially, financially, reputationally. And even then, he calculates twice.”
She paused, considering that.
“You’re implying he’s... manipulative?”
“I’m saying he plays the long game. People think he’s just private—but privacy is his currency. He doesn’t share anything unless it helps him win something later. Even silence becomes a strategy.”
Elizabeth’s journalistic instincts pricked up—this could be something. But she didn’t let it show. Not yet.
“You sound certain.”
“I spent years being sure of what happened. I won’t pretend I’m unbiased, but I do know the man. We grew up together. Mr. Darcy Sr. was preparing both of us to help run the family empire someday. I was promised a scholarship to Oxford, and Darcy knew it. He was there when the promises were made.
But after his father passed—God rest his soul—Darcy changed. Suddenly, it was like I was the enemy. The education I was promised vanished. And a small house, along with the small branch of the clothing business I was told would go to me, just... disappeared from the will.
I don’t know how it happened, but I truly believe Darcy had something to do with it. Jealousy, maybe. The idea that his father could love another son, adopted or not, as much as him? I don’t think he could handle it.”
Elizabeth’s mouth parted slightly.
“These are serious allegations,” she typed.
“I know, right? But I have evidence to back it up.”
There was a brief pause, then:
“I can’t prove the promises—those were all spoken—but I have proof that I was part of the family. That I belonged.”
Elizabeth swallowed. She wasn’t sure what to say.
She didn’t like Fitzwilliam Darcy, and she’d heard plenty of awful stories about powerful men. But this? This was beyond what she expected.
To deny your father’s godson an education? A future?
