Why did part of her still feel the pull of that third meeting—not as an obligation, but as a necessity?
Was it because, though she denied it, she’d liked her time with Mr. F? When Darcy was anonymous—just a stranger with sharp wit, surprisingly good taste in music and books, and an easy-going charm that made her feel understood.
She shook off the thought, picked up her phone, and re-read the message.
She typed:
“Depends. Is this a third date, or just another slightly-less-awkward follow-up like our yoghurt shop adventure?”
Three dots appeared almost immediately. Then disappeared. Then reappeared.
His reply came a moment later:
“That depends on you.”
She almost laughed. Classic. Evasive but polite. A mirror instead of an answer.
Setting the phone down again, she headed to the kitchen. Her brain needed caffeine, not cryptic texts. But even as she filled her mug and stared out the window, her mind circled back to the message.
Last night, after Wickham’s DM, she’d tried to find even a single photo of the two of them together—Darcy and Wickham, two boys who’d supposedly grown up like brothers.
Nothing.
No articles. No archives. Not a single tagged photo or shared memory anywhere online.
Wickham had said Darcy erased him. That privacy was his currency.
Not handsome enough to tempt me.
The words resurfaced—sharp, unprovoked. It wasn’t just a comment; it was erasure. As if she hadn’t even registered in his line of sight. It had stung then. Still did, in ways she hated admitting. So did the smugness. The control. That calm, curated detachment he wore like a tailored suit.
He hadn’t addressed the remark when they met. Then again, she hadn’t brought it up either.
And maybe she didn’t want to. Not yet.
Bringing it up now would feel forced. And Elizabeth Bennet never forced the idea that she was handsome—maybe not as classically striking as Jane, but handsome nonetheless. That was a hill she’d die on. It was a truth she measured on her own terms.
***
The duo met the following afternoon at a minimalist café tucked into a quiet corner of the Upper West Side—one of those sleek, low-lit places that served matcha in hand-thrown ceramic mugs and didn’t believe in labelling their menus.
Of course, it had to be a place like this, Elizabeth thought as she stepped in. Curated, quiet, and discreet. Just like him. Not flashy, but still expensive in a way that pretended not to be. It was probably what he considered “low-key”—a space humble enough to seem casual, but still handpicked for optics.
Maybe he thought it would impress her. It wasn’t working.
Darcy was already seated when she arrived, a cup of something green in front of him and a coat slung neatly over the chair beside him. He stood as she approached, politely—not warmly—and gestured for her to sit.
She pulled her coat off and approached, brushing wind-tangled hair from her face.
“Hey,” she said simply.
Darcy stood to greet her. “Thanks for coming.”
She slid into the seat across from him. “I had a free afternoon. Figured I’d burn it doing something legally binding.”
That earned a faint flicker of a smile from him. “Coffee? Tea? They have some… very green drinks here.”
“I’ll risk the green,” she said, flagging a server. “If this turns out badly, at least I’ll be caffeinated.”
