More than that, with the rollercoaster of the past two weeks—from Wickham’s evidence, to her unpublished article, to her own unresolved thoughts—she could use something that resembled a decompressor.
Her thumb hovered over the keyboard.
Finally, she typed back.
All right. I’ll come. But you have to find something nice for me to wear.
***
Jane arrived at Elizabeth’s apartment precisely on time, armed with a garment bag and an optimism Elizabeth did not deserve.
“You look fine,” Jane declared, adjusting Elizabeth’s collar with sisterly precision, as though she could press the evening into order with her hands alone.
“I look like I’m going to be interrogated by billionaires,” Elizabeth muttered, though she let Jane fuss anyway.
Jane only smiled, calm and unbothered. “It’s dinner, Lizzy. Not a trial.”
Elizabeth did not reply, but she followed her sister downstairs and into the waiting car.
The drive uptown was quiet. The city seemed to change as they moved, the streets growing cleaner, the buildings taller, the air itself somehow more expensive.
She had been in this part of the city before, of course, but she had never spent time here in this way. Not as a guest. Not with the expectation of being welcomed into someone’s private world. This was not the New York of hurried meetings andpassing glances, but one built for comfort, for permanence, for people who assumed they belonged.
Bingley’s building rose above them in pale stone and glass, the sort of place with discreet lighting and a doorman who greeted Jane by name. Everything about it suggested money so effortless it did not need to announce itself.
Inside, the apartment was worse—or better, depending on one’s perspective. It was warm, tasteful, impossibly polished. Soft lamps glowed against cream-coloured walls, art Elizabeth could not name hung with quiet confidence, and even the silence felt curated, as though noise had been politely discouraged.
Elizabeth could not help thinking how far it was from what they had grown up with. Not poor, exactly, but ordinary. Familiar. This was something else entirely.
She glanced at Jane, who looked perfectly at ease, her smile gentle as ever, as though she belonged here already.
A strange warmth settled in Elizabeth’s chest. If Jane did marry Bingley—and Elizabeth had begun to suspect she might—then she would be cared for. Not merely with money, but with the kind of tenderness Bingley seemed incapable of withholding. It was, in its own way, comforting.
Bingley greeted them with genuine delight, taking Jane’s hand and beaming at Elizabeth as though her presence was a gift.
“Miss Bennet—Elizabeth—I’m so glad you came.”
His ease was disarming. Elizabeth managed a smile, murmuring something polite, and allowed herself to relax by the smallest degree.
Then she stepped further into the room.
And saw him.
Darcy stood near the window, a glass in his hand, his posture as rigid as memory. For half a second, neither of them moved, as though the room itself had paused to acknowledge the collision.
Elizabeth’s mind went blank, then flooded.
Mr. F.
Darcy.
Here.
His gaze met hers, and something unmistakably startled passed over his face, as though she were the last person he expected to see. She felt the same, heat rising beneath her skin.
Not in her wildest imagination had she thought he stayed with his friend.
Mr. F had mentioned California as home, casually, as though distance were fixed. Only later had she realised how foolish that was. Darcy could fly anywhere he wished. He was a billionaire, after all. She had assumed he lived in a penthouse or an expensive hotel suite, not here—under Bingley’s roof, as though he belonged.
