Chapter EIGHT #2
“Oh, I’m not here to argue. I’ve been circling the same thoughts about a certain someone for a while now. Guess I just never had the spotlight—or the nerve.”
Elizabeth’s pulse ticked a little faster as she typed her response.
“To be clear here, you’re talking about Fitzwilliam Darcy.”
“Forgive my manners. The name’s George, by the way. George Wickham. Probably should’ve led with that since my username just says Wickham. Now, to the subject at hand—yes, I’m speaking of Darcy.
“My father was close to his. Mr. Darcy Sr. was a simple man. My father started as the family gardener just as their business was picking up. For his loyalty, Mr. Darcy Sr. made him a close advisor. He gave him an apartment in the family compound, and I was naturally born there.”
“Wait,” Elizabeth typed. “You’re saying you grew up with Fitzwilliam Darcy?”
“The very same. I was more like a godson to his father. I was there for everything—family dinners, awkward holiday photos—the works. As little boys and even through our late teens, I would’ve thought I had a brother in him.”
Elizabeth leaned back into the couch, her fingers tightening around her wine glass.
“And what happened?”
“What always happens when you grow up around people like him. You learn fast that everything’s a transaction. Darcy doesn’t touch anything unless it pays off. Socially, financially, reputationally. And even then, he calculates twice.”
She paused, considering that.
“You’re implying he’s... manipulative?”
“I’m saying he plays the long game. People think he’s just private—but privacy is his currency. He doesn’t share anything unless it helps him win something later. Even silence becomes a strategy.”
Elizabeth’s journalistic instincts pricked up—this could be something. But she didn’t let it show. Not yet.
“You sound certain.”
“I spent years being sure of what happened. I won’t pretend I’m unbiased, but I do know the man. We grew up together. Mr. Darcy Sr. was preparing both of us to help run the family empire someday. I was promised a scholarship to Oxford, and Darcy knew it. He was there when the promises were made.
But after his father passed—God rest his soul—Darcy changed. Suddenly, it was like I was the enemy. The education I was promised vanished. And a small house, along with the small branch of the clothing business I was told would go to me, just... disappeared from the will.
I don’t know how it happened, but I truly believe Darcy had something to do with it. Jealousy, maybe. The idea that his father could love another son, adopted or not, as much as him? I don’t think he could handle it.”
Elizabeth’s mouth parted slightly.
“These are serious allegations,” she typed.
“I know, right? But I have evidence to back it up.”
There was a brief pause, then:
“I can’t prove the promises—those were all spoken—but I have proof that I was part of the family. That I belonged.”
Elizabeth swallowed. She wasn’t sure what to say.
She didn’t like Fitzwilliam Darcy, and she’d heard plenty of awful stories about powerful men. But this? This was beyond what she expected.
To deny your father’s godson an education? A future?
Another message popped up:
“You can imagine how that changed the direction of my life.”
Then another:
“He wiped my digital presence in connection to the family like I never existed. Cut all public connections. Either spoke badly about me or denied I was ever part of the picture. I had to take whatever jobs I could find just to stay afloat. That’s how I ended up where I am now.”
Elizabeth read that twice.
There was something disarmingly calm about the way Wickham told it. No bitterness—not on the surface. Just… practised ease.
“Why are you telling me this?” Elizabeth typed.
The response came shortly:
“I checked out your work before reaching out. So, to answer your question: I think you’re one of the few people who’d actually listen. And maybe because I figured you’re already halfway to the same conclusion.”
She didn’t answer that. Not directly.
“So this isn’t about TrueNorth?” she typed.
“Nope. I could care less about his algorithm. That’s just another one of his toys. This is about him. About who he is when there’s no press, no suits, no curated silence.”
Elizabeth exhaled slowly, trying to sort through the mental pile of what she’d just heard.
Before she could respond, another message chimed in:
“I wish I could confront him, but I have too much respect for his father. I wouldn’t want to see the old man’s name dragged through the mud. That’s the only reason I haven’t gone on a podcast or sold this to TMZ. I know some hosts’d pay top dollar for this kind of story.”
“That’s... really noble.”
It was all Elizabeth could come up with.
“Anyway, didn’t mean to dump all this at once.
You’ve probably got a million questions. But I’ve got early training tomorrow. Rain or shine, state duty waits for no one.”
“New York National Guard, right? I googled the logo on your shirt.”
