Chapter FIVE
ELIZABETH PULLED up to the café in a yellow taxi, a crime novel she’s been reading still open on her lap.
She closed it with a satisfying snap, slid it into her bag, and peered through the window before stepping out.
She'd been here before—twice, maybe three times.
It was familiar enough to feel safe, yet public enough not to feel trapped.
Sunlight spilled through the tall windows, the tables were spaced just enough for privacy, and the coffee was decent.
Perfect for a first meeting with a stranger.
Technically, Mr. F had suggested somewhere else—a rooftop café he claimed had the best views in Manhattan and pastries that could convert a cynic. But after a polite tug-of-war over venues, Elizabeth had insisted on this one. He had relented. She liked having the final say.
Inside, she chose a corner table by the window, unclipped her coat, and slid into the seat. She checked her phone. No new messages from him yet. Just the usual: Substack notifications, work pings, a few unread emails. She tapped her fingers on the table, crossed her legs, and waited.
Her phone buzzed. It was a message from Mr. F
“Just a few minutes late. So sorry. Be there shortly.”
She smiled faintly and flagged down a barista.
"One cappuccino, please. Extra hot."
The drink arrived five minutes later. She cupped it between her palms, letting the heat seep into her skin. She took a small sip, sighed. Then, the café door chimed.
A man stepped inside.
Elizabeth glanced up, half-curious, half-bored—then stilled. Her eyebrows lifted.
He was handsome. Broad-shouldered, clean-cut, with a tailored coat and the kind of quiet confidence that made people instinctively step aside. He moved with easy precision, scanning the room.
Her heart did something irrational.
She sat up straighter without meaning to. Almost stood. Then caught herself. It has to be him, she thought to herself.
She couldn’t be sure. They didn’t share photos.
There was no way he could recognise her.
Still, her fingers were already moving, typing out a message.
“Just saw you walk past me. Nice coat.”
She looked up. The man who walked in was on his phone, thumb gliding over the screen. Then he looked up—directly at her—and smiled. It was small, courteous, maybe even amused.
Her stomach flipped.
And then her phone chimed again.
Mr. F: ”Not there yet. Traffic’s a nightmare. Three minutes tops.”
The bottom dropped out of her expression.
He wasn’t Mr. F.
Of course, he wasn’t. She turned back to her cappuccino, cheeks flushing, just as the man at the counter ordered and moved to a seat a few tables away. Not him.
Embarrassed, she tried to shake it off.
Then a car pulled up outside. Sleek and black, the kind that looked like it cost five years of Elizabeth’s salary.
The door opened.
Elizabeth caught her breath.
Could this be him? Could this be Mr. F?
The driver stepped out and circled to the backseat.
A pause. Then the door opened—And out stepped a man she recognised instantly.
Tall. Handsome as sin. Composed. Unsmiling.
Fitzwilliam Darcy.
Elizabeth blinked, her body going rigid.
No.
No, no, no.
Of all the cafés in New York, he just happened to find this one? What was this—stalking? Coincidence? Cosmic punishment?
Her jaw clenched as she watched him approach the café door with maddening calm, as if this were just any other day. He opened the door, stepped in—
And looked straight at her.
Not a double-take. Not surprise. Just a steady, unreadable gaze.
He gave her a polite nod, almost like a bow, and then walked right past her table.
Elizabeth nearly inhaled her cappuccino.
What the hell?
He didn’t stop. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t say a word. Just slid into a table at the opposite corner of the café like she didn’t exist. Like this wasn’t completely insane.
What were the odds? That the one man who’d irritated her more than her mother’s last matchmaking fiasco would walk into the exact café where she was meant to meet a stranger from the very app that man had built.
Worse still, what would he think if he knew she was studying his beloved algorithm—not to praise it, but to take it apart.
Or, at the very least, tell the world exactly what it was.
Her phone buzzed again. She grabbed it quickly and swiped.
It was a message from Mr. F, “I’m here. Where are you?”
Elizabeth blinked, her mind suddenly fuzzy. She looked around, as if a figure might have entered without her seeing. She knew no one had. Confused, she typed quickly.
“Can’t see you. I’ve got a clear view of the door.”
She typed the message, scanning the café again.
He replied almost instantly: “I just walked in.”
Elizabeth hesitated, then typed—reluctantly—“What are you wearing?”
Maybe, she told herself, Darcy’s dramatic entrance had been distracting enough for someone else to slip in unnoticed.
A moment later, the reply came.
Mr. F: Grey coat. Black jumper. Reading glasses. Trying not to look like a man meeting a stranger from the internet.
