The aftermath of the auction left Eliza with a reputation she hadn’t expected. In the insular world of the city’s elite, she was no longer just a "local"—she was the girl who had successfully extorted a hundred thousand dollars out of William Darcy for charity.
A week later, Eliza was closing up Longbourn Books & Brews when a man she didn't recognize walked in. He wasn't dressed in the stiff, architectural suits of Darcy’s world. He wore a weathered leather jacket, a relaxed grin, and carried a messenger bag that looked like it had seen the world.
"We’re closed," Eliza said, wiping down the mahogany counter.
"I know," the man said, his voice smooth and warm. "But I was told the smartest woman in the district works here. I’m George Wickham. I’m a freelance investigative journalist... and a ghost from William Darcy’s past."
The Story in the Rain
They ended up at a small, dimly lit pub down the street. As rain drummed against the window, Wickham told his story. He spoke of a childhood spent on the Pemberley estate—not as an heir, but as the son of the late Darcy Sr.’s favorite employee.
"The old man treated me like a second son," Wickham said, staring into his drink. "He promised me a share of the startup capital for my own media venture. He wanted me to have a future outside of service."
"And what happened?" Eliza asked, her curiosity piqued.
"William happened," Wickham laughed bitterly. "The moment his father passed away, the 'Ice King' took the throne. He tore up the informal agreement. He said a man of my 'standing' didn't deserve a seat at the table. He didn't just deny me the money, Eliza—he blacklisted me from every major newsroom in the city. He crushed my career before it even started."
Eliza felt a familiar flash of heat. It matched everything she had seen: Darcy’s arrogance, his obsession with "status," and his cold dismissal of anyone he deemed "inferior."
"Why tell me this?" Eliza asked.
"Because I saw what you did at the auction," Wickham said, leaning in. His eyes were kind, unlike Darcy’s piercing silver. "You’re the only person who’s stood up to him and won. I thought you should know exactly what kind of man you’re dealing with. He doesn't just judge people, Eliza. He erases them."
The Collision at Netherfield
The next day, Charles Bingley hosted a "Casual Sunday" brunch at the Netherfield penthouse. Eliza only went to support Jane, who was now inseparable from Charles.
The atmosphere was light until Darcy walked onto the terrace.
The moment Darcy’s eyes found Eliza, his expression softened—a change so subtle only she noticed. He began to walk toward her, looking as if he intended to actually speak.
Then he saw Wickham standing behind her.
The change in Darcy was instantaneous. His face didn't just go cold; it turned to stone. His eyes darkened with a fury so intense that the air around them seemed to drop ten degrees. Without a word, Darcy turned on his heel and walked in the opposite direction, disappearing back into the penthouse.
"See?" Wickham whispered in Eliza’s ear. "He can't even stand to look at the life he ruined."
The Confrontation
Eliza couldn't let it go. Later that afternoon, she found Darcy alone in Bingley’s library, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the city skyline.
"You’re a coward," she said, her voice echoing in the quiet room.
Darcy didn't turn around. "You should be careful about the company you keep, Miss Bennet."
"I prefer the company of people who have been wronged by your 'superior' family," she snapped. "Wickham told me everything. How you cheated him out of his inheritance. How you used your power to bury him."
Darcy turned slowly. He looked exhausted, but his jaw was set tight. "And I suppose you believed every word of his tragic tale?"
"Why wouldn't I? It fits the profile perfectly. You look down on my family, you look down on this neighborhood, and you clearly looked down on him."
Darcy took a step toward her, his presence suddenly overwhelming. "You know nothing of the truth. You’ve formed a 'prejudice' based on a five-minute conversation with a man who specializes in fiction."
"And you’ve formed a 'pride' based on a bank account!" Eliza shot back. "At least his fiction has a heart. Your truth is just ice."
For a long moment, Darcy just looked at her. His eyes searched hers, looking for something—perhaps a sign that she might listen. But Eliza’s face was a mask of righteous anger.
"If that is what you believe," Darcy said, his voice barely a whisper, "then I have nothing more to say to you."
He walked past her, his sleeve brushing hers. The contact sent a jolt of electricity through her arm, but she ignored it, focusing instead on the satisfied thought that she had finally told the Ice King exactly what he was.
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She didn't see the way Darcy stopped in the hallway, closing his eyes and leaning his forehead against the wall, his hand trembling.
ns216.73.217.139da2
and then Add to home screen.