Chapter Text

PROLOGUE

Day 1:

  The sea air was rich with salt and music, rolling in waves from the open doors of the The Crown a beach bar tucked between the cliffs of Kent near the coastline. The old sea rusted sign hangs lasily above the doorway and a gentle thump of bass music is mingling with the sound of the surf.

  Elizabeth Bennet on the other hand wasn’t supposed to be here. She had come to Kent, more specifically, Rosings Park University three days earlier to settle in, thinking she’d spend a quiet evening in her room unpacking books and printing her thesis framework for her final year as a master’s criminology student. But Charlotte had insisted on one last “freedom drink” before the storm of the final year.

  Elizabeth leaned against the bar, nursing a drink and tuning in and out of a nearby conversation about modernist poetry that made her toes curl. She scoffed, louder than intended and rolled her eyes, half-smiling, and half-sipping her drink.

  “Not a fan of Eliot?” came a dry voice beside her.

  She turned. He was quite tall and had dark curls which were slightly wind-tousled, a button-down shirt a touch undone in a way that looked more accidental than affected which showcased the chance of a very muscular chest. Something about him said money, but not the flashy kind—old, quiet and confident.

  “I think ‘Prufrock’ is overrated,” she said. “And entirely misunderstood by men who quote it to look deep.”

  He blinked. “A strong and unpopular opinion.”

  “I have many of those,” she said, not looking at him again.

  He ordered a drink—scotch, neat—and leaned on the bar. “So, what is deep, then? Enlighten me.”

  Elizabeth turned, eyes narrowing slightly, but there was a flicker of amusement on her face. “If you want a full literary rundown, you’ll need to find someone who will willingly give up their time to discuss it.”

  He was utterly taken aback by the harsh tone and only smiled faintly. Afterwards, they talked a little and debated, but not enough to get a sense of one another. She spoke with bright conviction about Orwell’s essays, about Austen’s irony being more revolutionary than romantic. He defended Romanticism and Byron with clipped elegance. She challenged, and he countered. And she noticed—more than once—that he wasn’t just listening to reply.

  He was actually listening.

  And yet—

  “Why do you keep doing that?” she asked after their third round.

  “Doing what?”

  “That.” Waving her hand unceremoniously towards his face “Looking at me like I’ve offended you by speaking.”

  He seemed caught off-guard. “I didn’t mean—”

  “You look like you’ve swallowed a lemon every time I say something with conviction.”

  He was silent for a beat too long, “You’re...demanding.”

  She frowned feeling judged. “Excuse me …. demanding? I have never -”

  He then snorted and gave a short dry laugh. They stood in silence as the bar bustled around them. She wondered if he was about to ask for her number. He seemed about to. But then he stood straighter and drained his glass.

  “Goodnight,” he said. “And thank you—for the lecture.”

  She watched him leave, her brows drawn together. “Didn’t even ask my name,” she muttered.

Day 2:

  The next morning Elizabeth woke with conviction and a need to go for a run. The air was crisp in Hunsford Park, the sun slanting over the running trails that wound through the trees, beginning to hint at spring. Elizabeth ran with earbuds in, rhythm steady, her mind chewing on thesis ideas and her strange bar encounter from the night before.

  She rounded a bend—and nearly ran straight into him.

  “Again?” he said, startled. He had headphones around his neck, sweat on his brow, and a reluctant smile pulling at the edge of his mouth.

  “Are you following me?” she shot back.

  “I was here first,” he replied, deadpan.

  They ended up running the trail together, side by side despite themselves. At first there were silences, broken by commentary on the route. Then a debate sparked over whether Wordsworth Romanticised nature or understood its savagery. She challenged his nostalgia; he raised an eyebrow at her clinical analysis.

  Half a mile from the end, her foot caught on an uneven root. She stumbled hard.

  He caught her before she could hit the ground.

  “Careful,” he said, breathless. His hands were firm on her waist.

  She steadied herself and stepped back immediately. “I’m fine. I can manage by myself.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting otherwise.” He looked irritated.

  “You have that look again,” she muttered.

  “What look?”

  “Like I’m about to break apart if someone doesn’t rescue me.”

  He straightened, defensive now. “You have a habit of interpreting the worst.”

  “And you have a habit of assuming superiority.”

  He exhaled through his nose, resisting the urge to say something biting. She stood there, hair loose from the run, brown waves framing a flushed face. Her hazelnut eyes burned with certainty, and for a moment, he found himself utterly speechless.

  She was unlike anyone he’d ever met.

  And perhaps the most beautiful.

  “I am superior in many ways, but I do not try to impose that on anyone.”

  “Overly confident I see, will add that to the list.”

  “What list?”

  Elizabeth froze, she did not intend to say the words out loud, but something about this man drives her insane and she cannot for the life of her understand why.

  “The one that I have compiled around your self-proclaimed intelligence.”

  If he thought he was irritated before, he was wrong. This woman had not only insulted him by disregarding the fact that he caught her before falling, but also managed to be prejudice against his character entirely within minutes and only to add fuel to the flame, she has not even known him for a whole day.

  Later that morning, Elizabeth flopped dramatically onto the couch in her and Jane’s shared flat, which is above the town’s bakery situated on the other side of Hunsford Park Forest.

  “He is the most insufferable man I’ve ever met.”

  Jane looked up from her laptop, brows lifted in curiosity. “Who?”

  Elizabeth sat up. “Tall, arrogant. Thinks he knows everything about poetry and personal boundaries.”

  “Oh dear,” Jane said mildly. “You’ve been debating literature with strangers again?”

  Elizabeth pulled a pillow onto her lap. “I met him at The Crown last night. Then this morning, running. And he caught me. Literally. Like I’m some damsel in distress.”

  Jane smiled into her laptop. “And you didn’t like that?”

  “I didn’t need catching! I had it.”

  “Right.” Jane sipped. “So let me get this straight… you’re upset that a handsome man with strong opinions physically saved you and then had the audacity to challenge you intellectually?”

  Elizabeth narrowed her eyes on her sister. “I know that tone.”

  Jane only smiled again, but didn’t press it.

  She knew her sister too well.

  Meanwhile, across campus, Darcy was on his way to the temporary university accommodation for the faculty. Bingley was already walking on the same path, both of their destinations already in sight.

  “There you are! I was beginning to think Kent had swallowed you whole.”

  Entering the lounge Darcy poured himself a glass of water and leaned against the counter. “I ran into someone.”

  “Oh?”

  “Twice, actually. At the bar, and this morning while I was running.”

  Bingley raised his brows. “That’s unusually social for you.”

  Darcy ignored the jab. “She’s… sharp. Unapologetically opinionated. Infuriating, really.”

  “And beautiful?”

  Darcy sighed. “Yes. Very.”

  Bingley laughed. “That bad?”

  Darcy shook his head. “She said I look like I’ve swallowed a lemon.”

  Bingley clapped him on the shoulder. “Sounds like you’ve met your match, old man.”

  Darcy didn’t respond, but his mind remained with the woman—her fierce tone, her flushed cheeks, her eyes like warm hazelnut coffee freshly brewed.

  He didn’t even know her name.

Day 3:

  Elizabeth woke later than usual, blinking against the gentle cool air of the Kent morning. Her running shoes waited by the door, but the idea of possibly crossing paths with him again made her hesitate. Once was enough. Twice was too much. Three times? That might start to feel like fate—and she was not one to believe in such idiocies.

  Instead, she padded into the kitchen where Jane was calmly arranging her books alphabetically. The kettle hissed, and the smell of chamomile tea lingered in the air.

  “I think I will not entertain the idea of a run today,” Elizabeth announced, plopping into a chair.

  Jane raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

  “I don’t want to risk… you know. Him.”

  “Him?”

  Elizabeth shot her a look. “You know who I mean. Arrogant poetry man with judgmental eyebrows.”

  “Oh,” Jane said lightly, hiding a smile.

  Elizabeth frowned. “I’m trying to forget both of those encounters. Anyway, I should focus. Finish unpacking. Build my thesis schedule.”

  They spent most of the morning doing just that—Elizabeth scribbling out her semester plan with color-coded tabs and sticky notes, Jane quietly offering tea and calm encouragement.

  By late afternoon, Elizabeth let out a breath. “Walk and dinner?” Jane suggested.

  “The Wild Fig Café?”

  “Yes, the one with the lemon thyme pasta”

  The Wild Fig Café was situated on a quiet street off the main town square, with a leafy pergola out front and soft instrumental music drifting from the open windows. Elizabeth and Jane took a small round table near the back window facing Hunsford Park Forest.

  “I hope this year’s different,” Jane said after they ordered. “Less chaotic.”

  Elizabeth smiled. “More time for reading and less time fixing Lydia’s mistakes?”

  “I wasn’t going to say it.” Jane chuckled. “But yes.”

  “What do you want from this year?” Elizabeth asked, elbows propped on the table

  Jane paused. “I want… to fall in love. Or something close. I’m tired of waiting for life to happen. I want to feel it.”

  Elizabeth softened. “You are a hopeless romantic.”

  “I make no apologies.” Jane smiled behind the teacup.

  The café door jingled and in walked Darcy and Bingley.

  Bingley scanned the room and nearly tripped over the welcome mat when his eyes landed on Jane. She looked up and froze. Their gazes locked.

  Then both looked away too quickly.

  Darcy murmured something to Bingley completely unaware of his friend’s shock of seeing the most beautiful creature, with sun kissed hair and bright ocean blue eyes. Who’s smile could stop wars.

  A waitress arrived, and Bingley ordered with a charming ease. “I’ll have the wild mushroom risotto, please. And a ginger lemonade.”

  Darcy, scanning the menu like it personally offended him, finally said, “Herbed chicken with barley, and sparkling water.”

  Looking at his best friend, still oblivious to the blush on his cheeks he started “Did you hear about the student government shuffle? Wickham was appointed president.”

  Bingley’s smile faded slightly. “I did. Apparently, Lady Catherine pulled strings. Everyone says he’s ‘charismatic,’ but… something about him unsettles me.”

  “He’s too ambitious,” Darcy said. “Always has been.”

  “And too charming. Which usually means trouble.” Bingley interjected. Darcy, finally realising that his friend is distracted decided to add a little humour to their quite evening, “It seems like, my old friend, that you have spotted what some might call a Diamond amongst the rocks. Would you like to be excused to go and talk to her?”

  “Don’t! She will notice.”

  Bingley looked down. “Maybe another time. She looks… busy.”

  “And so are you,” Darcy muttered.

After a few hours, just as the sky turned lavender over the rooftops and the lamplights flickered on, the two pairs exited nearly at the same time. The door to the café was narrow—Elizabeth stepped out and collided right into the back of a familiar solid form.

  Again.

  She looked up. He was already scowling.

  “Oh, come on,” she said.

  “You again,” he murmured.

  “I should ask if you’re following me.”

  “I don’t follow anyone.”

  They stared at each other. Bingley and Jane paused awkwardly just behind.

  The silence stretching a somewhat longer than needed.

  “I’m Charles Bingley, pleased to meet you. Miss?”

  “Jane Bennet.” She said shyly.

