Chapter NINE #2
“I showed you mine,” she said, lifting her cup. “Show me yours.”
“Right.” He gave a small exhale, setting his own drink down. “It’s just me and my sister,” he said after a pause. “She’s seventeen. Turns eighteen this November.”
Elizabeth blinked. “You have a sister?”
“I do. Georgiana.”
The name hung between them a moment. It wasn’t what she expected.
“I’ve been her guardian since our father died eight years ago. She was nine; I was twenty-one. Our mother passed before that, so it’s just been the two of us for a long time.”
Elizabeth’s green drink paused halfway to her lips.
Nine and twenty-one.
He’d barely finished school himself when he took that on.
“I’m sorry about that,” Elizabeth said.
“It’s been a long time.”
There was a brief, awkward silence. Then Elizabeth broke it. “Why haven’t I ever seen a picture of you with your sister?”
“She’s not on social media,” he continued. “By my insistence. I’ve always been… cautious. Maybe too cautious. But I figured once she turns eighteen, she can decide for herself.”
Elizabeth blinked.
That wasn’t the man she’d imagined. Not entirely. Protective. Involved. A little controlling maybe, but with purpose.
She sipped slowly, thoughts flickering.
Was this the same man Wickham had accused of manipulation, of cruelty? Was this the same man who supposedly erased a godson from existence?
The contrast scraped against her.
“You sound like you actually care,” she said.
“I do.”
Simple. No embellishment.
“And what about extended family?” she asked, tone light.
He hesitated. Then said, “an aunt. Lady Catherine de Bourgh.”
Elizabeth raised a brow. “Lady?”
“She lived in the UK for two decades. People called her ‘Lady’ there, and when she moved back, we just... kept going with it. Nobody wanted the fight.”
She smiled despite herself. “And?”
“An uncle. Lives in Vermont. Keeps bees. Keeps to himself.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
She noticed it before he even opened his mouth—the way Darcy shifted in his seat, his eyes briefly scanning her face like a final read-through before pressing send. His demeanour had changed. Gone was the cool professionalism, the calm restraint.
Now, there was something closer to intent.
“I know the app expects three dates,” he began, his voice low. “That was the deal.”
Elizabeth stayed still, not even blinking.
He continued, slowly. “But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want more. From this. From you.”
There it was.
She felt her breath catch—not in surprise, but in calculation. He was serious. Clear-eyed. The sincerity wasn’t the problem.
The timing was.
“I’d like us to see where this goes,” he added. “Beyond the algorithm. Beyond the app.”
His gaze didn’t waver. Hers did.
Because she’d seen this kind of moment before—framed differently, yes, packaged better, but always arriving when the stakes were high. A pivot. A deflection. An offer made not from vulnerability, but strategy.
And so she asked, careful and firm:
“What about Wickham?”
Darcy didn’t flinch, but the silence came immediately.
“George Wickham?” Elizabeth pressed.
He swallowed hard. “What about him?”
“I have a source,” she said, watching him closely. “Someone who claims he was like a brother to you. And yet I hear you erased him. Shut him out after your father died.”
Still nothing.
“No comment?” she asked. “Not even a denial?”
Darcy’s expression remained unreadable. “It’s not a conversation I’m having in a café.”
Elizabeth exhaled sharply and leaned back.
“Of course not,” she said. “Because God forbid a man like you—who controls the algorithm, the narrative, the press releases—should ever be forced to say something real.”
He said nothing.
“You spoke of your sister. Your uncle and aunt.” Her voice sharpened. “But someone who lived almost his entire life with your family—your father’s godson—he doesn’t matter?”
Her voice was rising now, and a few people had begun to glance in their direction. Darcy swallowed, his eyes breaking contact, flickering toward the turned heads.
“I—”
“I could never date someone like that,” she cut in, her voice steady. “Someone who decides people are either useful or disposable. Someone only capable of liking someone once the algorithm tells him it’s safe.”
His face didn’t shift, but the temperature in the room dropped.
“You said you liked me,” she went on, “but you didn’t think that when we first met. ‘Not handsome enough to tempt me.’”
Darcy’s jaw tensed at the words, his eyes widening in surprise.
“Oh, don’t pretend you didn’t say it to scorn me,” Elizabeth declared. “And now, all of a sudden, the app pairs us, and you decide you like me? You like the woman you once dismissed as someone merely seeking attention.”
She gave a sharp, humourless laugh.
“I’m sorry, sir, but you don’t know me. Not really. Forget that we chatted about books and music and a few harmless things. You know my stats. My hobbies. My sarcasm on a good day.”
Her voice sharpened, steady and unyielding.
“But the part of me that asks questions—the part that refuses to look away when things don’t add up—that is the part you want to silence.”
“That’s not—”
“I don’t believe in curated connection,” she said. “And I definitely don’t believe in a man who can take care of his sister with one hand and delete someone else’s life with the other.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Darcy stood, slow and deliberate.
“I thought we were on a date,” he said quietly. “I didn’t realise I was under interrogation.”
“Why do you think I joined the app in the first place?” Elizabeth asked. “Do you think it was because I was love-starved? Because I believed in your code-is-love idea?”
She shook her head.
“No. I wanted to see what it was all about. And voilà—I ended up face to face with the man behind the curtain. Call it poetic justice… or call it this: whatever you planned, I saw straight through the charade.”
Darcy exhaled, something pained flickering across his expression.
“So this isn’t just a rejection,” he said softly. “It’s a verdict as well?”
Elizabeth rose too, holding his gaze. “It’s both.”
He studied her one last time, something tightening in his jaw—but he didn’t protest.
He only said, “Goodbye, Elizabeth.”
And with that, he turned and walked out.
She stood alone in the café for a few more seconds, letting the sound of the city seep through the glass.
Her pulse was high. Her breath shallow.
But her spine? Straight.
Because for the first time since this whole strange game began, Elizabeth Bennet felt exactly what she needed to feel—
Clear.
And yet, it wasn’t as pleasant as she had imagined it would be.