Elizabeth’s pulse stuttered. Slowly, she lifted her eyes.
Grey coat. Black jumper. Reading glasses.
Her breath caught.
No. No, absolutely not.
Darcy was looking down at his phone. Then, as if sensing her, he looked up again—right at her—and this time, his expression shifted. Realisation flickered in his eyes, quiet and unmistakable.
F. Fitzwilliam. Mr. F.
Her stomach twisted.
She stared at him, speechless, humiliation crawling up her throat. He had the nerve to look… calm. Almost amused.
She swallowed hard, grabbed her bag, and stood.
“Of course,” she muttered under her breath. “Of course it’s you.”
Darcy’s brows lifted slightly, as if to say something—perhaps to explain, or apologise—but Elizabeth didn’t give him the chance.
She turned, walked straight out of the café, and didn’t stop until the cold Manhattan air hit her face.
***
Darcy approached the café with the vague discomfort of someone arriving somewhere they shouldn’t be.
It wasn’t the location itself—he’d agreed to this meeting.
Had chosen this café from the shortlist she'd proposed. What unsettled him was everything around it. The possibility of being seen. Of being recognised. The low murmur of city life didn’t usually bother him, but here, in the soft-lit intimacy of a street-corner café, everything felt too available.
He hesitated at the door, one hand in his coat pocket, the other tightening around his phone.
He’d spent the last five years deliberately avoiding rooms like this—public, warm-lit spaces filled with eyes that might widen in recognition or narrow with expectation.
He didn’t do casual meetups. He didn’t do café tables and public discovery.
That was the whole point of TrueNorth: precision, privacy, control.
He stepped inside.
The café was warm. Quiet. Smelled like espresso and clean wood. Soft jazz played somewhere above the clatter of cups and quiet conversations. No one looked up.
Not at first.
He scanned the room once, calmly. There was a woman near the window. Alone. Coffee in hand. Her posture was still, composed. She wasn’t scrolling. She was watching.
It hit him before he could brace for it.
Elizabeth Bennet.
He remembered the face. How could he not? The journalist. The one who had humiliated him at the gala with a single question. The one whose tweet had lit the internet on fire. The one whose words still rang in his head when the room was quiet.
She had given TrueNorth more visibility than a million-dollar campaign. Subscriptions had surged. Investors were ecstatic. But none of it had made Darcy forget her question about his love life.
And now she was here.
She looked in his direction, and for a moment, he saw the same shock reflected back at him. Her expression shifted—confusion first, then recognition, then something sharper. Her eyes, those eyes, stared at him with clear, stunned surprise.
Darcy froze. The air felt thinner. He bowed slightly, a reflex more than anything else. A concession to etiquette. It was the only gesture he could think of.
Before she could react, he turned away and walked to a table in the far corner. Sat down. Set his coat aside. Reached for his phone like it might ground him.
He wasn’t here for Elizabeth Bennet. He was here for Bazile.
He took a breath. Then another. He glanced around the café. Five women sat alone. Any one of them could be Bazile.
Except her.
He typed quickly. “I’m here. Where are you?”
He sent the message.
The reply came fast. “Can’t see you. I’ve got a clear view of the door.”
He responded without thinking. “Just walked in.”
A few seconds passed. Then another ping. “What are you wearing?”
He let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh. It was a familiar question. Something they always joked about since they started chatting. It was flirtatious, but he indulged it. He answered without hesitation.
“Grey coat. Black jumper. Reading glasses. Trying not to look like a man meeting a stranger from the internet”.
He looked up, scanning to see who’d smile among the women in the café. Then he saw her again.
She was already staring.
Recognition bloomed across her face like a flare. Her hand stopped midair. Her mouth parted. Her eyes widened with the same slow, stunned disbelief he had felt just moments ago.
She reached for her bag.
Darcy didn’t move.
She stood. Smoothed her coat. Walked right out without a word. No look back. No dramatic exit. Just clipped, purposeful steps and a door chime that sounded far too calm for what had just happened.
Then she was gone.
He sat very still, staring at the spot she had left behind.
Bazile.
Of course.
It hit him all at once. He should have seen it. Should have reversed the letters, read the screen with more suspicion. Bazile mirrored is ElizaB.
Elizabeth Bennet.
He stared down at his phone.
What were the odds? That the one woman who had called him out in front of an entire ballroom would sign up for the very thing she mocked. That they would match. That they would be compatible. That the data would say yes.
What were the odds.
Darcy leaned back slowly in his chair, eyes still on the door.