  Elizabeth still scowling at Darcy and to not dare break eye contact said in a firm voice, “Elizabeth Bennet.” Darcy’s breath caught, not only was she beautiful, but her name carried the same intelligence, stubbornness and beauty as her character.

  “This is my dear friend, Darcy … Fitzwilliam Darcy.” Bingley quickly interjected on behalf of his friend’s shocked silence.

  Elizabeth blinked, caught off guard by the old-fashioned name. “Fitzwilliam?”

  “Family tradition.”

  “Well then, Mr. Darcy. Maybe next time we collide, you’ll at least pretend not to be annoyed about it.”

  He raised a brow. “And maybe you’ll stop assuming the worst.”

  Jane and Bingley, both blushing, murmured polite goodbyes as their respective companions had already turned to go.

  Their names were now known.

  The air has changed.

  And with the new term just hours away, everything was about to begin.

Chapter Text

WELCOME TO ROSINGS PARK UNIVERSITY

  It was the first day of the term and the morning air buzzed with anticipation as students flooded through the gates of Rosings Park University, the stone buildings glowing under the chilled sun. Every building on campus bore the timeless grandeur of old English architecture—arched windows, carved stonework, and ivy-clad walls. The Faculty of Law, where Elizabeth was headed, resembled a small stone castle with turret-like towers and tall, lead-glass windows. It was one of the largest buildings on campus, standing imposingly at the heart of the university. The Humanities quad, where Jane would spend most of her days, was quieter and more serene, though no less majestic—ivy-draped and peaceful, with courtyards lined in cobblestone.

  Elizabeth turned to Jane and gave her a quick hug. “Good luck. You’ll dazzle them with Freud.”

  “And you’ll terrify them with crime theory,” Jane replied.

  They parted with a laugh, vanishing into their different buildings.

  The Faculty of Law auditorium was already filling up when Elizabeth arrived. She scanned the rows until she spotted a familiar face—Mary Bennet, her quiet and rigid cousin, seated at the back.

  “Reserved as always,” Elizabeth teased, sliding into the chair beside her.

  Mary adjusted her glasses primly. “One must always arrive early for orientation. It’s the respectful thing to do.”

  Elizabeth grinned and took out her notebook. The chatter in the room settled as a student assistant moved to the podium to begin the orientation announcements.

  As the final names of administrative staff were listed, Mary leaned in slightly, “Look at him.”

  “Who?”

  “Professor Wickham.” Mary exhaled and continued, “I’ve always thought Professor Wickham was… incredibly attractive,” she said under her breath.

  Elizabeth blinked. “Really?”

  Mary nodded. “That clean-cut kind of handsome. And those dark blue eyes. Plus, he always looks so polished. That hair—”

  Elizabeth interrupted, smirking. “What … Sand-colored and freshly-combed? That’s what get you going Mary?” Elizabeth winked.

  Mary smiled, unbothered. “He’s charming.”

  “And according to the faculty information sheets he’s 37, has a master’s in legal theory and teaches Advanced Law. Was even appointed Dean of the Faculty last year and appointed as President of the student government this year.”

  Suddenly, more curious about the Professor, Elizabeth decided to pay attention to his speech.

  "At Rosings Park University," he began, his voice clear and warm, "we hold fast to the values that define our profession—integrity, discipline, and accountability. As future legal minds, your commitment to these ideals starts now."

  Elizabeth tilted her head slightly, something about the way he said integrity feeling oddly rehearsed.

  As the speech continued, Mary leaned over again, lowering her voice. “I’ve heard rumors…”

  Elizabeth glanced at her. “What kind of rumors?”

  “That he accepts bribes for grades. Favors too. It’s whispered among the upper-year students.”

  Elizabeth frowned. “You shouldn’t believe every rumor that circulates through the library.”

  “I’m just saying, it’s always the charming ones.”

  Elizabeth didn’t reply. Her eyes had found the professor once more.

  “He’s only a modest kind of handsome,” she murmured. “Still, I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.” Elizabeth added.

  The room quieted as the microphone clicked.

  “Welcome,” said George Wickham, smiling broadly. “To your first day at the Faculty of Law.”

  A couple of hours later, with orientation speeches behind them, the Kent sun coaxed students into Rosings Park’s central green—a manicured expanse of lawn framed by elegant stone arcades. The space was filled with conversation and foot traffic, nestled between the grand old library, a stationery shop whose crooked shelves were always charmingly disorganised, and a string of inviting cafés spilling the scent of espresso and toasted bread into the air.

  Elizabeth spotted Jane first in the open sun to avoid much of the last winter air, already waving them over. Charlotte joined moments later, and the four settled onto the grass with a welcome sense of stillness.

  “I needed this,” Mary said, stretching her legs. “Before our brains get buried under  readings.”

  “It’s the same speech every year,” Elizabeth said flatly, opening a small Tupperware of sliced apple. “Wickham and his hollow talk. Five years of it now.”

  Elizabeth glanced at her sister. “Still better than being stuck in the Humanities speeches, I bet.”

  Jane smiled softly. “Ours were actually lovely. Dean Collins gave a gentle welcome—spoke about empathy guiding curiosity. Very poetic.”

  Charlotte pulled a muesli bar from her bag. “Communication faculty focused on factual integrity. ‘Nothing published without verification.’ I actually appreciated the reminder.”

  They shared sandwiches, fruit, and iced drinks from the café. Laughter punctuated their conversation as they swapped impressions of professors and campus life.

  “There are some very attractive men on campus,” Charlotte noted, glancing over her sunglasses.

  Jane gave a bashful nod. “I noticed that too.”

  Mary chimed in. “The new male lecturers in Constitutional and Political Law are quite distinguished.”

  Elizabeth rolled her eyes with a grin—until the thought of Darcy surfaced again. His tall frame, those arresting blue-green eyes, tanned skin under the collar of a crisp shirt. She remembered the strength of his arm when he caught her mid-run, the intensity of their sparring.

  And despite herself, a small flutter stirred in her chest.

  She shook her head, taking a long sip of iced tea. “Nope,” she muttered quietly.

  “Hmm?” Jane asked.

  “Nothing, just... mentally organising my week.”

  But Darcy’s face didn’t leave her thoughts so easily.

  In the staff lounge burrowed in an old but small church like building next to Faculty of  Engineering, Darcy and Bingley sat with fresh coffees in hand. Sunlight filtered through the tall leaded windows, casting warm streaks across the dark wooden floors and shelves of worn faculty binders.

  “Orientation went well, I think.” Bingley started, stirring sugar into his mug.

  Darcy gave a noncommittal shrug. “Well enough. First-year English students are always eager to name-drop Virginia Woolf and misquote Byron.”

  Bingley laughed. “You sound old.”

  “I feel old.”

  Just then, the door swung open and in strolled Dean Collins, his usual clerical collar slightly askew and his mug already half full of tea from the theological studies hall next door.

  “Well, well, gentlemen,” he said, setting down his cup beside theirs. “Did anyone warn you two about the swarm of first years who couldn’t take their eyes off you from the front row? I was trying to explain the honor code and all I could see was a sea of wistful sighs aimed at the two of you.”

  Bingley grinned. “Can’t help it if we’re devastatingly charming?”

  Collins rolled his eyes. “It was very irritating. And unfair. Some of us don’t get fan clubs by simply existing.”

  Before either could respond, the door opened once more and Wickham entered, fresh from his orientation. His blazer was unbuttoned, his smile practiced.

  “Morning, gentlemen,” he said, pouring himself a coffee.

  “You look smug,” Bingley observed.

  Wickham leaned against the counter. “I spotted someone familiar during the welcome speech. Back row. Smart mouth. Fierce stare.”

  “Ah,” Collins said with a knowing chuckle, “already profiling the minds you’ll crush under coursework?”

  “Something like that,” Wickham said. “She’s grown into her features—womanly now. Striking, even. Too sharp for my taste, but interesting nonetheless.”

  Darcy frowned slightly, setting down his mug.

  Collins, who’d taken a seat across from them, straightened with a mild frown. “Now, now. Let’s not get poetic about the students. We are, as I’ve reminded more than once, bound by university policy—and basic decency.”

  Wickham smirked but said nothing, the glint in his eyes suggesting poetry was the last thing on his mind.

  Bingley exchanged a glance with Darcy, who was already looking away—his jaw tense.

  “Some of us,” Darcy said quietly, “take those boundaries seriously.”

  The air cooled slightly as the clock struck the hour.

  “Alright, best be off,” Collins said, rising with his mug. “Let’s go dazzle them with ethics and Shakespeare.”

  And with that, they were off.

  By the time late afternoon arrived, Elizabeth felt the pleasant exhaustion of a full, productive day. Her arms were filled with folders, introductory course notes, and the famed guidelines from Professor Featherstone titled How to Write the Perfect Thesis. She had four final-year modules to complete, and Advanced Criminology was shaping up to be both her favorite and most intimidating subject.

  At home, Jane was already curled on the small living room couch with tea and her tablet. She looked up as Elizabeth entered and smiled warmly.

  “Long day?”

  “Not unbearable,” Elizabeth said, kicking off her shoes.

  “I’m glad,” Jane replied. “Humanities was calm. Everyone’s still pretending we’ll manage stress with breathing exercises.”

  Elizabeth chuckled and cuddled up beside her.

  Jane hesitated for a moment, then sipped her tea, she thought she saw the man from the café … Bingley ….near the Anthropology wing, but she wasn’t sure and thought not to mention it.

  Jane’s phone came alight with a call. She put it on speaker. Their mother’s voice came through cheerfully.

  “Girls! Just wanted to hear how your first day went. Lydia says university is fabulous, she’s absolutely in love with her dorm, and she and her roommate are already best friends.”

  Their father chimed in. “Though she also spent half the morning looking for the best lighting to film a TikTok.”

  Elizabeth and Jane exchanged amused looks.

  “She’s only nineteen,” their mother continued. “And she’s… easily distracted. Keep an eye on her, won’t you?”

  “We will,” Jane promised.

  “Goodnight, my darlings. Sleep well!”

  The call short as always ended abruptly, but afterwards the apartment felt quiet and still. Elizabeth wandered to her room and changed into her pajamas, she fell into bed with her mind racing through the information of the day.

  She drifted into sleep with thoughts of lecture halls and thesis outlines.

  And somewhere in that haze, she saw him again.

The Crown. That first unexpected spark. His challenging gaze, his low voice. The brush of something unspoken hanging between them.

Elizabeth turned in her sleep.

She didn’t know his name then. But she does now.

Darcy.

Chapter Text

LINES CROSSED

  Darcy’s office was every bit what one might expect from a professor of English literature—cozy, scholarly, and steeped in atmosphere. Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined the room, crammed with leather-bound volumes, dog-eared paperbacks, and stacks of annotated manuscripts. Dark wood furniture gave the space a timeless gravitas, complemented by a vintage reading lamp that cast a soft amber glow over the desk. A ceramic teapot sat between two thick mugs, steam curling lazily above it, filling the air with the faint scent of bergamot.

  Darcy sat in his usual spot, sleeves rolled to his forearms, a fountain pen held loosely in his fingers. Across from him, Bingley leafed through a printed class list, his brow furrowed in intense concentration.

  For a few minutes, there was only the rustle of papers and the occasional sip of tea.

