George Wickham had spoken like someone telling the truth.
But so had Darcy—Mr. F—in their chats. Nothing he'd said screamed cruelty or corruption, and he had been jovial, nice even. Even when they spoke face-to-face, he was measured. Careful, yes. But cruel?
This could be her biggest piece yet. A massive exposé.
George Wickham sounded quite believable.
And more than that, he had spoken like someone who had nothing to gain from lying to her.
Elizabeth leaned back against the couch and closed her eyes, the glow of the paused television washing the room in pale blue. Her mind, unhelpfully, supplied an image she hadn’t invited.
The first night.
The gala.
Darcy’s voice—cool, dismissive, precise.
Not handsome enough to tempt me.
She opened her eyes again, jaw tightening.
She remembered how easily he had said it. How little effort it had cost him to reduce her to an abstract idea—someone to be dismissed, catalogued, and forgotten. Not worth the trouble. Not worth the risk. And yet now, suddenly, she was worth discretion. Worth charm. Worth a carefully curated second impression.
That alone should have told her something.
Her gaze dropped to the phone still resting in her hand. Wickham hadn’t hedged. He hadn’t softened his story to sound noble. He hadn’t pretended to be fair. He had simply told her what he believed to be true—and let her decide what to do with it.
Darcy, on the other hand, had always controlled the frame.
At the café.
At the gala.
Even in their chats.
Measured pauses. Thoughtful responses. Just the perfect warmth to seem reasonable. Just enough distance to stay untouchable.
Privacy is his currency.
The phrase echoed in her head.
Elizabeth exhaled slowly.
Of course Darcy wouldn’t touch anything unless there was something to be gained. Of course he would calculate. Of course he would reshape a narrative until it fit him. Men like that didn’t need to be cruel in obvious ways. They operated cleanly. Legally. Quietly.
And if Wickham was telling the truth—if even half of it was true—then Darcy’s calm wasn’t integrity. It was insulation.
She picked up her wine glass, took a distracted sip, and grimaced.
Her phone lay dark beside her, but she could still see the last message in her mind.
You challenged him publicly. I’d watch your back.
Elizabeth frowned.
She had challenged him. And he had noticed.
She thought again of the gala—the way his eyes had flicked to her before he spoke. Not angry. Assessing. As if he were deciding how much damage she could do.
