Chapter TWO
ELIZABETH SQUINTED at her phone screen, blinking against the light as if it had personally betrayed her.
She was home, slouched at an angle in her tiny studio apartment on Forsyth Street, Lower East Side, with the faint hum of traffic outside and the louder, insistent hum of wounded pride in her chest. A near-empty glass of white wine sat on the windowsill.
Possibly her third. Possibly fourth. Who was counting?
She certainly wasn’t. Not her drinks, not her regrets.
Fitzwilliam bloody Darcy.
It had taken less than two hours for a man she’d never spoken to before that night to become the primary cause of her rage, confusion, and obsessive scrolling.
Her phone screen was a carousel of second-hand mortification.
Clips from the gala had made their way online with the efficiency of plague.
Some of her, mid-question. Some of Darcy, standing like a Greek statue that had Googled empathy once.
But the one going viral—the one already memed into oblivion—was a polished snippet of him smiling faintly and saying:
“Some people ask questions not to learn, but to be noticed.”
It was said just as Jane was tugging her back into her seat, and she hadn’t heard it in the moment. But now, alone with her phone and a bellyful of indignation, it echoed with startling clarity.
People were eating it up.
Comments ranged from "Preach" to "Finally, someone said it" to "This is why I deleted Hinge"—the implication being that sarcastic women like her were the reason dating had become unbearable.
Elizabeth narrowed her eyes at the glowing praise.
He hadn’t simply insulted her or humiliated her.
He’d weaponized mild charm against a room full of eager onlookers—then dropped the line with perfect timing.
She hadn’t even heard it when he said it.
The room had erupted in laughter, and Darcy had walked away looking like the sensible one.
To many, it wasn’t just a win. It was a mic drop.
She stood, wobbled slightly, then paced back and forth across the six feet that passed for her living room. She wasn’t heartbroken. She wasn’t even properly angry. But something about it, a simmering need to respond, to reclaim the moment, to set the record straight, wouldn’t let her rest.
She sat. Opened her laptop.
New Document.
Love by Numbers: When Tech Bros Try to Code Chemistry
She typed fast, fuelled by wine and injustice.
“My name is Elizabeth Bennet, and last night I watched a man tell a room full of strangers that love should be logical.
He said it like it was noble. Like it was brave.
He said it after dismissing me. Not directly, not with my name, but with that same surgical smile he used to sell emotional compatibility algorithms to the rich and lonely.
He said people ask questions to be seen, not to learn. It was neat. It was clever. It was designed to humiliate—and it worked. But what he doesn’t realise is this: I have never needed to be told I’m visible. I know I’m visible. And I know when someone is trying to look through me.
So let’s talk about TrueNorth. Let’s talk about monetising intimacy. Let’s talk about the difference between compatibility and convenience. Let’s talk about what happens when a man builds an empire to explain why he’s alone–”
She stared at the screen, the cursor blinking in time with her heartbeat. She didn’t know what to type next. The writing on her screen read more like rambling than anything close to an article.
She hesitated.
Not out of fear. But because this, this moment, this article—it wasn’t revenge. It was something else. It was power. And power, she knew, was most satisfying when wielded with precision.
Deciding the article could wait for more finesse—and maybe a little more digging—Elizabeth shut her laptop and reached for her phone. One swipe, and she found the app she was looking for. Her fingers moved quickly, almost too easily, as the words spilled out.
“Imagine thinking Fitzwilliam Darcy is emotionally intelligent. Trying to code romance. Lol. Logging off. #BigDataBigDelusion”
She stared at the line. Her thumb hovered just above the blue “Post” button, trembling slightly. She drew in a breath, paused for a heartbeat, then pressed send.
A small, satisfied smile tugged at her lips. Revenge was not always loud. Sometimes it was a single tweet.
She set her phone to Do Not Disturb, staggered toward her room, and climbed into bed, searching for the one kind of peace that not even Fitzwilliam Darcy could interrupt.
***
Elizabeth woke to her phone vibrating violently on the nightstand. It had been chiming with notifications all morning, but she’d buried her face in the pillow and refused to deal with it. The call, unfortunately, had no snooze button.
She groaned. Rolled. Squinted. It was a call with her mother’s name blaring across the screen in all caps.
She had saved it that way to remind herself that her mother’s random calls were always a bad omen.