  Then, awkwardly, Bingley cleared his throat. “There’s… something I should probably mention.”

  Darcy glanced up from his list. “Yes?”

  “It’s about Caroline.”

  Darcy blinked. “Your sister?”

  “Yes. She’ll be visiting Kent in June. She’ll be staying in town for about three weeks.”

  Darcy leaned back slightly, expression unreadable. “I see.”

  “She’s been staying at the Netherfield estate—you remember the place, in Hertfordshire.”

  “I remember.”

  “She sent me a text last week,” Bingley continued cautiously. “Said she wanted to spend some time here, clear her head, maybe reconnect with old friends. I thought it only right to warn you.”

  Darcy took another slow sip of tea. “It’s not her presence I mind. It’s the relentless pursuit that’s tiresome.”

  “She still…”

  “Tries?” Darcy interrupted. “Yes. Despite the fact that I’ve told her—clearly, I might add—that we’re better as friends. Or siblings even and that there’s nothing left.”

  Bingley winced. “She’s stubborn and heartbroken.”

  “She’s persistent,” Darcy corrected. “Which is different.”

  There was a pause.

  Bingley folded the class list and set it aside. “It’s been a year since you last saw her. I’m not asking you to rekindle anything—just… be civil. Please. For me.”

  Darcy exhaled slowly, nodding once. “Of course. For you.”

  The teapot let out a final hiss as the last of the steam curled into the morning light. The silence returned—heavier now, laced with old memories and the shape of conversations still to come.

  Elizabeth sat in the second row of her Research Methodology class, highlighter in hand, already underlining key passages in her research manual. The professor was methodical, outlining the importance of a strong theoretical framework, proper variable identification, and how to distinguish correlation from causation.

  Her focus was sharp—but her thoughts drifted briefly to the conversation she’d had with Professor Featherstone just outside the faculty office that morning. Professor Wickham, as Dean of the Faculty of Law, was not only her mentor during the basic law seminars but would also serve as the official academic reviewer of her thesis proposal.

  She sighed and scribbled a note beside her planner: Submit Thesis Topic by Friday.

  Three days. She had three days to decide the direction of the most important paper of her academic career.

  As the lecture drew to a close, a familiar figure leaned sideways from his usual spot in the third row—tall, slightly awkward, always smiling. His name was something-Long, Elizabeth couldn’t remember if it was Hugh or Harold, but he always seemed friendly enough.

  “I overheard something weird last night,” Elizabeth turned her head slightly, a touch confused as to the sudden conversation initiated by Long. “My mom—you know, Mrs. Long, one of the admin officers—she was on the phone with one of her collogues. Said something about missing university funds. Apparently, it keeps happening, and every time they try to bring it up to Lady de Bourgh, she says it’s a miscalculation. That Finance and Legal will ‘sort it out.’”

  Elizabeth blinked, caught off guard. “Really?”

  He nodded. “Could be nothing, but my mom sounded frustrated. Like this isn’t the first time.”

  She closed her notebook slowly.

  Missing funds. Repeatedly dismissed. Legal covering for Finance.

  A spark lit in the back of her mind—small, but undeniable.

  Her first real idea.

  What if that’s my thesis? A forensic investigation into financial misconduct and institutional complicity in higher education...

  She smiled faintly as the students filed out of the hall.

  Friday might just arrive with an idea worth defending.

  When the afternoon arrived, Elizabeth stepped into a smaller, sunlit seminar room tucked behind the Communications building. It was her first Fundamentals of Journalism lecture—a module she had only recently decided to take after persistent encouragement from Charlotte.

  "You’re going to need to know how to tell apart credible sources from nonsense if you’re going to expose anything," Charlotte had said. "Besides, it sharpens your arguments. And your storytelling."

  Now, as the class settled and introductions wrapped up, the lecturer began explaining the structure of investigative journalism. Elizabeth jotted down a few points before leaning sideways toward Charlotte.

  “Remember that student, the shy one from second year that tripped on the cobblestones right into you—Long? He told me something odd earlier. His mother works in administration. Apparently, there are rumors going around about missing university funds. Every time someone raises a flag, Lady de Bourgh brushes it off as a ‘miscalculation.’”

  Charlotte’s eyes widened. “You too?”

  “What do you mean?” Elizabeth blinked.

  “I’ve already decided to investigate it,” Charlotte said firm. “I’m planning to publish something about it as my final paper. It’s too consistent to ignore.”

  Elizabeth sat back in her chair, intrigued. “Where did you hear about it?”

  Charlotte hesitated, then glanced toward the front of the class before answering. “You know I’ve been helping Dean Collins part-time. Administrative experience, student liaison tasks, that sort of thing. He doesn’t say much outright, but... he’s slipped up more than once. Complaining about disaster-level budget cuts for some faculties—Humanities, Communication, even Medicine. But Law? Law’s getting constant increases.”

  Elizabeth frowned. “And who controls the Law faculty’s budget?”

  Charlotte’s expression turned grim. “Wickham. And finance has to funnel everything through Lady de Bourgh’s office.”

  The pieces, still vague and scattered, were beginning to hint at something much larger.

  Elizabeth tapped her pen thoughtfully against her notebook.

  “Then maybe I will not just write a thesis,” she said quietly.

  Elsewhere on campus, Jane wandered through the long, vaulted corridors of the Humanities building with a puzzled expression. She had meant to speak to the student advisor about potential openings for a teaching assistant position—ideally something within her department—but she couldn’t recall the name or office number.

  After looping around a second time and consulting a dusty building directory, she finally spotted the correct hallway. A small banner outside one of the offices read: Anthropology: The Study of Humans in All Their Cultural Forms. It piqued her curiosity.

  Anthropology? I thought it was mostly history... I didn’t realize it included human behaviour too.

  Two first-year students stood in a short queue just outside the open office door, chatting nervously while checking their schedules.

  Jane stood behind them, glancing toward the half-open door. The nameplate wasn’t visible from her angle—her attention remained caught on the soft academic posters and the title “Professor of Anthropology” above a collection of ethnographic photos on the wall.

  When the students ahead of her left, she stepped forward and smoothed her blouse, composing herself. She intended to ask about the TA position—but maybe also about auditing a lecture or two.

  She lifted her gaze as she crossed the threshold, words ready.

  And stopped dead in her tracks.

  “Charles?”

  Bingley looked up from behind the desk, surprise etched across his warm features. He blinked, stood abruptly, and stepped around the desk as if unsure whether to shake her hand or flee.

  “Miss Bennet,” he said, voice a little breathless. “I didn’t expect... I mean—please, come in.”

  They stared at each other for a brief moment—shocked, amused, completely unsure what to say.

  “I didn’t know you worked here,” Jane said quietly.

  “I … wait, what are you doing here?”

  Jane held up her student badge.

  “I... didn’t know you were a student,” Bingley admitted.

  “PhD in psychology.”

  The awkwardness between them settled into a gentle quiet, the beginnings of something unspoken hanging delicately in the air.

  That evening, the Bennet sisters’ shared apartment was oddly quite. Jane sat curled into the armrest of the couch, stirring her ice tea with slow, thoughtful movements. Elizabeth, in contrast, paced lightly around the kitchen island, animated as ever.

  “I’m telling you, Jane, every hallway has its whispers. Charlotte’s theory lines up with what Long said—hell, even Mary mentioned some odd things about law books not arriving and already paid for, when we spoke at lunch,” Elizabeth said, pushing a binder aside to perch on a barstool.

  Jane offered a small smile but said nothing, her expression unreadable.

  Elizabeth didn’t notice. “If this all ties together—embezzlement, institutional cover-ups, the President’s blind eye—then it’s the perfect thesis. It won’t just let me pass, it’ll make a difference. Expose something real.”

  At that, Jane looked up, finally speaking. “Lizzy… you’re assuming this leads to something you can expose. What if you uncover something dangerous? Fraud and budget manipulation—especially when it’s connected to university leadership. If Lady de Bourgh is involved, and your own Dean… do you really think they’ll just let you dig into it?”

  Elizabeth paused, considering.

  “I know,” she said after a moment. “But I don’t want to ignore it either. I don’t want to pretend nothing’s happening.”

  Jane sighed. “I just don’t want you to get caught in something that could ruin your record. Or worse.”

  Elizabeth nodded slowly, chewing her lip. “Wickham is the one who has to approve my topic,” she murmured. “I don’t even know how I’m going to submit the idea without giving away about the things I’ve already heard.”

  The microwave chimed off behind them, unnoticed. The apartment settled into thoughtful silence, each sister weighed by the implications of the day—one cautious, the other quietly considering.

  Thursday found Elizabeth, seated at one of the long oak tables in the university library beside Mary, each of them surrounded by books and scattered notes. The atmosphere was hushed, the smell of old pages and polished wood grounding Elizabeth as she tried to focus.

  Her pen paused midway across the page.

  What am I really doing?” she thought. This isn’t just a thesis anymore. It’s a risk. Jane was right. If I approach Wickham too directly… if he suspects what I know…

  She glanced at her scribbled outline.

  How do I even word the topic in a way that raises no suspicion but still allows me to dig? And if he denies it—if he blocks it—will Professor Featherstone assist me in uncovering the truth? Can Charlotte’s work help give this weight? Or will both of us end up shut down by the very people we’re meant to respect?

  Her eyes flicked to the windows high above the library shelves. Sunlight danced across the glass in slanted rays, and for a brief moment, Elizabeth wondered what Darcy was doing. It was a fleeting curiosity—she pushed the thought aside and returned to her research.

  Across from her, Mary closed one book and reached for another. “Wickham stood in for my Intro to Common Law professor today,” she said conversationally. “He did a really good job. Clear, confident, organised. You know, I think he’s quite brilliant.”

  Elizabeth hummed noncommittally, not looking up. “Brilliant, maybe.”

  Mary raised a brow but let it go. As the hour wore on and the afternoon slipped toward early evening, they packed up their things and left the library together.

  At the top of the stairs, Mary offered a quick wave. “Good luck tomorrow. Let me know how it goes.”

  Elizabeth nodded and lingered just outside the doors. The campus was cast in dimmed light, students moving in small groups across the lawns, the tall stone buildings glowing against the twilight.

  She exhaled slowly and looked back at the library one last time.

  This university deserves the truth, she thought.

  And in that moment, the title came to her—clear, unwavering.

  “Veil of Respectability: A Forensic Inquiry into Institutional Concealment of Financial Misconduct.”

Chapter Text

SUBTLE WARS

  Darcy woke with a groan, one hand draped over his face. The dream still clung to him—vivid and unsettling. Elizabeth. Her lips, the most perfect cupid’s bow, the flash of hazelnut eyes catching the sunlight. The curve of her waist when he caught her in the park…

  He sat up abruptly, rubbing his hands down his face. “Ridiculous,” he muttered.

  She was infuriating, opinionated and blunt, far too quick to judge. And yet she haunted his sleep like some mythic creature. It’s just admiration, he reasoned. Intellectual irritation and nothing more.

  Still scowling, he made his way across campus toward his office, hoping to lose himself in his lecture preparation. But as he approached the student advisor from the Law department intercepted him.

  “Professor Darcy,” the advisor said, breathless. “Dean Wickham would like a word in his office. Urgently.”

