Chapter TWELVE
THE DINNER continued with scattered conversation, the Bingley sisters attempting—without much success—to diffuse the earlier tension.
Their efforts came in the form of polite tones, overly simple phrasing, and the occasional light jab, all wrapped in a thin veil of civility that barely masked their condescension.
When the plates were cleared, Bingley stood and turned to Jane. “Would you mind helping me pick a tie for my speaking event next week?” he asked with a smile.
Elizabeth nearly rolled her eyes. A tie-picking session, a full week in advance? Sure. That was either code for a quiet moment of privacy—or something far less innocent.
Jane followed him into the adjoining room, tossing Elizabeth a small smile on her way out—one that all but confirmed this had nothing to do with fashion advice.
With Darcy still absent and Mr. Hurst having mumbled something about turning in early before disappearing upstairs, Elizabeth suddenly found herself alone with the Bingley sisters— and a room that seemed to be losing oxygen by the second.
The brief silence after Mr. Hurst’s exit barely lasted. As soon as his footsteps faded beyond earshot, Caroline cleared her throat with theatrical subtlety.
“So,” she said, her voice laced with feigned innocence, “I heard you somehow got paired with Mr. Darcy on his app.”
Elizabeth looked up slowly. “Somehow?” “
I only meant,” Caroline continued, fingers circling the rim of her wine glass, “it’s a curious match, given your strong opinions.”
“I was surprised myself,” Mrs. Hurst chimed in, dabbing delicately at her lips with a napkin. “You were so passionately vocal at the gala. Yet somehow, days later, you were signed up. That’s quite the turnaround.”
Elizabeth offered a polite smile, tight but composed. “I don’t remember the app saying not for those who criticise our methods”
“Oh, of course not,” Caroline said, her smile tightening at the edges. “We women always have our secret hopes, don’t we? Secret ones. Even if we pretend otherwise.”
“But things don’t always play out the way we expect,” Caroline went on. “I mean, you were exploring the app, probably hoping the algorithm would surprise you with someone interesting... and then, fate paired you with Mr. Darcy.”
“Who, by the way,” Mrs. Hurst added smoothly, “only created an account for experimental purposes.”
Elizabeth blinked. “Experiment?”
“Oh—he didn’t mention that?” Caroline tilted her head, feigning concern. “Oops. I suppose I shouldn’t have said anything.”
Mrs. Hurst gave a light shrug. “Come now, Caroline. What difference does it make? Elizabeth never seemed overly fond of Darcy. It’s a pity she ended up matched with someone she openly criticised.”
Caroline let out a delicate laugh. “Yes, well—his involvement was never about romance. It was just a trial. A test of the tech. Nothing serious. Louisa, what was it he said that day? Something about not wanting a relationship?”
Mrs. Hurst nodded thoughtfully. “He said he wasn’t interested in love or dating. He just wanted to see how the algorithm performed. That was all.”
“So you see,” Caroline finished, eyes sliding back to Elizabeth with a gleam of triumph, “it wasn’t personal. Just research.”
Just as Elizabeth tried to digest the statement, a soft rhythm of footsteps sounded in the hall, then grew louder.
Darcy entered the room like a sudden change in weather—unavoidable and quietly charged.
Caroline straightened like someone arranging herself for a portrait. “Mr. Darcy, we were just wondering where you’d gone. We missed you.”
He didn’t answer her.
His eyes stayed locked on Elizabeth, whose own expression had shifted—no longer composed, no longer polite. There was something wounded there now, quietly blooming beneath the surface. Not anger, not quite. But something ache-shaped.
Elizabeth’s heart beat once, uncomfortably. The room felt too close.
She rose before he could say anything, her chair sliding back with the softest scrape.
“I think I’ll get some air,” she said, not quite looking at anyone. Not needing to.
And then she left—quiet, steady, leaving behind a room full of words that suddenly had nowhere to go.
***
By the time she stepped out onto the sidewalk, Elizabeth’s hands were shaking.
The night air hit her skin, but it wasn’t cold that made her shiver. She pulled out her phone, thumbs flying across the screen.
“Work emergency. Had to go in a rush. Don’t worry about checking on me, I’ll call you tomorrow.”