The good calls—if they could be called that—always came from her dad’s number, with her mom chiming in only after she and her father had exchanged hellos.
She answered with a croak. “Hello?”
There was no reply, just breathing and inaudible murmuring. A second later, the call shifted from a single voice to a full chorus—it was her sisters.
“Elizabeth!” her mother barked, triumphant and appalled. “Why did you insult a billionaire in public? No wonder you're still single!”
“Mum, good morning to you too,” Elizabeth muttered, sitting up and rubbing her face.
“I googled him,” Mrs Bennet announced, barely acknowledging the pleasantries. “He is worth ten billion. Ten billion, Elizabeth. And you…you speak to the most eligible bachelor in America like that? Which young man will want a woman who thinks sarcasm is a personality?”
Someone chuckled at the other end.
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 behind Darcy himself. TrueNorth was third. Her tweet had ignited the internet, and now it was a wildfire.
She wasn’t sure whether to be proud or nauseated.
On one hand, strangers applauded her sarcasm, turned her one-liner into a manifesto. On the other hand, Darcy’s app was blowing up, climbing charts like a lovechild of Cupid and Google Analytics. It was like setting fire to a monster and watching it grow stronger in the flames.
“You can’t just roast a man in front of hundreds of people and then subtweet him to death,” Jane said, arms crossed and tea untouched.
“I didn’t roast him. I grilled him lightly and served him with facts.” Elizabeth groaned.
“Lizzy!”
“What?” She sat up and hugged a cushion. “I don’t like him. Is that a crime now?”
Jane sighed. “How do you even hate someone you’ve just met?”
Elizabeth didn’t hesitate. “Easily. He carries himself like he’s the smartest man in the room and resents the room for existing. And in case you didn’t know, he said, and I quote, ‘she is not handsome enough to tempt him.’”
Jane winced. “When was that?”
“At the gala, obviously.” Elizabeth waved it off like an afterthought. “I assumed your dear Bingley would’ve filled you in.”
Jane winced. “He did say he tried convincing Darcy to dance with you. That Darcy wasn’t interested. I just didn’t realise he said something like that. I doubt he meant for you to hear it.”
“I did. And now I’m tempted to sue for emotional damages.”
Jane arched an eyebrow. “You’re being dramatic.”
“He called love data. He made romance sound like a glorified Excel sheet. His whole keynote was one long TED Talk from someone who’s never been on a date that wasn’t booked by his assistant.”
Jane blinked. “That’s… specific.”
Elizabeth shrugged. “I’ve been thinking about it. A lot. Which is why, to prove just how ridiculous the entire premise of TrueNorth is, I signed up.”
Jane nearly spilled her tea. “You what?”
“Don’t worry,” Elizabeth said, holding up a hand. “I used an alias. My profile says: ‘Fluent in sarcasm and iced coffee,’ ‘Books over bios,’ and ‘Swipe left if your profile pic is you with a tiger.’”
Jane stared. “You’re unbelievable, Lizzy.”
“I’m being fair! After that mother’s conference-call disaster, I decided I’d give the app a shot before I completely demolish it in my article.”
“You’re going on a date?”
“One. Just one. For research. To prove to him—and to everyone—that chemistry isn’t a code you can write.”
Jane shook her head slowly, the way someone does when they know a train’s about to derail and there’s nothing to be done.
“Just be careful, okay?” she said softly. “Algorithms might be flawed, but people can be worse.”
Elizabeth didn’t answer right away. She stretched her legs across the couch and sighed. “I’m always careful.”
“That’s what you said the time you wrote that takedown of the vegan food truck and the guy showed up at your door with kale muffins and a cease-and-desist.”
Elizabeth smiled. “In my defence, the muffins were dry.”
Their conversation drifted after that—off the ledge of tech and algorithms and into the safer waters of home.
Of their parents. Of Mrs Bennet’s morning call and how she’d already found three new reasons why Elizabeth was still single.
Of Mary’s newest philosophical podcast. Of Kitty and Lydia’s renewed obsession with men in uniform, thanks to a series of military TikToks they were now “researching” with religious fervour.
They laughed, traded old stories, and for a while, the firestorm of the internet was somewhere far away. By the time Elizabeth got up to pour herself more tea, the weight in her chest had eased.
Still, she knew what she was doing wasn’t just curiosity or journalism. It was something else.
But she wasn’t going to say that out loud. Not yet.