  Darcy frowned. “About what?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  Mildly annoyed, Darcy turned and headed toward the Law building—an imposing structure that always seemed colder than the rest.

  When he stepped into Wickham’s office, the air felt immediately heavier. Wickham was seated behind his desk, signature smirk in place, fingers steepled.

  “Ah, Darcy,” he said with mock delight. “Thanks for coming. I’ll keep this brief.”

  “I doubt that,” Darcy said under his breath.

  Wickham ignored the jab. “You’ll be receiving four new students into your class, one of them a master’s student.”

  Darcy’s brows shot up. “What? My class is full, I have no room—not physically, not administratively. My syllabus is already stretched.”

  “Yes, yes,” Wickham waved a hand dismissively. “But these students are special cases. The Faculty Board approved the reallocation.”

  “And why a master’s student?

  “She’s been struggling with grammar and literature foundations, she needs improvement before submitting her thesis.”

  Darcy’s eyes narrowed. “My class is a capstone for final-year undergrads, not remedial prep for postgraduate students.”

  “I’m sure you’ll find a way to manage,” Wickham said coolly, leaning back. “You’re known for your high standards, after all.”

  Darcy took a slow breath. “You’re not doing this for the student's benefit.”

  Wickham’s smile deepened. “I am president of the student government. Sometimes I must act in students’ interests, whether faculty find that convenient or not.”

  With clenched fists, Darcy turned on his heel and left the office.

  He didn’t see Wickham’s satisfied smirk linger behind him. The new enrollments were part of a larger game—more students meant more fees, discreetly rerouted.

  And Elizabeth? That had nothing to do with literature, it was all about control. And undermining Darcy at every turn.

  Elizabeth made her way across campus toward the Law faculty. Her final class of the day had just ended, and while the weight of the week was pressing down on her, she still had one more task to complete before the second week of term could be scratched off.

  She had an appointment with Professor Wickham to present her thesis topic. The halls were quieter than usual—most students had already gone home or retreated to coffee shops and dormitories to begin their weekend and the idea of sleep, or even just a moment of distraction, was tempting, but this was too important.

  She reached Wickham’s office and knocked once before entering, the door creaking as it opened slowly. Wickham was seated at his desk, his expression unreadable, tapping a pen against his notebook.

  “Miss Bennet,” he said with a smile. “Please, come in.”

  Elizabeth stepped inside but made no move toward the chair.

  “Please sit.”

  “I am alright with standing, Professor.”

  Wickham glanced at the empty chair, then shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  “So, let’s hear it. What bold topic have you chosen for your final masterpiece?”

  Elizabeth handed him the brief proposal. “It’s titled ‘Veil of Respectability: A Forensic Inquiry into Institutional Concealment of Financial Misconduct.’”

  Wickham’s eyes scanned the title and abstract. For a moment, something flickered in his gaze—surprise? Alarm? But it faded quickly.

  “Interesting,” he said slowly. “Very... timely. Corruption, embezzlement. It’s everywhere, isn’t it? Especially in global corporations and those massive sports franchises. Always someone laundering money or hiding accounts.”

  Elizabeth said nothing, watching him carefully.

  Wickham set the paper down. “You’ve always had an exceptional mind, Elizabeth, sharp, precise.”

  Then, casually—too casually—he added, “And it’s not just your mind that’s matured over these past few years.”

  The comment slipped out like a compliment. Easily missed, but Elizabeth caught it.

  She didn’t flinch, but she didn’t smile either.

  There was a beat of silence.

  “Well,” Wickham said, leaning back, “I think this is a promising start. You’ll have until the end of May to submit your first draft.”

  “Understood,” she replied coolly.

  “One more thing,” he added, flipping through a file folder. “I’ve gone ahead and enrolled you in Advanced Literary Perspectives, it begins on Monday. Thought it might strengthen your foundation in grammar and analysis for the thesis.”

  Elizabeth blinked. “I wasn’t aware I had any issues in that area.”

  Wickham smiled again, disarming and distant. “Just a precaution. Literature plays a big role in communication, after all.”

  Elizabeth nodded slowly, masking her irritation. “Thank you. I appreciate the opportunity.”

  As she stepped out into the hallway, she was evidently confused.

  She knew that her knowledge on literature was unmatched even between some of the English majors. There was no legitimate reason to be placed in that course.

  Something didn’t add up.

  That evening, the warmth of The Crown was a welcome reprieve from the week’s pressures. The cozy lights strung across the ceiling, the sound of waves crashing faintly in the background, and the nostalgic scent of sea salt and citrus offered a small sanctuary for overworked academics. Darcy and Bingley sat at their usual corner of the bar, two pints between them.

  “I still haven’t looked at their names,” Darcy said, sipping his beer. “Wickham’s little surprise pack of students. I won’t bother to know who they are until they walk into my class Monday morning.”

  Bingley raised a brow. “You mean you’re not even curious?”

  “I’m many things,” Darcy replied. “Curious isn’t one of them—not when it involves Wickham’s handiwork.”

  “He said one was a master’s student?”

  Darcy sighed. “Yes, which makes no sense! My course is designed for final-year English majors, not for polishing grammar, but Wickham insists she needs it for her thesis.”

  Bingley tilted his glass. “It could be a disaster.”

  “Yes, that it will most definitely be, what does a Law student know about Hemingway.” Darcy said flatly.

  There was a pause as the two men drank in silence.

  Bingley spoke again, voice softer. “I saw Jane Bennet again.”

  Darcy turned his head, intrigued. “Oh?” Bingley deciding not to mention the circumstances around their meeting he only added, “She’s… beautiful and poised. And there’s something about her, I wouldn’t mind a few more moments with her.”

  Darcy quirked an eyebrow. “Ask her out, then. She might walk in here tonight and you could ask her for a dance.”

  Bingley chuckled. “If only life worked that smoothly.”

  As if summoned by fate—or irony—the pub door opened.

  Jane Bennet walked in.

  Beside her were Mary, Charlotte, and then finally… Elizabeth.

  Darcy’s pint hovered midway to his lips and his breath caught.

  Hazelnut eyes. Dark curls. The flush of her cheeks from the cool evening air.

  Bingley looked over and blinked. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  The group of women approached the bar, directly across from them.

  Elizabeth glanced around the room—and her gaze landed on Darcy.

  Every moment they had shared—the first accidental encounter, the park, her sharp words, his sleepless nights—flashed through his mind.

  “And there is your match I see.” Bingley mocked, “She is just as attractive, might I add Darcy.”

  Just then Elizabeth turned away—but not before Darcy, with half a smirk and half a sneer, leaned toward Bingley and muttered, “She’s tolerable at the least, I suppose. But not attractive enough to tempt me.”

  He hadn’t meant for it to carry.

  But it did.

  Elizabeth stiffened, her fingers curling around her glass. Darcy not noticing that she had heard the comment.

  Bingley winced. “You’re a bloody fool sometimes.”

  He rose from the table.

  “Where are you going?” Darcy asked.

  “To dance with the woman I find more than just tolerable,” Bingley said, crossing the floor toward Jane.

  Darcy watched him go, then looked back at Elizabeth.

  She’s going to ruin me, he thought.

  And somewhere deep down… he didn’t mind.

  As the evening wore on, the bar grew livelier. Laughter spilled over from neighboring tables, music pulsed through the speakers, and glasses clinked rhythmically. Elizabeth, emboldened by the mood and perhaps the lingering irritation of Darcy’s earlier remark, made her sway over to him.

  “Mr Darcy,” she said coolly.

  Darcy looked up from his nearly-empty pint and smirked. “Took you long enough.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes sparkled with challenge. “You didn’t exactly make an effort either.”

  He stood, unbuttoning his blazer. “Touché.”

  They both turned slightly to watch Bingley and Jane laughing mid-spin on the makeshift dance floor.

  Darcy exhaled slowly, then took a leap he rarely allowed himself.

  “Would you care to dance?”

  Elizabeth hesitated, but only for a moment. “You can’t possibly think I’d let you ruin one of my favorite pastimes.”

  Unbothered by the snide remark he offered his hand, and she took it.

  As they moved onto the dance floor, the rhythm of the music shifted to something smooth and intimate. Elizabeth, light on her feet and half-buzzed from her second glass of gin, let the melody guide her. Darcy, surprisingly adept, matched her step for step.

  Their arms brushed occasionally and his hand grazed her back, then the small of her waist. Her fingers, without conscious thought, settled at the base of his neck.

  Then—whether intentional or instinctive—Darcy drew her slightly closer, adjusting their rhythm.

  Elizabeth didn’t resist.

  The sway of their movements became softer, slower. The space between them grew narrower, charged and the rest of the bar blurred in their periphery.

  When the music ended, they didn’t move.

  Their eyes met—blue-green and hazel, locked in something fragile and profound.

  A cough interrupting the moment—

  “I’d like to go home now,” Mary’s voice cut like broken glass. “Jane’s too busy laughing to notice I’ve been sitting alone for twenty minutes.”

  Elizabeth startled, stepping back from Darcy as if touching fire. She blinked, collecting herself.

  “Of course,” she said quickly. “Let’s go.”

  Without another word or glance at Darcy, she took Mary’s arm and guided her out of The Crown.

  Darcy stood motionless amid the retreating rhythm and dimming lights.

  His hands still tingled.

  Saturday passed in a gentle haze. Elizabeth noticed Jane slipping in through the front door at 2 a.m. but chose not to comment. The two sisters spent most of the day half-asleep, lounging across their couches, half-watching reruns on the television and eating leftover pizza.

  It wasn’t until Sunday morning that the pace picked up.

  Elizabeth awoke to the comforting scent of vanilla and cinnamon drifting through the flat. She padded barefoot into the kitchen, where Charlotte and Jane were orchestrating a pancake operation—Jane mixing batter with practiced grace while Charlotte tried (and failed) not to burn her second attempt.

  “Morning, sunshine,” Charlotte said over her shoulder.

  Elizabeth yawned and smiled. “Is that breakfast, or a fire hazard?”

  Charlotte stuck her tongue out making Jane laugh.

  “I’ll make the next round,” Elizabeth offered.

  As they settled in at the small dining table, steaming mugs of tea in hand, Jane was the first to break the companionable silence.

  “So... I may have kissed Charles Bingley.”

  Elizabeth nearly dropped her mug.

  “What?”

  Jane’s cheeks flushed. “After we danced, we went for a walk down the cliff path toward the beach. It was... kind of magical. We talked, laughed, and when the moonlight hit just right—well. It just happened.”

  “And then what? You walked back holding hands until two in the morning?” Elizabeth teased.

  Jane laughed softly. “Yes.”

  “I think I may have a small crush of my own.” Charlotte interjected.

  Elizabeth arched a brow. “On who?”

  “Dean Collins.”

  Jane nearly choked on her tea and Elizabeth balked so hard so almost ended up on the floor.

  “Collins? As in formal, awkward, forty-something-years-old, wears-too-much-cologne Collins?” Elizabeth asked.

  Charlotte rolled her eyes. “He’s not that old. And he’s actually quite sweet once you get past the… stiffness.”

  Jane giggled. “You have got to be kidding. Any other type of stiffness you would like to get past Charlotte?”

