Chapter THREE
“SHE HAS to be the dumbest person I have ever seen,” Caroline Bingley said, setting her spritz down with a dramatic clink against the marble table.
They were on the garden terrace of the Bingley’s’ Upper East Side townhouse, where the afternoon sun filtered through ancient ivy and luxury was an inherited birthright.
The eldest sister, Louisa—née Bingley—lounged on a wicker chaise like an Instagram ad come to life, while her husband, Mr. Hurst, dozed nearby with a half-empty Negroni balanced on his belly.
Darcy sat off to the side, silent but unmistakably present, his phone facedown on the table and his expression fixed in a neutral that looked suspiciously like brooding.
He was only in town for a few months at Bingley’s invitation and for the tech conference.
California was technically home, though he treated it more like a mailing address. Darcy flew wherever he was needed.
Bingley, playing the diplomat, lifted his glass. “She’s witty.”
“Witty?” Caroline gave him a look that could curdle almond milk. “Charles, she humiliated Darcy. Publicly. Twice. And now she’s gone viral for it. I’ve seen memes. Memes, Charles.”
Darcy didn’t flinch.
“She’s also incredibly good at what she does,” Bingley added. “You saw the article she wrote about that Altrobotics CEO? Brutal. But smart.”
Louisa pushed her sunglasses up onto her head. “I checked her out yesterday. She’s small-time. Probably jobless. Just someone who writes because she has nothing else to do.”
“I saw that article,” Caroline said. “She called him a failed Roomba.”
“He is a failed Roomba,” Darcy finally said.
That earned a snort from Hurst, who then promptly fell back asleep.
Caroline narrowed her eyes. “You were being awfully quiet. Now you’re agreeing with her. I find that surprising.”
Darcy reached for his coffee. “I’m quiet because there’s nothing useful to say. And as for agreeing with her, a broken clock is correct twice a day.”
“She’s using your name to boost her career.”
Darcy met her gaze, calm and unreadable. “Then she’s succeeding.”
Caroline scoffed. “You’re defending her now?”
“I’m acknowledging reality. That’s different.”
Bingley leaned forward. “You could look at this as a PR opportunity, Darcy. People are talking. TrueNorth is surging. Spin it. Own it.”
Darcy raised an eyebrow. “Own being publicly mocked?”
Bingley grinned. “Worked for Musk.”
That, finally, got the faintest twitch of a smile from Darcy. The kind that barely existed, like a rumour of amusement.
But in his mind, Elizabeth’s voice still echoed.
Have you ever been in love, sir?
That rang louder than her tweet.
Bingley tapped the armrest. “Seriously, though. How do we capitalise on this? A press release? Media push? Something about data-driven destiny?”
Darcy shook his head. “Too obvious. I think we’ll just ride the wave.”
“We can’t afford any missteps,” Bingley said.
“To make sure everything runs smoothly,” Darcy said, “I’ve already set up a dummy account. No profile photo, barely any info. Just enough to let the algorithm do its thing. I want to see how well it actually works.”
“You signed up?” Mrs Hurst asked, lifting an eyebrow.
“Yes.”
Caroline straightened in her seat, visibly startled. “So you’re going on a date?”
“It’s not that serious,” Darcy replied, his voice cool and clipped. “Three dates. Controlled environments. If it works, we turn it into a case study. Use it for publicity. The investors will eat it up.”
“And if it doesn’t?” Louisa asked.
“Then we learn something. Either way, it’s useful.”
Caroline frowned, keeping her voice carefully measured. “And you actually believe it might match you with someone you like?”
Darcy let out a quiet chuckle. He recognised that tone. The concealed curiosity. The delicate sting of disappointment that Caroline tried so hard to mask, but the jealousy in her voice reminded him that she still had a crush on him, one he’d never encouraged but had always been aware of.
“That’s what the app is supposed to do,” he said.
He stood, took his coffee in hand, and glanced out over the rolling hills. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to see what it’s like to date myself in the wild.”
