Chapter SIX
“I WAS a bit worried when I saw your text,” Jane said, kicking off her boots at the door. “All it said was ‘Have to meet. Call me when you’re out of class.’ No punctuation, no emojis. I was bracing for bloodshed.”
Elizabeth, curled on the couch in fuzzy socks and a sweater she’d been pretending wasn’t technically pyjamas, accepted the latte Jane brought like it was both a peace offering and fuel. She poured it into her favourite chipped mug—better than drinking from a cup that felt like corporate guilt.
“It was a different kind of emergency.”
“Is this a journalist emergency or a Lizzy-lost-a-shoe-in-Soho-again emergency?”
“Worse,” Elizabeth said. “Emotional whiplash. Digital betrayal. Possibly the unravelling of modern romance as we know it.”
“So... journalist emergency.”
Elizabeth huffed. “Okay, you know how I told you about Mr. F?”
“The faceless, mildly charming enigma from TrueNorth?”
“Yeah. Him. We’d been messaging all week. And I mean messaging. Like full-blown paragraphs, clever references, actual questions that didn’t make me want to crawl inside my own skull.”
Jane sat across from her, unzipped her coat halfway. “And you liked him?”
“I did. Stupidly. He was sharp. Asked about my favourite book without making it about himself. Actually remembered details. And he was funny, Jane. Not just ‘laugh-through-your-nose’ funny. Laugh out loud in line at Trader Joe’s, funny.”
Jane smiled. “So you met him?”
Elizabeth nodded slowly. “We picked a café. Neutral ground. I got there first. Ordered a cappuccino and even sat near a window like some woman in a romance montage. I was half-expecting him to be awkward or ghost me altogether.”
“And?”
Elizabeth set down her mug. “A black car pulled up outside. One of those sleek, shiny ones that doesn’t even have the decency to look rented. A driver got out. Opened the back door. And out stepped Fitzwilliam Darcy.”
Jane blinked. “I’m sorry—what?”
Elizabeth nodded. “Mr. F is Darcy.”
Jane let that sink in. Then, slowly, “You’re sure?”
“He described himself. Gray coat. Black jumper. Reading glasses. It was him. One hundred percent. And the way he looked at me? He knew. He just nodded like I was some variable in an experiment that had confirmed his hypothesis.”
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes.”
Jane pulled off her coat completely and sat forward. “What did you do?”
“I walked out.”
“You didn’t say anything?”
“Not a word. Just left. I had half a cappuccino and a full sense of betrayal. That was enough.”
Jane winced. “Lizzy...”
“I know. But seriously, who joins their own app anonymously and doesn’t tell anyone? What kind of dealer uses their own stash?”
Jane snorted. “I think you mean gets high on their own stash.”
Elizabeth waved a hand. “Whatever. It’s sketchy. He built the app. Why is he dating on it?”
“Because maybe he believes in it?” Jane said. “I mean, I’d take that over one of those telecom CEOs who claim their phone is revolutionary but still tweet from an iPhone.”
Elizabeth scowled. “You’re not helping.”
“I’m just saying, it’s not criminal to use your own app,” Jane said gently. “You signed up to prove it didn’t work. Maybe he signed up to prove it does. I mean, who doesn’t want to find love?”
“On an app? I know plenty,” Elizabeth said, rolling her eyes.
“Come on, Lizzy. The two of you strike me as not so different from each other as you think.”
“We are not the same.”
“Why not?”
“Because I didn’t build a billion-dollar matchmaking platform and then match with the one person who roasted me in front of the tech elite.”
Jane leaned back, clutching her tea. “That is... specific.”
“Of course it is.” Elizabeth threw up her hands. “If I didn’t know the ego of people like him, I’d say he matched with me on purpose. Just to mock me.”
Jane frowned. “You know there are actual ethics to all this tech stuff, right? He wouldn’t do that.”
“I know.” Elizabeth wiggled in her seat, childishly annoyed. “And now I don’t even know what to do. I was going to write this sharp, measured takedown of the whole concept—Algorithms vs. Actual People, or something equally scathing—but now I’m the plot twist.”
Jane tilted her head. “Do you want to delete the app?”
Elizabeth hesitated. “No. Not yet.”
Jane raised an eyebrow.