  “I’m not and maaayyybee." Charlotte winked, "He’s considerate, he always remembers my name, and he lets me help him organise the student mingle event next week.”

  Elizabeth frowned. “He’s also obsequious, pompous, and overly self-important.”

  Charlotte shrugged, sipping her tea. “Some women find that charming.

  “Do you find that charming?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Yes,” Charlotte said with a sly smile.

  The three dissolved into laughter as the Sunday sunlight bathed their little kitchen, the world outside momentarily far less complicated than the lives they were each secretly entangled in.

  Elizabeth was waiting in anticipation to take her ever first literature class.

  The sun rose on Monday morning with deceptive calm.

  Darcy stood in the lecture hall, sleeves rolled to his forearms, arranging lecture notes and adjusting the projector. His topic for the day: “Visual Semiotics in Romantic-Era Literature: How Art Shaped Narrative Voices.” The subject fascinated him, blending Turner’s landscapes with Wordsworth’s introspection, but this morning, even poetry couldn’t anchor his thoughts.

  He had remembered of the four new students joining his module and still did not bother to read their names. Partly out of protest, partly from indifference. Until they arrived, they were just faceless additions to an already overfilled class.

  Elizabeth adjusted the strap of her bag as she stepped out of the criminology building and crossed the university quad. The air was cool, crisp, the kind that hinted spring was somewhere around the corner.

  She glanced down at her timetable again. Advanced Literary Perspectives. Lecture Hall 4.

  Wickham had mentioned the class with his usual smarmy confidence, but hadn’t elaborated. She had only agreed because it satisfied a requirement and would strengthen her writing.

  As she walked, she caught snippets of conversation from a pair of English majors ahead of her.

  “His classes are brutal.”

  “But he’s so damn gorgeous. Like, painfully good-looking.”

  Elizabeth snorted softly. Typical.

  Still, she was mildly curious. How bad could it be?

  She rounded the corner and entered the lecture hall just as the hum of student chatter was reaching its peak. Her boots clicked softly against the stone floor as she scanned for a seat—

  —she felt paralysed.

  There he was.

  Darcy.

  Standing at the front of the class, lit by morning sunlight through tall windows like he was standing center stage readying for a performance. An off-white button-up stretched perfectly across his shoulders, sleeves rolled, collar unbuttoned just enough to be criminal. He glanced up.

Elizabeth’s breath hitched.

  No. No. No.

  Darcy blinked, as though he hadn’t believed she was real until just now. Is she’s one of the students?, he questioned.

  His thoughts spiraled—How old is she? Is this some kind of punishment? And yet, all he could truly think was how stunning she looked—black tights, brown boots, and an olive-green jumper that made her eyes more golden than ever.

  Elizabeth moved to a row mid-way through the hall, not breaking eye contact until she sat. Just as she was about to open her notebook, a third-year student stepped into the aisle, blocking her view.

  “Hey,” he said with a lazy grin. “You’re new here. Want to get coffee after class?”

  Elizabeth didn’t even blink. “Not interested.”

  He faltered, “Come on babe it will be worth your wild.”

  Elizabeth only glared at him, dismissing his attempts at flattery. When he realised, he was being embarrassed he then walked off with a shrug, “Your loss babe.”

  Darcy had watched the interaction, an unexpected flicker of jealousy curling in his chest.

  He cleared his throat. “Let’s begin.”

  He turned to the projector, heart racing.

  And class began—but neither of them heard a word of it.

  Elizabeth couldn’t stop staring at the man whose arms she had wrapped her own around just two nights ago.

  Darcy couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that she now sat in the one space he had always controlled completely.

  This was going to be impossible.

  He tried to focus on Turner’s use of color. On Coleridge and the fragmented sublime. On meaning in metaphor.

  But all he could think about was the way her hand had felt on his neck.

  Elizabeth took notes, well she tried to, at least. But her eyes kept rising to Darcy’s form, the resonance of his voice.

  This is not going to be easy, they both thought, in silence.

  The lecture crawled to a close with both of them barely able to focus. Darcy's words felt distant to Elizabeth, like echoes through a fog. She had taken notes out of sheer habit, but none of it stayed in her mind.

  As the final slide faded from the projector, students began to gather their bags and file out of the room. Elizabeth stood, tucking her notebook under her arm.

  “Miss Bennet,” Darcy’s voice rang out, firm but low.

  She turned, slightly startled.

  “Yes?”

  “Could you stay behind for a moment?”

  The last few students trickled out, the door swinging gently shut behind them and the silence that followed was stretched.

  Darcy stood near the edge of the desk, arms folded, searching for the right words.

  “I didn’t know,” he said finally. “That you were a student. If I had, I wouldn’t have... spoken with you. Or danced with you.”

  His voice faltered slightly. He meant it as explanation, but the words came out cold. Detached. Like she had been some kind of mistake.

  Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed, her posture straightening.

  “Well,” she said sharply, “I certainly wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable with my presence. But don’t worry, Professor, you have nothing to worry about. After all, I’m only tolerable.”

  Darcy flinched, he hadn’t realised that she heard the false comment.

  He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

  Elizabeth turned on her heel, walking out of the classroom with her head high.

  And Darcy was left standing in silence, wondering how one woman could unravel him so completely. 

Chapter Text

BOUNDARIES AND BREACHES

  Darcy stormed down the stone corridor, his polished shoes striking the aged flagstones with a force that echoed his internal discontent. The arched windows lining the hall spilled hazy afternoon light over his brooding silhouette, but the calm elegance of Rosings Park University only deepened his agitation. Students turned their heads as he passed, sensing his dark mood, but he didn’t spare them a glance.

  The faculty lounge, was a warm and quiet haven—usually. Today, however, it was about to become the site of something else entirely.

  Bingley sat on one of the leather couches, legs crossed and hands wrapped around a steaming cup of tea with a half-eaten sandwich resting on a napkin beside him. He looked up with a welcoming smile, but the moment his eyes caught Darcy’s expression—rigid jaw, furrowed brow, and tightly set mouth—his smile faltered.

  “You look like you’ve just graded a hundred plagiarised essays,” Bingley joked, trying to ease the atmosphere.

  Darcy remained standing, his tall frame tense. “Elizabeth Bennet... is... a... student,” he said flatly, each word dropped with the weight of a stone.

  Bingley blinked. “Ahhh,” he said after a beat, drawing out the syllable. “Yes... right. That.”

  Darcy narrowed his eyes. “You knew.”

  “I—well—I assumed,” Bingley stammered, setting down his tea quickly.

  “How did you come to this assumption, Charles.”

  “Well, Jane is a student and they’re sisters, so I thought... I didn’t think about anything proper after I saw her in my office.”

  Darcy was clearly confused, In his office? What was he talking about? What is even going on? Darcy thought altogether.

  Darcy took a step forward, looming now. “You didn’t think to tell me that the woman I was dancing with—the woman I’ve been dreaming about—is one of my students?”

  Bingley indicated to his friend to sit down and lower his voice, luckily the space was nearly empty, and no one close enough to hear their secrets.

  Bingley leaned back. “Will, I didn’t know that you didn’t know. And frankly, you didn’t seem interested in knowing anything about anyone that night.”

  Darcy let out a frustrated breath and ran a hand through his hair. “This morning was a disaster. I could barely get through the lecture. And she—she just sat there looking at me like I was the villain of her story.”

  Bingley tilted his head. “Well... you did say she was only tolerable.”

  Darcy gave him a glare so sharp that Bingley held up his hands in surrender.

  “Alright, alright. Poor timing. But Will... what are you really upset about? That she's a student, or that now you feel like you can’t pursue anything at all?”

  Darcy didn’t answer. Instead, he sat deeper into the chair across from Bingley and stared at his at nothing, just like he was trying to feel nothing.

  Bingley studied him a moment, then exhaled. “Jane and I …..” Bingley hesitated, “After you left The Crown on Friday, Jane and I went for a walk.”

  Darcy’s head snapped up.

  “I kissed her,” Bingley said quickly. “Down at the beach.” Darcy stared at him in disbelief. “Charles, for heaven’s sake—”

  “I know. I know what you’re going to say,” Bingley interrupted. “That we’re professors, that it is unethical. But Will... I like her. I haven’t connected with someone like that in a long time.”

  “Charles, what did you mean by you saw Jane in your office?”

  “O, well … she needed to see the student advisor regarding—”

  “Charles! When … was … this?”

  “Yes, sorry … last week Monday.”

  “You’ve known she’s a student since Monday” Darcy asked, incredulously.

  Bingley nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was hoping it wouldn’t matter. I mean, nothing official has happened, and I wasn’t planning anything. But when she smiled at me, I couldn’t just ignore it.”

  Darcy stood again, pacing a few steps. “You know as well as I do, this isn’t about intention. It’s about perception. Boundaries exist for a reason. We have careers to protect. Reputations for goodness sake!”

  “I’m not disagreeing with you,” Bingley said carefully. “But you’re not exactly innocent here either. You haven’t been able to take your eyes off the other Miss Bennet since day one.”

  Darcy stopped pacing and met his friend’s gaze.

  “I know,” he said softly. “And that’s the problem.”

  Elizabeth stomped across the quad with a force that matched Darcy’s earlier strides. Her mind raced, her irritation simmering just below the surface. She spotted Jane lounging in their usual sunny spot beneath a wide chestnut tree, a book forgotten in her lap as she watched the clouds drift across the sky.

  Elizabeth dropped her bag beside Jane with a soft thud and crossed her arms. “So,” she said sharply, “you kissed a professor.”

  Jane blinked, startled. “Lizzy—”

  “If Darcy is a professor,” Elizabeth continued, cutting her off, “then it stands to reason that Bingley is too. Which means that you—my sweet, secretive sister—have been hiding something.”

  Jane sat upright and set her book aside. “I didn’t hide anything, not intentionally. I didn’t know how to bring it up. I wasn’t even sure how I felt about it until—”

  “Until you kissed him on the beach at 2am?” Elizabeth shot back. Her voice was tight, her jaw clenched.

  “I’m sorry, truly,” Jane said, gently. “It’s just... I’ve never met someone like him. And I didn’t want to complicate things by telling you before I even knew what it was.”

  Elizabeth let out a sigh and sat beside her. “I get it. I do. But I’m still frustrated. He’s a professor, Jane. We’re students. This is messy. And now I have to spend the rest of the semester sparring with Darcy—someone whose pride is so inflated it practically has its own postal code.”

  Jane gave a small smile. “You don’t have to spar with him.”

  “Have you met me?” Elizabeth raised an eyebrow.

  Before Jane could respond, a high-pitched voice interrupted their moment.

  “Ladies!” Lydia Bennet dropped onto the grass beside them, her oversized sunglasses perched on her nose and a coffee in hand. “You will not believe how many gorgeous men there are on this campus. It’s like heaven in tweed blazers.”

  Jane gave her a wary look. “Lydia, maybe you should focus more on your classes than the men in them.”

  Elizabeth added, “You don’t want to get a reputation, Lyds. People talk.”

  Lydia rolled her eyes dramatically. “Please. I’m just looking. I haven’t done anything... yet.”

  But in her mind, a memory flickered—of a certain professor’s fingers brushing her inner thigh, the way his voice dropped when he whispered compliments whilst kissing her collarbone. She pushed the thought down quickly, replacing it with a bright smile.

