Chapter FOUR
IT WASN’T unusual for random people to follow Elizabeth and slide into her DMs—it came with the territory of being a journalist. Most of the time, she ignored them.
Trolls, bots, or the occasional paid smear attempt—they weren’t worth the energy.
But when a message mentioned Fitzwilliam Darcy by name, it caught her eye. And held it.
That afternoon, she had just finished lunch and was grinning into her phone, mid-conversation with Mr. F—who had, over the past one week, become an unexpected source of wit, insight, and laugh-out-loud commentary—when a notification appeared from her Substack comment section.
She squinted, as if the message had made her screen glow brighter.
The username was a simple one.
Wickham.
The message read:
“I saw your tweet about Fitzwilliam Darcy. Normally, I won’t do this, but when someone calls out a scam, I feel obligated to tell them more about the man behind the facade. If you need someone to tell you more about him, there’s no one better than me.”
She blinked at the message, then tapped the name. No links. No bio. He had liked a few of her articles before sending the message. She realized this as she scrolled through his profile. Her Substack was set to notify her of comments or DMs, but not for simple likes—so she hadn’t noticed until now.
But there was a profile picture.
It was a man in military training gear—recruit uniform, sunglasses, half-smile. He looked confident. Young. Maybe her age. Maybe slightly older.
Elizabeth stared at the photo for a long moment. Not because he was handsome (he was, in that magazine-cover sort of way), but because it was the first time since all of this began that someone besides Jane or X had something to say about Fitzwilliam Darcy.
And this someone looked like he meant it.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.
She wasn’t sure what she felt. Intrigued? Suspicious? Maybe both. Definitely not indifferent.
Who exactly was Wickham?
And what did he know?
Elizabeth slouched deeper into her couch, phone in hand, her thumb hovering just above the keyboard as she toyed with the idea of replying to this mystery man.
There was something about him—something in the half-smile of the man in the profile picture, and the name, Wickham.
It tugged at her curiosity like a loose thread.
He looked like someone with stories. The kind people only told when they knew they had facts.
She stared at the message again.
There was a pull in it. Not just gossip, but the suggestion of something real. Something deeper. And if there was a chance to get an inside scoop on Fitzwilliam Darcy, the man behind the so-called empathy engine, how could she possibly pass that up?
It would make a perfect follow-up. No, better. It would be the takedown of the year.
Her fingers moved before her mind fully caught up. She clicked on reply and typed.
“What do you know about Fitzwilliam Darcy?”
But even as she hit send, another question sparked in her mind. One she hadn’t asked herself until now.
What do I actually know about Fitzwilliam Darcy?
Journalistic muscle memory kicked in. Elizabeth reached for her laptop, opened a new tab, and typed his name into the search bar.
Fitzwilliam Darcy, TrueNorth
The search results were disappointingly thin: a handful of recycled press releases, his name buried in startup roundups, a Wired profile locked behind a paywall, and a Forbes blurb that tossed out his ten-billion-dollar fortune like spare change.
One TechCrunch article dubbed him "the quiet architect behind the empathy engine"—whatever that meant.
A few photos surfaced, mostly from conferences or award nights, and his net worth got more mentions than his personality.
Only one piece stood out. It was a lifestyle blog that had once named him among the top twenty most eligible bachelors in New York.
She found another thread and followed a link titled "The Two Minds Behind TrueNorth," but it might as well have been called “All About Bingley.” The article was a photo reel of Bingley at events, Bingley on panels, Bingley grinning beside microphones like a politician who’d just kissed a baby.
Darcy was mentioned only once, almost begrudgingly: “Fitzwilliam Darcy, co-founder, prefers to remain out of the spotlight.”
She tried searching for his social media. Nothing. No LinkedIn. No verified Instagram. Not even an X account. At least, not under his real name.
It was like trying to Google a shadow.
She leaned back with a frown.
The man had built a company around human connection, and yet he’d managed to keep himself completely disconnected.
Why?
She couldn’t think of an answer to the question, but it made Wickham’s message all the more intriguing.
She shivered with anticipation and checked her screen—no response yet.
He wasn’t even online. Still, her fingers tingled as she stared at their messages, imagination already racing ahead.
He had reached out first. Surely, he would reply.
And when he did, she’d be ready.
***
"I honestly don’t know which part I find funnier," Jane said as she took a slow sip of the yoghurt Elizabeth had handed her. She had just walked in from work, dropped her bag by the door, and claimed the only other free seat in the living room that wasn’t buried in throw blankets and half-read books.
“Maybe it’s the fact that you joined TrueNorth to mock it, or that you’ve somehow found someone on there who actually makes you giggle. ”
Elizabeth didn’t answer immediately. She was mid-text, tapping back something quick and witty to Mr. F, who had just made a joke about his childhood obsession with spelling bees. With a satisfied smile, she hit send and finally turned her attention to Jane.
