And so Elizabeth did what she always did when the world became too tangled to hold in her head.
She wrote.
Not about Wickham. Not directly.
About Darcy.
About the app.
About the man behind the polished interface and curated matches, the billionaire who sold romance like a product while hiding behind anonymity and silence.
The article came fast, sharper than she intended, the words almost angry beneath her control.
She titled it:
The Man Behind the Mask: Who Really Controls the TrueNorth?
She read it back once and felt a thrill she did not entirely like.
She read it again and knew, with cold clarity, that it would be the exposé of the year.
Not because it was cruel.
Because it was true enough to wound.
She proofread it twice. Then three times.
She adjusted sentences. She sharpened others.
Still, she did not post it.
The draft sat open on her laptop like a loaded weapon, waiting for her hand to decide whether to pull the trigger.
She told herself she was being responsible. Thoughtful.
But the truth was less flattering.
She did not know what she wanted.
One more week passed.
No message from Darcy.
No message from Mr. F.
The silence stretched into something that felt, inconveniently, like absence.
Then, one afternoon, her phone buzzed.
A message from Jane.
Dinner on Saturday on the Upper East Side. Bingley insists. He wants you there too. I’ll pick you up.
Elizabeth stared at the screen.
Dinner.
Aside from the gala, the only time she had spoken to Bingley had been on video calls, when Jane had looped her in. To decline now would feel almost rude.