She hit send to Jane before she could second-guess the lie. Jane would believe her. She hoped she did, because she wasn’t in the mood for an explanation—or for having a sister babysit her out of pity.
A cab pulled up. She climbed in, muttered her address, and leaned back hard against the seat, the city lights dragging streaks across the windows as they sped past.
Her chest was tight. Not with heartbreak—but something hotter. Meaner.
It was all an experiment.
That’s what they’d said. Louisa with her smug mouth. Caroline, gleaming with satisfaction like she’d delivered the punchline to a cruel joke.
The match. The dates. The late-night chats that had once made her feel seen. The smile he gave her at the frozen yoghurt café, the way he’d leaned in just slightly, asking her out on their third date like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Was that all planned as part of his experiment?
She could almost picture him laying it all out like a to-do list, step by step, mapping the whole thing as if it were just another controlled variable.
An experiment. The word curled in her mind, sharp and sour.
Something was burning in her chest—so strong she could almost smell it.
The taxi driver must have sensed it too, because he made no attempt at small talks.
By the time she reached her apartment, she was boiling. Her hands trembled as she shoved her key into the lock. The door swung open and she stepped inside, dropped her bag to the floor with a thud.
For a second, she just stood there in the middle of her living room—motionless, fuming.
Her mind kept circling back to the moment Darcy walked back into the living room at Bingley’s.
She’d wanted to say something then—to meet his eyes and challenge him, unfiltered and sharp.
But not in front of Caroline. Not with Louisa watching like it was theater.
And certainly not for his benefit. If she was just a test, then she had no intention of performing for them.
But now?
Now she would speak.
She grabbed her phone off the couch, opened the TrueNorth app, and pulled up the chat.
Her fingers worked faster than her mind made the words up.
“I found out tonight that this was all an experiment to you. Caroline Bingley told me—whether out of jealousy or sheer malice, I don’t know. But oddly, I’m thankful. Because now, finally, I have closure.
Last time we saw each other, you asked me out, and I asked you a fundamental question—one you had no answer for. No explanation whatsoever.
For days, I kept second-guessing myself.
I thought maybe I’d read too much into your silences.
That I could have overreacted. That maybe there was something—anything—to explain what you did.
Even when every gut instinct and bit of evidence screamed otherwise, I still gave you the benefit of the doubt.
And for a second, I thought—maybe. Just maybe there’s something real here.
Some version of you that exists beyond the code, the pride, the coldness, and the selfishness.
But as fate would have it, I learned tonight that it was all research. You claiming you want more. You acting like you ever cared. It was just an experiment. I was just another part of your algorithm’s sample size. A variable in your precious dataset.
What was the plan? Did you find out what I knew and think, ‘Oh, let’s toss poor Elizabeth a relationship pitch to throw her off’. Make me feel chosen so I’d stop asking questions? You think that lowly of me?
You should check your character, sir. You don’t care about people’s feelings. You treat anyone outside your world like a tool. A user to analyse. A pawn to manipulate.
But I’m not a pawn. And I won’t be silenced.
Joke’s on you, Fitzwilliam Darcy.”
Instinctively, she read the message over in a quick proofread to avoid typos, argued with her inner voice that it felt more like a letter—or worse, an email—than a message for a chat app, but she let her finger hover over the blue arrow.
Send.
She didn’t wait for a response. Didn’t give herself the space to regret it. Instead, she closed the app, held down the icon until it trembled—and deleted it.
Gone.
Still, it wasn’t enough.
She glanced toward her desk, her laptop sitting there like a quiet dare.
The article.
The one she’d written. The one she hadn’t published. The one that felt like a loaded M16.
Elizabeth marched over, flipped the lid, and woke it up from sleep. The document opened before her, words staring back at her like a reflection.
Her heart thudded.
“This is it,” she whispered.
She logged into her Substack, copied the document, pasted it in the text box and clicked publish.
A second later, she opened X.
Her fingers danced across the keyboard as she typed.
“Check out my new article: The Man Behind TrueNorth
#BigDataBigDelusion #Manbehindthemask”
She included the link to the Substack article and clicked send.
And for the first time since she left Bingley’s house, she felt something like breath. Like air in her lungs. Like control.
She wasn’t silenced.
She was just getting started.