“This is it,” she whispered.
She logged into her Substack, copied the document, pasted it in the text box and clicked publish.
A second later, she opened X.
Her fingers danced across the keyboard as she typed.
“Check out my new article:The Man Behind TrueNorth
#BigDataBigDelusion #Manbehindthemask”
She included the link to the Substack article and clicked send.
And for the first time since she left Bingley’s house, she felt something like breath. Like air in her lungs. Like control.
She wasn’t silenced.
She was just getting started.
Chapter THIRTEEN
ELIZABETH’S PHONE started buzzing less than ten minutes after her article went live.
Notifications piled in: comments, reposts, likes, follows. Her inbox was flooded with messages from readers, former classmates, bloggers, and even a few industry journalists wanting a quote. Her phone felt like a live wire, buzzing endlessly on the coffee table.
And yet, she didn’t touch it.
She sat curled on the couch, arms wrapped around a pillow, her eyes blankly staring past the screen.
She had done a good thing.
She had exposed the manipulative side of a man too powerful for his own good. A man who had used technology and charm as weapons. A man who, in her estimation, deserved to be held accountable.
So why did it feel like she’d just done something wrong?
Her heart wasn’t celebrating. It was racing.
She tried to ignore it, but the question surfaced anyway:
Was I fair?
Caroline Bingley had handed her the ammunition. Louisa Hurst had pulled the trigger. And Wickham—well, he’d loaded the gun long before any of them.
But Darcy? Darcy had tried to speak. He’d opened his mouth. And she—
You interrupted him. Every time.
Her stomach twisted.
She had left no room. No space for rebuttal. She hadn’t wanted to hear him—not really. Because if he’d said something sincere, something human, then she might have believed him. She might have seen him as Mr. F. seen him as the man she enjoyed talking to. As the man she was falling for.
A knock at the door shattered her thoughts.
She jumped.
Her eyes flicked to the time. It was Nearly ten p.m.
Only one person would show up at that hour. Jane. She must’ve read the article. Or maybe she was just worried. Maybe she’d seen through the flimsy excuse about a work emergency.