  “So! Have either of you tried the strawberry smoothies at the café? Life changing.”

  Jane and Elizabeth exchanged a skeptic glance.

  In the administrative wing of the university, Charlotte Lucas stood beside Dean Collins in his narrow, book-filled office. They were reviewing the final touches for the upcoming student mingle event, which was postponed by a few more weeks, giving them much more needed time to prepare.

  “We need a theme,” Charlotte said, flipping through the event planning file. “Something memorable.”

  “What about a Regency Ball?” Collins offered. “It would be... thematic. Evocative. Nostalgic.”

  Charlotte chuckled. “Nineteenth-century elegance and moral restraint. How ironic.”

  They agreed on the theme quickly—‘A Night at Pemberley’—and began discussing logistics. Collins suggested a Friday night in the first week of June when the evening air was much warmer, and Charlotte began noting down catering options and decor ideas.

  Just as she was scribbling a to-do list, Collins’ phone buzzed.

  “Excuse me,” he said, stepping out into the hallway to take the call.

  Left alone, Charlotte’s eyes wandered to the neatly stacked papers beside his desk. She hesitated... then reached for them. The pages detailed budget allocations across faculties. Her brow furrowed as she noticed strange fund transfers from Humanities to Law—and a denied request for additional Humanities funds stamped with Lady de Bourgh’s digital signature.

  Before she could examine them further, she heard footsteps. Heart pounding, Charlotte shoved the papers back and perched herself casually on the edge of his desk just as Collins walked back in.

  He paused at the door, surprised by the scene—Charlotte, seated on the polished wood, framed by soft afternoon light. Something shifted in his gaze.

  The thought was quick and quiet but unmistakably inappropriate.

  He cleared his throat and smiled tightly. “Where were we?”

  Charlotte returned the smile, her expression unreadable. “Just discussing candlelight versus string lights.”

  They moved on with the planning, but Charlotte’s mind was already racing.

  Something wasn’t right. And she would need to speak with Elizabeth soon.

  In his office, George Wickham reclined behind his wide mahogany desk, his feet crossed leisurely atop the surface, a smirk tugging at his lips. His office was sleek and modern, unlike the older faculty offices—a sharp reflection of how he viewed himself in relation to them.

  All the pieces were in motion. Slowly but surely.

  He tapped his pen against the side of his chair as he reviewed the list of projects, student appointments, and departmental meetings he had cunningly twisted to his favor. Most of the faculty underestimated him—especially Collins and Bingley. Collins was too self-important to notice the deeper financial discrepancies. Bingley too trusting and frivolous to look beyond what was charming and surface-level.

  Darcy, however—Darcy was a threat.

  Wickham scowled slightly at the thought of him. Darcy had always been the golden boy, the brilliant scholar, the name people whispered with admiration. Wickham planned to fix that. He didn’t yet know how, but he would see Darcy disgraced, removed from Rosings Park. The man had always made him feel small, and now Wickham held the cards.

  Then there was Elizabeth.

  Ah, Elizabeth Bennet.

  She was too intelligent for her own good. Sharp-eyed, perceptive, and unafraid to challenge authority. But everyone had a weakness, and his plan to use Lydia was already yielding fruit.

  Lydia was impulsive, eager for attention, and—more importantly—entirely unaware of how he was grooming her. He had no intention of keeping her for long. She was a pawn. A stepping stone to Elizabeth. Eventually, he would control Elizabeth too—one way or another.

  He leaned back further and smiled.

  Let them believe they were winning.

  By the time they realized the truth, it would already be too late.

  The week passed in a blur of lectures and late-night study sessions. Elizabeth and Darcy had grown skilled at navigating the sprawling campus without crossing paths. Elizabeth even caught herself checking corners before turning them—an exhausting game of avoidance.

  It was foolish, she thought. He wasn’t in her faculty. Aside from the A.L.P module, which were only on  Monday’s and Friday’s, they had no reason to see each other. And yet, Friday was here, while standing outside of the class her stomach twisted with reluctant anticipation.

  She sat in the back of the lecture hall, notebook open but mostly untouched. Darcy’s voice flowed steadily as he dissected the use of literary perspectives in Renaissance art, but she barely heard a word. Her thoughts drifted—

  As the class ended, she made a swift move to leave—but her path was blocked by the same overconfident student who had tried to flirt with her the previous week. His name, she recalled now with disdain, was Callum Worthing.

  “Hey, babe,” he said, leaning a little too close. “What do you say we go out this afternoon? I know a spot that’ll blow your mind.”

  “I already said no,” Elizabeth replied sharply, stepping back.

  Worthing followed, his hand closing around her arm and leaning in closer to her ear. “Come on, don’t be like that. Afterwards I guarantee I’d be the best shag you’ve ever had, you’ll be very satisfied.”

  Elizabeth’s stomach turned. She yanked her arm free. “Given your clear lack of intelligence, I highly doubt you could fathom what would satisfy me.”

  He reached for her again—but a shadow moved between them.

  His tall frame was rigid with tension. “Leave,” he said coldly. “Now. Or I report you to Dean Collins for harassment and assault.”

  Worthing paled, he hesitated and then slunk away.

  The lecture hall emptied, Darcy turned slowly to Elizabeth, his eyes scanning her face, then her arm. Without a word, he reached out, fingertips grazing the spot where Worthing had grabbed her.

  Elizabeth didn’t move. For a moment, they simply stared at each other.

  His touch was the opposite of everything he projected—gentle, considerate, sincere.

  Her heart fluttered.

  She stepped back, too aware of her own reaction. “Thank you,” she murmured, then turned and left the hall without another glance.

  On her way home Elizabeth retreated to the Wild Fig Café, craving warmth, caffeine, and some kind of mental escape. The air smelled like cinnamon and roasted espresso beans. She slid into a corner booth by the window and ordered her usual café mocha, pulling her notes out to feign productivity. Moments later, Jane and Charlotte arrived.

  Charlotte barely waited for the waiter to leave before she burst out, her leg bouncing under the table. “You won’t believe what I found in Dean Collins’ office.”

  Elizabeth’s brow arched. “Why were you snooping?”

  “He took a phone call outside. I... I was just looking around, and I saw some budget files on his desk. He’s been categorizing funds that were transferred from Humanities to Law—and he requested more money, but Lady de Bourgh denied it.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes sharpened. “So the budget changes are real.”

  Charlotte nodded. “But I don’t think that’s all. I think something bigger is going on.”

  “I agree,” Elizabeth said firmly. “Budgets are just the beginning. Mary told me some required law textbooks were paid for but haven’t arrived yet—could be a tender scam.”

  Charlotte’s eyes widened.

  “And get this,” Elizabeth added, lowering her voice. “Me, two medical students, and one agricultural student were randomly assigned to Darcy’s class. No clear reason. Then I get an email saying it’s suddenly a prerequisite for completing my master’s—and I have to pay and additional £1250 before the end of May.”

  Charlotte blinked. “Wait... four students ... that’s £5,000.”

  Jane, who had been quietly sipping her tea, finally spoke. “You should investigate if those tuition fees are actually going to Humanities—or if they’re being siphoned somewhere else.”

  Charlotte and Elizabeth turned to her in unison, eyes wide. Elizabeth with a clear grin on her face, equally matched by Charlotte’s excitement.

  “Who do we know,” Charlotte said slowly, “whose mother works in administration... who’s already frustrated with university finances... and whose son is willing to help investigate?”

  “Long,” they said in unison.

  Jane clearing her throat, added, “You should probably find out what’s his name before you ask.” Jane then winked at them.

Chapter Text

RESEARCH AND RED FLAGS

  Elizabeth sat cross-legged on the window seat of the university library, her laptop balanced on her leg and a half-drunk coffee cooling beside her. Outside, the grey clouds rolled across the Kent skies, but inside, Elizabeth’s mind buzzed with energy. Three weeks, that was all she had to deliver a thesis draft convincing enough for Wickham to approve but vague enough to mask her true intentions.

  She tapped her fingers against the keyboard, narrowing her eyes at the screen. Her topic which consists of an analysis of systemic fraud in academic institutions through the lens of criminological methodology was broad on the surface, but Elizabeth was learning how to layer subtext, how to encode truth beneath research jargon.

  She had started compiling articles from criminologists who had tackled similar issues: whistleblowing in institutions, grey areas in financial oversight, and the misuse of administrative power in academia. Many had relied on qualitative interviews and anonymous surveys, while others had followed paper trails, tracking audit discrepancies and inconsistencies in public financial reports. Elizabeth took notes furiously, organising her findings into folders.

  During her lunch break, she ventured to the central tables of the library, where whispers often carried the loudest truths. She recognised a few students she’d overheard in the past and approached them casually.

  "Hey, mind if I join you for a second?" she asked a small group—two nursing students, one accounting major, and a fine arts student. They looked up and nodded.

  "I’m doing research for my thesis," Elizabeth began, adopting her most disarming smile. "I’ve been hearing some things—rumors, mostly—about strange emails and missing funds. Have any of you heard or received something like that?"

  The nursing student, a tall girl with tired eyes, nodded slowly. "Yeah. I got an email from the admin office saying I had to complete a leadership workshop. It’s not even related to nursing. It costs £300, and if I don’t do it, I won’t qualify to graduate this year."

  "Same here," said the accounting major. "Mine was a financial ethics seminar for £500. I checked with my own faculty administration, and they had no idea about it, and said it probably came from higher up."

  The fine arts student raising a had. "Mandatory off-campus experience. Something about artistic engagement with community spaces. I can’t afford the travel and accommodation, so I’m thinking of deferring."

  Elizabeth's heart sank. Different faculties, same tactics. She thanked them for their time and scribbled down their statements in her notebook.

  The picture was getting clearer, and uglier.

  After the rush of her classes Charlotte hurried across campus toward Dean Collins’s office, her heels clicking smartly on the paved walkway. The morning was brisk, and the scent of spring flowers swirled in the air. She was meeting him to finalise the last of the preparations for the upcoming student mingle. This year’s event held particular importance—it was being sponsored by the Darcy family foundation.

  Few students knew that Professor Fitzwilliam Darcy was, in fact, Lord Darcy of Pemberley. The family estate, nestled on the edge of Derbyshire, only thirty minutes from Kent, was a breathtaking 19th-century chateau that towered over the countryside. The Darcy family was known for their charity work, including several major endowments to the university. Yet, despite his distinguished social standing, Darcy remained private and rarely acknowledged his title. This only made his upcoming appearance at the ball all the more necessary.

  As Charlotte neared the office, she slowed her pace. Voices carried through the door—Dean Collins speaking in a low, frustrated tone.

  “I don’t care what the system says. Those files were there. Someone’s been tampering with the student accounts—I know it. It needs to be put to a stop!.”

  Charlotte knocked quickly. The conversation stopped, and she heard the rustle of papers as Collins ended the call.

  “Come in,” he called, his voice a touch more strained than usual.

  Charlotte stepped into the office, greeted by the familiar scent of cedarwood and aging paper. Collins stood behind his desk, his brow furrowed, and stacks of folders in disarray. “Are you alright, Professor?” she asked gently.