“I kind of want to see what he says next,” Elizabeth admitted. “And… I want to see if Wickham replies.”
“Wickham?” Jane blinked. “The guy who commented on your Substack?”
Elizabeth nodded. “Still no word from him. But now that I know who Mr. F really is? I really want to hear what Wickham has to say.”
“You still really think he knows Darcy?”
“I don’t know. But he clearly has something to spill. And if there’s even a five percent chance it adds context, I’m not ignoring it.”
Jane picked up a throw pillow and hugged it. “So let me get this straight. You’re chasing a ghost who claims to have tea on a man you stormed away from mid-date. What’s the plan here?”
Elizabeth sighed. “There’s no plan. Just tea, bad decisions, and an idea-stage article that’s now emotionally compromised.”
There was a pause.
“You and Mr. F haven’t messaged since?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “I don’t even know what to say. I feel like I’d die of embarrassment if I sent anything.”
Another pause.
Then Jane said, “You should go on two more dates with him.”
Elizabeth stared. “I’m sorry—what?”
“You said it yourself. TrueNorth makes users go on three dates before they can rematch. You don’t just have a shot at testing the app—you have a chance, actually, to meet him. Like, the real him. Not through a tweet. Not at a podium. A human being. In daylight. Possibly with food.”
Elizabeth grimaced. “I can’t just show up as if nothing happened.”
“You can. Or you can message him. Be honest. Say you were surprised. Ask to finish the trial.”
“And what if he says no?” Elizabeth folded her arms. “I literally stood up and walked out of the first date without a word.”
Jane shrugged. “Then he says no. But if I were him? I’d want to see it through.
Especially after what you pulled at the gala—and your tweet.
You met him on his app. Whatever you write next can either tank TrueNorth or turn it into a dating empire.
He knows that. I doubt he wants to give you more ammo. ”
“These tech billionaires can survive anything.”
“Maybe,” Jane said, reaching across to squeeze her hand, “but even billionaires bleed PR.”
Elizabeth gave her a look.
“Come on, Lizzy. What harm can it possibly do?” Jane stroked her hand dramatically, putting on a mock-serious face. “Besides, remember my baby has investments in this app. I am not just going to sit here and watch you write a piece that brings everything crashing down because you hate Mr. Darcy.”
“I’m sorry, but my job is my job. Even if it involves your Bingley.”
“Two more dates,” Jane repeated. “That’s all I’m asking. You might actually find out the app isn’t completely terrible.”
Elizabeth looked down into her mug. “Two dates.”
“Two dates.”
Elizabeth sighed and took a sip.
“What if you accidentally like him?”
Elizabeth nearly choked on the tea. “That’s not happening.”
“But you liked Mr. F,” Jane teased.
“I admired a facade,” Elizabeth snapped. “And what happened at the café proves exactly what I’ve always feared about these algorithm-based love apps. People can fake anything.”
Jane made a face. “Okay, now you’re making him sound like a serial killer. Or worse.”
Elizabeth snorted. “God, I hate how reasonable you sound right now.”
“Come on. It’s just three dates. Worst-case scenario? You get material. Best case? You get answers.”
Elizabeth leaned back and groaned. “Fine. But if he shows up with another algorithm speech, I’m faking a bathroom emergency.”
“Noted.”
***
TrueNorth HQ occupied a sleek stretch of the thirty-first floor in one of Manhattan’s most prestigious business towers.
The view was clinically beautiful—nothing but skyline, glass, and silence, broken only by the soft hum of filtered air and the occasional indignant thud of a pigeon wing against the window.
Fitzwilliam Darcy stood at the floor-to-ceiling pane, coffee cooling in his hand, watching New York move beneath him like data he could no longer interpret.
Behind him, Bingley kicked his chair back on two legs and asked, not for the first time, “So. How’d it go?”
Darcy didn’t turn around. “She walked out.”
The chair thudded back onto all fours.
“Wait. What?”
“She saw me. And left.”
Bingley blinked. “She ghosted you in real life?”
Darcy’s mouth twitched. “Technically, that’s called a ‘walk-out.’ And yes.”
“Was it the glasses? Did you wear the reading glasses?”
“She recognised me, Charles. Not the eyewear.”