"I have to admit," Elizabeth said, tossing her phone onto the coffee table, "it’s not exactly what I expected."
Jane raised an eyebrow. "You mean the part where you’re actually enjoying yourself?"
Elizabeth smirked. "I mean, he’s sharp. Not the kind of guy who texts ‘hey’ and disappears for three hours. He asks good questions. Makes good points. Doesn’t try too hard. And he’s funny. Like, actual funny, not just ‘I-watch-The-Office-on-repeat’ funny."
Jane blinked. "So you like him?"
"I don’t even know him," Elizabeth said.
"But you’re smiling like you do."
Elizabeth sighed, leaning into the couch cushions. "Fine. He’s... intriguing. But it’s all digital. Low stakes. No commitment."
"And still," Jane said, watching her closely, "you’re here defending him like he just bought you flowers."
Elizabeth shook her head. "Don’t start. This is research. I’m being professional. Objective."
Jane snorted. "You’re emotionally invested."
Elizabeth didn’t deny it, but she didn’t admit it to herself either.
A silence passed between them, filled only by the distant hum of traffic outside the apartment window. Then Elizabeth sat up slightly, her expression shifting.
"I did get something weird, though," she said, almost casually. "A message."
Jane tilted her head. "Weird message from who?"
"Some guy called Wickham. Commented on my Substack of all places. Said he saw my tweet about Darcy and wanted to share more. Claimed there’s no one better than him to expose the man behind the facade."
Jane frowned. "Expose? That sounds dramatic."
"Well, I could be persuaded to hear something dramatic," Elizabeth said, her tone half-amused. "I checked his profile. Nothing flashy. No links, no self-promotion. Just a display picture. He was in some kind of military training uniform. Could be legit, could be cosplay."
"Do you think he actually knows Darcy?" Jane asked.
Elizabeth gave a small shrug. "Hard to say. If he does, then I might be onto something. If he doesn’t... It’s probably just another internet character chasing relevance."
“What did you say to him?”
“I kept it simple. Asked what he knew.”
"Any reply yet?"
Elizabeth glanced at her phone, lips tightening. "Nope. Still quiet. Doesn’t even look like he’s been online."
Jane sighed. “This is where I remind you to be careful. I don’t know what Darcy’s done to you, but you look like you’ve made it your life’s mission to unravel him like some literary mystery.”
“He has one of those unlikable faces,” Elizabeth muttered.
Jane raised an eyebrow. “He’s as handsome as sin. That’s not exactly an unlikable face.”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “It’s the smugness. He walks into a room like he owns it. Like everyone else is just background noise.”
“And he said you weren’t handsome enough to tempt him,” Jane added, smirking.
Elizabeth shot her a playful glare. “I should never have told you that.”
“But you did. And it makes your tweet a lot more understandable. Still, now you’re practically snooping on the man. And some random stranger is suddenly sliding in to hand you breadcrumbs to support your takedown?”
Elizabeth shrugged. “Life gives you lemons…”
Jane finished, “...you make a whole exposé.”
“Exactly.”
Jane paused, her smile softening. “Just promise me you’ll be careful.”
"I’m always careful."
"You’re never careful."
Elizabeth grinned. "Well, now would be a great time to start."
"So let me get this straight," Jane said, pointing her spoon. "You’re texting with one mysterious man who won’t share his face, waiting for a reply from another man who wants to spill secrets about a billionaire you publicly dragged, and you’ve decided none of this sounds shady?"
"Correct."
"Please tell me you’re not meeting either of them."
Elizabeth hesitated for half a second too long.
Jane’s eyes widened. "Oh my God. You are."
"Only one of them," Elizabeth said quickly. "Mr. F. We matched. The app insists we meet in person before we get a new match, remember?"
"So you’re going on a date with a stranger from the internet whose name you don’t even know?"
“Isn’t that how all dating apps work?” Elizabeth shrugged. “Besides, it’s controlled. Public place. I’m not an amateur.”
Jane groaned. "Two unknown men in one week. Incredible."
"Technically one and a half," Elizabeth said. "Wickham hasn’t earned full mystery status yet."
Jane covered her face with both hands. "Just... please don’t end up in someone’s exposé. Or someone’s basement."
Elizabeth laughed, then stretched her arms along the back of the couch. "Relax. I’ve got this. Besides, how else would I ever know if the app actually works?"
Jane shook her head, smiling despite herself. "You’re unbelievable."
Elizabeth looked at her phone again. Still no response from Wickham.
Too many unknowns. But oh, how she loved a good mystery.