  He exhaled and gave a small, tight smile. “Yes, Miss Lucas. Just the usual chaos.”

  She nodded and walked further in, unconsciously drawn toward him. Her hand brushed lightly against his as she reached for one of the folders. Collins froze, eyes locked on hers. There was a shift in the air—palpable and electric.

  Then, without thinking, he kissed her.

  It was quick, and was immediately followed by panic. “I’m so sorry,” Collins stammered, backing away. “That was wildly inappropriate. I don’t know what I was thinking—”

  Charlotte, calm and faintly smiling, stepped closer. “I do.”

  Before he could say another word, she tilted her chin upward and reached for the back of his neck, she kissed him again—this time with intention. Collins hesitated for only a second before instinct took over. He wrapped his arms around her, lifted her onto the desk, and deepened the kiss. Her legs curled around his waist as heat and desire dissolved any semblance of professionalism.

  In that moment, neither of them thought of the consequences, they were just two people, tangled in a rush of passion and recklessness.

  Darcy was in his office, grading essays and trying not to think about Elizabeth Bennet. It wasn’t working.

  When a knock came at his door, his heart caught in his throat. For a moment, he dared to hope. He dreaded it too.

  “Come in,” he said finally.

  It wasn’t her. To his mixed relief and annoyance, it was Bingley and Collins.

  Both looked entirely too smug.

  Darcy arched a brow. “Should I be worried?”

  They took their seats. “Only if you plan to say no,” Collins quipped.

  Darcy poured tea, suspiciously. After a beat of silence, Collins cleared his throat.

  “We’d like you to be the guest of honor at the student mingle,” he said. “We’re calling it ‘A Night at Pemberley’.”

  Darcy groaned and rolled his eyes. “Absolutely not.”

  Bingley jumped in before Collins could protest. “Think about it, Will. It’s good publicity. You’ll remind everyone that you're not just the university’s brooding recluse. You’re Lord Darcy. And maybe... maybe it’s time Wickham saw that we’re not entirely powerless.”

  “I said no,” Darcy replied, sharper now. “I’m not parading around my title for spectacle.”

  Collins frowned but accepted the answer, as he was rising from his chair he gave Bingley a pointed look, then quietly exited.

  Darcy turned his gaze to his friend. “Why are you in such a good mood Charles? Let me guess a certain Bennet sister is involved”

  Bingley sipped his tea with exaggerated nonchalance, “And why dear Fitzwilliam are you in such a sour mood, does it maybe have something to do with another Bennet sister?” Darcy scowled. “Charles.”

  “What? You started it.”

  Darcy sighed, rubbing his temples.

  “What is the matter Will?”

  Darcy dragging a hand over his face explained, “ A student in my class, Mr. Worthing cornered... well... grabbed her. Said things that—” he stopped, jaw clenching. “I was seconds away from punching the shit out of him, I had no control over my thoughts.”

  Bingley’s eyes widened. “Did she report him?”

  “No, I handled it. But afterwards... I touched her arm, where he grabbed her, It wasn’t intentional, I just—acted. I didn’t even care that we were still in my lecture hall.”

  Bingley gave him a dry look, not knowing how to sympathise with his friend. “Next time, maybe do your touching in the privacy of your office. That’s what Jane and I have been doing.”

  Darcy’s eyes narrowed dangerously. He grabbed the nearest book— Wuthering Heights —and hurled it.

  Bingley ducked and laughed as the book thudded harmlessly against the bookshelf behind him. “I’ll see you at dinner!” he called, already halfway out the door.

  Darcy shook his head, though a reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

  He was doomed.

  The flickering candlelight of the restaurant cast long shadows on the polished wood table where George Wickham sat, swirling a deep glass of Merlot. The restaurant was nestled in the heart of Derbyshire—far enough, he assumed, that no one from Rosings Park would be watching.

  He wore an expensive blazer over a black open-collared shirt, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips as he leaned in to speak with the man seated across from him.

  A slim folder exchanged between hands under the table.

  Wickham leaned back in his chair, feigning ease as he mentally catalogued his schemes. The reallocation of funds had gone off without a hitch. He’d also quietly skimmed additional fees while justifying it as an academic enhancement. No one had questioned it so far.

  Lady de Bourgh’s increasing detachment from administrative decisions was also playing to his advantage. Her blind trust in her department heads—particularly Collins—meant Wickham had more autonomy than ever. And Collins, distracted and easily placated, was no threat.

  What he needed now was leverage— anything to shift attention and tighten his grip.

  Darcy, however, remained a problem. Untouchable in reputation, quietly revered by students and staff alike. Wickham’s disdain for him simmered. He had to go. But how? A whisper campaign? A fabricated complaint? Wickham smiled thinly to himself.

  Patience. All the pieces were moving. He just needed one more push.

  Wickham however failed to realise during his evening of self-appreciation—three tables over—where two elderly men in quiet butler uniforms who were enjoying a rare dinner away from Pemberley. The moment they recognized Wickham, their conversation ceased. They did not speak of it but found it curious.

Chapter Text

BENEATH THE SURFACE

  Elizabeth entered the Humanities building with a sharp exhale, clutching her notes tighter than necessary. Her second last class had ended early, giving her time to get to Professor Darcy’s lecture—something she was both dreading and secretly anticipating. The Monday afternoon sun filtered through the arched cloisters of Rosings Park, but she barely noticed.

  She replayed their last encounter in her mind: the hard look in his eyes, the way his hand had rested so gently on her arm, the way her stomach had knotted and fluttered all at once. It was infuriating. And worse—confusing. She quickened her pace down the stone hallway, trying to beat the rush of students making their way to the lecture.

  As she rounded the final corner to the literature hall, her shoulder collided hard into a solid figure.

  Books hit the floor.

  “I’m so sor—” Elizabeth began, only to stop short.

  Darcy. Of course.

  He looked just as startled, if not more so. “Miss Bennet,” he said, his voice taut.

  Her jaw tightened. “Professor.”

  They both stooped to retrieve her scattered notes. For a moment their hands brushed, and she pulled hers back quickly. When they rose, Darcy stepped aside stiffly to let her pass.

  “You should be more careful rounding corners,” he said.

  Elizabeth’s eyes flared. “And you should look where you’re going.”

  “Perhaps if you weren’t in such a hurry—”

  “Perhaps if you didn’t walk like the world belongs to you.”

  Darcy’s lips twitched, a mixture of irritation and amusement flickering across his face. “I assure you, Miss Bennet, I have no such delusions.”

  Elizabeth scoffed. “No? Because that’s certainly not how you come across. Every time you speak, you do so with such… certainty. As if your interpretation is the only one that matters.”

  He stiffened. “Certainty is often born from experience.”

  “Or arrogance,” she said plainly.

  The tension sizzled between them for a beat too long.

  Darcy straightened his posture and gestured toward the door of the lecture hall. “After you.”

  Elizabeth entered without a word, her pulse hammering. She took her seat quickly in the back, head bowed over her notes, pretending not to feel the heat of Darcy’s presence as he stepped up to the lectern.

  The room settled as students took their seats, some whispering to one another, others focused on their laptops or notebooks. Darcy stood at the front, adjusting his slides, his face a composed mask of professionalism.

  “Good afternoon, everyone,” he began, his tone cool and measured. “Today’s lecture is titled: ‘Art, Truth, and the Unreliable Narrator.’”

  There was a rustle of movement and scribbling of pens.

  “In literature,” Darcy continued, “truth is often a matter of perception. A good author understands that the line between honesty and deception is not always clearly drawn. Sometimes—” he paused slightly, gaze skimming across the room, “—it is the flawed narrator who reveals the greatest truth.”

  From the back of the room, a sudden scoff broke the silence, it was louder than intended.

  Several heads turned.

  Darcy’s eyes locked on hers.

  “Something to add, Miss Bennet?” he asked, voice dangerously calm.

  Elizabeth sat up straighter. “Only that what you’ve described isn’t a universal truth. Not all flawed narrators are revelatory. Sometimes they’re just distractions. Devices that obscure more than they reveal.”

  Darcy’s gaze narrowed, but Elizabeth didn’t waver. “I suppose your experience makes you an authority on unreliable narrators as well?” Darcy mocked, a few students giggled thinking she was bested.

  “I’ve studied them extensively.” Elizabeth said proudly, Darcy however remained silent.

  “Well, then,” Elizabeth said with a mock sweetness, “you must know that truth isn’t a fixed point. It's fragmented, distorted by the lens through which it’s viewed. Like in ‘The Turn of the Screw’—the governess’s narrative cannot be taken at face value, and neither can yours.”

  Darcy stared at her, momentarily stunned. “You’ve read James?”

  “Of course. And Woolf. And Faulkner. And Camus. Would you like me to continue?”

  “I don’t believe you’ll have anything else to add.” 

  Just as Darcy was about to turn around, Elizabeth tilted her head slightly. “How about in Wuthering Heights, Nelly Dean is both participant and storyteller. Her bias warps the reader’s perception. It’s not revelation—it’s manipulation.”

  “Or,” Darcy countered, “it’s an invitation. An opportunity for the reader to become more discerning.”

  “And how many readers take that opportunity?” Elizabeth replied coolly. “Most accept the narrator’s voice as gospel, especially when it’s positioned as omniscient. That’s not an invitation—it’s a trap.”

  The class had gone silent, rapt.

  Darcy studied her for a moment too long. “You seem well-versed in the mechanics of literary deceit.”

  Elizabeth arched an eyebrow. “I’ve spent five years studying human behavior, Professor. Literature is just another mirror.”

  He was momentarily speechless, “Of course she’s the master’s student.” He muttered to himself as he made the connection and the corner of his mouth twitching before he turned back to the projector.

  Today’s lecture was a topic he loved. One that usually consumed his full attention, but not today. Not with her in the room, and definitely not with the way she has challenged his every word, no other student in the past 10 years has dreamed to do so.

  Two weeks slipped by in a blur of lectures, long nights hunched over her laptop, and an ever-growing web of notes pinned across Elizabeth’s thesis wall like a crime board.

  By the final week of March, she was running on iced coffee, adrenaline, and sheer intellectual obsession. Her first draft of Veil of Respectability was almost complete—footnoted, sourced, and sharpened with Charlotte’s side-research on financial record discrepancies.

  Elizabeth had never felt more alive—or more wary.

  That Thursday morning found her seated in the third row of Introduction to Penology, notebook balanced on her knee, a red pen between her fingers.

  At the front of the hall stood Professor Margaret Hurst, her voice cool and commanding, silver-streaked curls swept into a loose chignon, and glasses perched low on her nose as she paced slowly across the raised platform.

  “Now,” she said, tapping the whiteboard with the back of a marker where the projector illuminated the slide, “while sentencing is determined by judicial discretion, we operate within predictable frameworks—especially in common law jurisdictions.”

  She pointed to a list.

  “Custodial sentencing, ranging from minimal incarceration to life imprisonment. Community-based alternatives—probation, rehabilitation, electronic monitoring. Restitution and fines, particularly prevalent in white-collar crimes. And lastly—” she turned to face the room, “—asset seizure and professional disqualification. These tend to be applied to fraud, embezzlement, and related financial misconduct.”

  Elizabeth’s pen froze mid-sentence.

