Elizabeth blinked. “Wait. You put me on a family call for this?”
“Be like your sister, Jane,” Mrs Bennet pressed on. “See how she behaves. Already making moves with that fine Bingley.”
“Unlike your mother,” Mr. Bennet’s voice floated into the mix, dry and amused, “I’d actually answer your greeting, Lizzy. Good morning.”
“Good morning, Dad.” Elizabeth smiled.
“I rather liked Elizabeth’s tweet. Short. Elegant. Just the right amount of disrespect. I was thinking of printing it and putting it on the fridge.” Mr Bennet added.
Elizabeth let out a small chuckle, but stopped herself quickly before her mother could turn it into another lecture.
Mary spoke solemnly. “I’m afraid I do agree with Elizabeth, though not with her approach. Tech seems like the death of intimacy. Read Simone de Beauvoir.”
“One tweet and you’re famous, Lizzy,” Kitty said.
“Wait,” Elizabeth said, squinting. “What tweet is blowing up?” It hadn’t clicked when her father mentioned it, but Kitty’s words made it sink in.
She took her phone from her ear, opened X, and blinked at the numbers. Ten thousand likes. Thousands of engagements. Mentions piling like an avalanche.
“Oh no,” she whispered.
She hadn’t expected her tweet to spread that fast. It had been a drunk tweet, never meant to leave her corner of the internet. She hadn’t even realised it was the reason her phone had been buzzing since dawn.
“I thought it was iconic,” Kitty chirped. “Like, savage but also kind of poetic?”
“I told all my friends you’re a professional troublemaker,” Lydia added. “One of them said they want you on their podcast.”
Jane’s voice, soft and mortified, slid through the call. “I’m so sorry, Mum. I took Lizzy to the event. I’ll talk to her.”
Elizabeth flopped back onto her pillow and groaned. “Please don’t.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then Mrs Bennet continued, “Well, you should apologise. Write a nice letter or tweet. Or a DM. Or one of those WhatsApps. Whatever will get to him and brush up your reputation. Try something classy.”
Kitty chimed in, “What about flowers? Or like, one of those edible fruit things?”
Lydia added, “Or maybe just tweet again and tag him. Hashtag classy regret.”
“I don’t need to apologise,” Elizabeth said, enunciating each word like it was carrying its own suitcase. “He insulted me.”
Mr Bennet cleared his throat. “I don’t think Lizzy needs to do anything. She said her mind, and she’s allowed to. She’s a journalist, after all. Telling the truth occasionally comes with an audience.”
Mrs Bennet huffed. “Well, I hope that truth keeps her warm at night. Alone.”
“I’m not alone,” Elizabeth muttered. “I have central heating.”
Jane sighed. “Okay. Let’s all take a breath. Mum, I’ll talk to her.”
“You already said that,” Elizabeth pointed out.
“Yes,” Jane said patiently, “and now I’m saying it again. You’re coming to see me this evening. No excuses.”
***
It was early evening, and Elizabeth lay sprawled on Jane’s pristine white couch like a woman in mourning, one slipper dangling from her foot.
Her phone buzzed on the coffee table, screen alight with notifications, reminding her of what had been going on all day. She was trending—number two in America, just behindDarcy himself. TrueNorth was third. Her tweet had ignited the internet, and now it was a wildfire.