A pause. Then Bingley narrowed his eyes. “Hold on. You guys know each other in real life?”
“Yes.” Darcy took a sip of his coffee. “It was Elizabeth Bennet.”
Bingley stared. “No.”
“Yes.”
“You’re telling me the anonymous woman you matched with on TrueNorth—the one who made you laugh through messages and had you checking your phone like a civilian—that woman was Elizabeth Bennet?”
Darcy nodded once.
Bingley sat back, fully stunned. “Well. Damn.”
There was a beat.
“She didn’t say anything?” Bingley asked.
“Nothing. Just stood up and left. No message. No second glance. Just... gone.”
“And you didn’t stop her?”
“She didn’t want to be stopped.”
Bingley whistled under his breath. “She’s got a talent for exits, I’ll give her that.”
Darcy didn’t smile.
Bingley studied him. “You didn’t do this on purpose, right?”
Darcy looked over. “Do you think I’d manipulate my own algorithm to match with a woman who publicly tried to humiliate me?”
“I mean... not if you said it like that.”
“I didn’t rig anything,” Darcy said. “The match was clean. Anonymous. I followed the same path every user does. The system matched us.”
“And the system doesn’t lie,” Bingley intoned, mock solemn.
Darcy ignored him.
“She mocked the entire concept of the app,” he muttered. “Tore into the premise of algorithmic compatibility. Rolled her eyes when I said it could work. And yet—she signed up.”
“You think she’s a hypocrite?”
“As I said at the gala,” Darcy said, voice flat, “people ask questions sometimes just to be noticed.” He paused. “I think she wanted to be seen disapproving of something she secretly hoped might prove her wrong.”
Bingley considered that. “Or maybe she was just curious.”
Darcy turned back to the skyline. “People posture. Ask the questions that make them sound bold, untouchable. She performed distaste for the idea—but she signed up. She matched. She showed up. That says something.”
“Like what?”
“That she doesn’t hate it as much as she wants to. Or maybe doesn’t hate the idea of it working for other people—just not for her.”
Bingley watched him, quiet now.
“And what does it say about you?”
Darcy didn’t answer.
He set his coffee down with a soft clink.
“She’s still matched with you,” Bingley said, after a moment. “She could’ve deleted the app, but she hasn’t. Right?”
“Yeah.”
“So that means something.”
“It means we’re both stuck,” Darcy said. “Three-date lock. Neither of us can move forward unless one of us does something.”
“So what are you going to do?”
Darcy didn’t respond right away. He crossed the room slowly, adjusted his sleeve with unnecessary precision, and returned to the window.
“I don’t know,” he said finally. “We’ll have to see where things go.”
A pause.
“And wherever it does... I’ll figure it out from there.”
***
Elizabeth stared at her phone for a long time.
Not at the app. Not yet. Just the blank lock screen. Then the app icon. Then her reflection in the black glass.
“Two more dates,” she muttered, like it was a curse. Or a dare.
Jane had gone an hour ago, leaving behind the scent of tea and annoying optimism. The living room was dim now, washed in late-afternoon gold and the quiet tap of her foot against the leg of the couch.
She opened the app.
There it was.
Mr. F.
Still matched.
Still active.
No messages exchanged since she’d walked out of the café like a dramatic indie film protagonist who’d just learned her meet-cute was secretly the villain.
Her finger hovered over the message box.
Then she typed:
“Still on for Date Two, Mr. F? Or did your algorithm flag me as emotionally unstable?”
She stared at it.
Read it again.
Considered deleting it.
Sent it.
And then she tossed the phone face down on the couch like it had bitten her.
***
Across the city, in a quieter office than usual, Darcy’s phone buzzed.
He looked down. Paused. Blink. Blink again.
He hadn’t expected her to message.
Not yet.
Not so soon.
He stared at the screen for a second longer than necessary, as if waiting for the message to dissolve. Then, slowly, a corner of his mouth lifted—barely there. But it was something.
He tapped to reply.
Typed.
Stopped.
Typed again.
Then sent:
“Still on.
Emotionally unstable is well within our predictive tolerance.
Shall we say Thursday?”
***
Elizabeth stared at the screen, then let out a single, mirthless laugh.
“God help me.”
She typed: “Thursday. No café this time. I get to pick the place.”
And hit send.