Caroline watched him go, jaw tight.
Louisa went back to scrolling.
Bingley sipped his drink with a knowing smile.
And Darcy, without saying it aloud, acknowledged what they all refused to admit:
He was curious. Almost dangerously so. Most annoyingly, it was Elizabeth’s question about whether he had ever loved before that had stirred it.
***
Darcy didn’t like it when something bothered him beyond comfort. It felt inefficient. A waste of bandwidth.
And yet, there he was, alone in the guest suite of the Bingley vacation home, his phone glowing dimly against the dark wood of the desk, the search bar already populated with her name.
Elizabeth Bennet.
He hadn’t googled her before. Not when Charles first mentioned Jane had a sister.
Not after the Q it had that particular charm of something she might have once read in a dog-eared paperback, tucked away on a rainy afternoon.
And then there was the bio. It read like something from a retro social media page, the kind people wrote before filters and hashtags ruled the world:
“Likes long walks through logical conclusions. Fond of caffeine, detests small talk. Ambivert by trade, realist by design.”
She tilted her head.
“Cute,” she said, dragging the word like it owed her rent. Then laughed again. “This’ll make a beautiful article. Matched by a machine to a faceless introvert. How poetic.”
She tapped the message icon before she could overthink it and typed:
“You’re either my soulmate or a bored serial killer. Let’s find out which.”
A pause. Three little dots appeared, announcing someone was typing. Then, the reply:
Mr. F: “That depends. Are you fluent in sarcasm and iced coffee?”
Her eyebrows lifted.
“Allegedly.”
Mr. F: “Then this might be the beginning of something promising.
Elizabeth laughed again, softer this time. She set her phone down for a moment and stared at the ceiling, her heart lighter than it had been all week.
Oh, this was going to be fun.
And yes, it would make for a very beautiful article indeed.
***
Darcy typed quickly on his KPI sheet. Similarity, check. Shared interests, check. No red flags, no typos, no excessive emoji use. His match had come through just an hour ago, and now he found himself checking the profile again as if it might reveal more the second time.
Bazile. That was the name on the account. A curious choice. Perhaps a lover of Brazil? Or maybe some obscure literary reference he had missed. Either way, it was better than half the usernames he had seen in the past week.
The profile had no photo, just a flower for a display image. The bio read: Fluent in sarcasm and iced coffee. Books > bios. Swipe left if your profile pic is you with a tiger.
Darcy had smirked when he first saw it. At least she had a sense of humour. If her claims of bookishness were genuine, then he had to admit the algorithm had done well.
What if this Bazile was a catfish? The thought crossed his mind, but he quickly decided it was most unlikely.
He had built the TrueNorth algorithm to require in-depth personal validation, a step that could not be bypassed easily.
Everything else was encrypted to protect users’ privacy, even from the app itself.
TrueNorth never revealed full identities, only what users chose to disclose.
Bazile had not chosen to disclose much. Just those few lines and the flower. But her messages were smart, funny, and fast.
They had been chatting for an hour.
Darcy scrolled through the messages again.
Bazile: I’m keeping my real name and face off until we meet. Adds to the mystery, don’t you think?
“Agreed. Anonymity has its charm,” he had said.
Bazile: Also, Mr F. reads like Mr Fictitious.
That one had made him laugh out loud, an actual sound, in the room he stayed in at Bingley’s house. It had not happened in weeks.
He typed, “Tempted to change it to Mr Fun. Or something else with an F.”
Bazile: Filthy? Frivolous? Fearsome? Fantastic?
His response was, “Dangerous ground.”
Bazile: I walk it daily.
He leaned back in his chair, a smile tugging at his mouth. She was absurd. And clever. And strangely familiar in a way he could not name.
Darcy knew better than to get carried away. This was data. This was just a controlled trial.
But for the first time since the gala, he felt interested.
And he was not sure if that was a win for his experiment or something else entirely.