“You’ve been doing your homework. I’m impressed.”
She smiled faintly, despite herself.
“Shoot me a message anytime. If you want to hear more. Or verify anything. I’ve got receipts—and memory.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“No pressure. But I’ll leave you with this—Darcy doesn’t let things slide. You challenged him publicly. I’d watch your back.”
Another chime.
“Goodnight, Miss Bennet.”
And just like that, he was gone.
Elizabeth lowered the phone, staring blankly at the paused frame of her medical drama.
She couldn’t tell if the beeping sound she was hearing was her own heart, or the heart monitor frozen on the TV.
George Wickham had spoken like someone telling the truth.
But so had Darcy—Mr. F—in their chats. Nothing he'd said screamed cruelty or corruption, and he had been jovial, nice even. Even when they spoke face-to-face, he was measured. Careful, yes. But cruel?
This could be her biggest piece yet. A massive exposé.
George Wickham sounded quite believable.
And more than that, he had spoken like someone who had nothing to gain from lying to her.
Elizabeth leaned back against the couch and closed her eyes, the glow of the paused television washing the room in pale blue. Her mind, unhelpfully, supplied an image she hadn’t invited.
The first night.
The gala.
Darcy’s voice—cool, dismissive, precise.
Not handsome enough to tempt me.
She opened her eyes again, jaw tightening.
She remembered how easily he had said it.
How little effort it had cost him to reduce her to an abstract idea—someone to be dismissed, catalogued, and forgotten.
Not worth the trouble. Not worth the risk.
And yet now, suddenly, she was worth discretion.
Worth charm. Worth a carefully curated second impression.
That alone should have told her something.
Her gaze dropped to the phone still resting in her hand. Wickham hadn’t hedged. He hadn’t softened his story to sound noble. He hadn’t pretended to be fair. He had simply told her what he believed to be true—and let her decide what to do with it.
Darcy, on the other hand, had always controlled the frame.
At the café.
At the gala.
Even in their chats.
Measured pauses. Thoughtful responses. Just the perfect warmth to seem reasonable. Just enough distance to stay untouchable.
Privacy is his currency.
The phrase echoed in her head.
Elizabeth exhaled slowly.
Of course Darcy wouldn’t touch anything unless there was something to be gained. Of course he would calculate. Of course he would reshape a narrative until it fit him. Men like that didn’t need to be cruel in obvious ways. They operated cleanly. Legally. Quietly.
And if Wickham was telling the truth—if even half of it was true—then Darcy’s calm wasn’t integrity. It was insulation.
She picked up her wine glass, took a distracted sip, and grimaced.
Her phone lay dark beside her, but she could still see the last message in her mind.
You challenged him publicly. I’d watch your back.
Elizabeth frowned.
She had challenged him. And he had noticed.
She thought again of the gala—the way his eyes had flicked to her before he spoke. Not angry. Assessing. As if he were deciding how much damage she could do.
That was not the reaction of a man unbothered.
Was Darcy lying when he claimed he hadn’t matched with her on purpose, just to spite her?
Her mind flicked back to what Jane had said about tech ethics, but she dismissed it.
She’d heard enough from colleagues and sources in the tech space to know how often companies manipulated user data.
It wasn’t far-fetched to imagine that Darcy had traced her digital identity the moment after she spoke at the gala, or that he’d been notified as soon as she signed up for TrueNorth.
That possibility made a disturbing kind of sense.
Maybe he had deliberately matched with her, then shown up to their first meeting just to gauge her reaction.
If she had backed out, it could have ended her investigation before it even began.
But since she hadn’t, perhaps everything he’d done since then—his restraint, his conversation, even his charm—was part of a calculated attempt to shape the version of himself she would write about.
“Lord Jesus.” She exclaimed at her realisation.
She sat forward, reaching for her notebook without fully realising she was doing it. Flipped it open. Found a blank page.
At the top, she wrote one name.
Darcy.
Then, beneath it, another.
Wickham.
She didn’t hesitate before drawing a line between them.
This wasn’t about an app anymore. It wasn’t even about a scandal. It was about power—who had it, who lost it, and who got erased in the process.
Elizabeth capped her pen and leaned back again, pulse steady now. Focused.
She wasn’t ready to write anything yet.
But she knew where she was looking first.
And for the first time since the gala, the certainty felt… grounding.