  Professor Hurst’s voice sharpened slightly. “These crimes often hide behind polish. But don’t be fooled—embezzlement is theft. And when committed within a place of trust—like a hospital, NGO, or university—it becomes more than financial damage. It erodes credibility.”

  Elizabeth sat straighter, heart tapping against her ribs. She glanced at the whiteboard again, the words professional disqualification underlined twice.

  When the lecture wrapped, students rustled around her, filing out toward late lunches and early naps. Elizabeth lingered, her pen tucked into her notebook, the folder against her hip.

  She approached just as Professor Hurst was tidying up her lecture notes.

  “Professor Hurst?” she asked, voice clear.

  The older woman looked up, the edge of a smile tugging at her mouth. “Miss Bennet. You had that look—questions brewing.”

  “I do,” Elizabeth said, stepping closer. “About the punitive framework for white-collar offenders—specifically in academic institutions.”

  Hurst set her folder down, interest sharpening in her gaze. “That’s a narrowed slice of justice. Personal or professional interest?”

  Elizabeth kept her tone casual. “Research. I’m writing my thesis on institutional misconduct. Financial fraud. How systems fail to hold insiders accountable.”

  Hurst folded her arms, nodding slowly. “A worthy topic. And dangerous, if done well.”

  Elizabeth smiled faintly. “I’m aiming for ‘well.’”

  “You’re right to focus on financial crimes in protected environments. Universities often self-investigate—and self-protect. You’ll need to be precise. Build from precedent, not just theory.”

  “I was hoping you might point me toward cases that made it through court, despite administrative resistance.”

  Hurst’s expression turned grimly amused. “You want case law on institutions eating their own. That narrows it.” She opened a drawer, thumbed through a folder, and handed over a slim packet. “The Macmillan Trust case. And Evesham Technical College v. Grant. Both involved administrators with power. Both came crashing down.”

  Elizabeth took the folder carefully. “Thank you. This will help a great deal.”

  “Good,” Hurst replied. “Keep your records tight. And your language even tighter. If you’re going after systems—be better than the system.”

  Elizabeth met her gaze and nodded. “I intend to.”

  As she stepped back out into the cool spring air, Elizabeth felt the weight of her notes, her nearing deadline, and the distinct shift in clarity.

  Elizabeth met Charlotte on Saturday morning, they didn’t speak much—just exchanged a look and knew that whatever happens everything was on the line.

  They spent the weekend huddled in Charlotte’s apartment, surrounded by an avalanche of documents. Discreet financial aid requests, public salary disclosures, departmental grant reports, and full audit statements—most of them blurry PDFs Charlotte had managed to scrape from buried internal portals.

  They color-coded inconsistencies, built timelines and flagged patterns.

  By Sunday night, Charlotte had drafted a careful callout piece for the student paper—It was subtle enough to avoid censorship. But sharp enough to be noticed.

  "Missing Money, Missing Answers: What Do You Know?"

  A carefully worded invitation for anonymous tips—and a signal flare for anyone watching.

  Lunch hour on Tuesday brought a pale sun and a steady breeze drifting through the heart of campus. The central green at Rosings Park stretched wide and open, ringed by cafés and sandstone buildings whose shadows fell long across the lawn.

  Elizabeth sat with Charlotte at their usual spot—an outdoor table beneath a striped awning just outside The Grove Café, warm coffees in hand, half-eaten wraps forgotten beside their laptops.

  “I can’t believe no one responded yesterday,” Charlotte muttered, watching a group of law students stroll past. “I was sure someone would reach out by now.”

  Elizabeth blew across her coffee. “Maybe they’re scared. Or maybe they’re just waiting for someone else to speak first.”

  Charlotte glanced at her tablet, refreshing the anonymous inbox for the third time. “It’s out there. It’s been out there since Sunday. Someone’s seen it.”

  Elizabeth leaned back. “They’ll come. If what we’re poking at is real—someone’s got something to say.”

  Just then, a figure passed behind them—too quickly to recognize.

  A folded note landed silently on the table.

  Charlotte sat motionless. “Was that...?”

  Elizabeth didn’t hesitate. She picked it up, unfolded it, and read the clean, blocky handwriting.

  Meet me. IT Building. 5pm. Lab 3. Come alone.

  They stared at each other across the table, breaths shallow.

  The IT Building was quieter than usual by dusk, its sterile corridors humming with electricity and disuse. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead as Elizabeth and Charlotte made their way to Lab 3, steps soft against tile.

  They pushed the door open.

  The lab was dim except for the glow of several screens. In the far corner, a figure sat among them, bathed in the blue-white light of cascading code.

  “Nathaniel Hill,” Charlotte breathed. “Of course.”

  He was a year older than them, though already halfway through a PhD in Computer Engineering. Nathaniel Hill was something of a myth: full scholarship, three national coding awards, two published papers in forensic IT, and a reputation for being both unreachable and unbeatable.

  He didn’t look up as they approached.

  “Close the door,” he said quietly, his voice a rich baritone—measured, cool and unexpected.

  Hill turned slightly in his chair, his face partially lit by one screen.

  “I read your article,” he said. “I’ve been watching the same numbers you’ve been chasing. Just... deeper.”

  He spun a monitor toward them. Rows of data scrolled down a black interface, glowing green.

  “I accessed five years’ worth of Rosings Park budget archives. The digital trail doesn’t lie.”

  He clicked into a chart.

  “Two years ago, nearly fifteen percent of total university funding shifted to Law. Without justification and that same fiscal year, George Wickham received a thirty percent salary bump—completely off-grid.”

  Charlotte’s eyes widened. “The rest of the faculty only got twelve.”

  “Exactly,” Hill replied. “And that audit the university brags about every year? It’s cooked. Doesn’t match internal expenditures, and several entries are mirrored across unrelated accounts—textbook laundering, most likely.”

  Elizabeth leaned forward. “Can you trace where the money went?”

  “Some,” Hill admitted. “But I’m no accountant. I know when something stinks, but I can’t tell you where the smell leads. You’ll need someone who can follow the financials line-by-line.”

  “We’ll find someone,” Charlotte said. “What about you? Will you help?”

  Hill hesitated.

  “Yes. But I stay off the record. My academic future depends on staying out of this. No name. No hints. If this breaks wrong, I lose everything... annnd... I would like to request a date with Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”

  Elizabeth met his gaze. "Deal, we protect you, you get your date and everyone will be happy.”

  Hill nodded. Then paused. “One more thing,” he said. “The permissions tied to Wickham’s faculty account—access codes, approval rights, even VPN clearance—they’ve all been escalated in the last six months. That’s not normal.”

  Charlotte paled. “So... he’s covering his tracks.”

  “Or preparing to move something bigger.”

  Elizabeth’s voice was cold. “Not if we move first.”

  Her phone buzzed just as she stepped out of the student counseling center, the last rays of evening sun warming her cheeks. She glanced at the message lighting up her screen from the shared WhatsApp group she had with Elizabeth and Charlotte—“The Athenas.” Elizabeth had come up with the name in first year, inspired by a slightly wine-fueled debate about intellect, justice, and loyalty. It had stuck ever since.

Lizzie 💬:

Heading to the IT Building now. Possible lead.

Will update you after we meet him.

Can you wait for us on campus just in case?

Charlotte 💬:

Please don’t go home yet. We won’t be long. x

Jane smiled softly and typed a reply.

Jane 💬:

Of course. I’ll wait at the outdoor amphitheater. Take your time, I’ll be fine. Just message when you’re done.

  She made her way down the stone steps, skirt swaying with the breeze, and settled onto one of the curved stone benches in the amphitheater overlooking the west gardens. Twilight had settled, casting the sky in a lavender haze. The scene was peaceful and quiet. Her phone buzzed again.

Charles 💬:

Hey you. What are you up to?

Her heart fluttered. She smiled at the screen before replying.

Jane 💬:

Waiting for Lizzie and Charlotte. They’re in a meeting on campus.

I’m at the amphitheater—wish you were here.

  She hesitated before hitting send, but the smile lingered long after she did.

  A few minutes passed in silence, only the rustle of leaves and distant chatter from the green. She was about to pull out her headphones when—

  “Boo.”

  Jane let out a startled gasp and whirled around, hand clutching her chest.

  “Charles!” she exclaimed, laughing breathlessly. “You nearly gave me a heart attack!”

  Bingley grinned, his eyes bright with mischief. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist. You looked too serene. I had to shake the moment.”

  She stood up and, without thinking, threw her arms around him. The hug was fierce, full-bodied, and utterly uncharacteristic of her usual reserved manner.

  Bingley stiffened for a second in surprise, then relaxed into the embrace, resting his chin lightly on her shoulder. “Well, hello to you too.”

  She pulled back, cheeks pink. “Sorry—I, uh…”

  “Don’t be,” he said, smiling in that disarming way of his. “That might be the best surprise I’ve had all week.”

  They sat down together, shoulder to shoulder, letting the comfortable quiet return.

  “So,” he asked, “favorite color?”

  Jane looked at him, amused. “That’s what you’re leading with?”

  “I’m trying to have a normal conversation before I accidentally say something deeply inappropriate,” he replied with a sheepish grin.

  “Fair,” she conceded. “Alright. Pale blue. Yours?”

  “Yellow,” he said. “Not the bright kind—more like the color of your hair in the morning sun. Or a sunrise just before it turns gold.”

  Jane blinked, caught off guard by the softness in his tone.

  “You’re dangerously good at this,” she teased.

  He grinned. “I’m just being honest.”

  She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, trying not to smile too obviously. “Okay... favorite food?”

  “Croissants. From the bakery by the music building. I have a running tab there.”

  Jane laughed. “I knew you were a secret softie.”

  “Only around you,” he said quietly.

  The silence that followed was not uncomfortable, but it hummed with unsaid things. Jane felt the air shift, the moment teetering on something unspoken.

  And then Bingley exhaled and turned slightly toward her.

  “Jane… I like you. A lot. And I know we’ve sort of danced around it, but I don’t want to anymore. I want to take you on a real date. I want this”—he gestured between them—“to be something.”

  Jane’s breath caught. His voice was so sincere, so certain.

  “I’ve never really dated anyone,” he admitted, eyes focused on the stone floor. “Not properly. And being a professor makes it complicated. I don’t want you to get hurt. Or for us to be... a problem.”

  She reached for his hand, threading her fingers through his.

  “I like you too,” she said softly. “So much, but we have to be careful. For now.”

  He looked up, relief visible in his eyes.

  “So that’s a, yes?”

  She smiled. “That’s a yes.”

  He leaned in, and their lips met—a kiss that was gentle, unsure at first, but lingering. Jane could feel her heart thudding in her chest.

  “Ahem!”

  They broke apart instantly.

  Elizabeth and Charlotte stood at the edge of the amphitheater, arms crossed, Charlotte trying not to smirk while Elizabeth raised an eyebrow in mock judgment.

  Bingley jumped up, startled. “I—this—it’s not—”

  Elizabeth held up a hand. “Relax, Professor. We know.”

  Charlotte added dryly, “It’s not exactly a mystery.”

  “Your secret is safe with us.” Elizabeth winked.

  Bingley flushed but chuckled. “Well, thank you for not reporting me to the Ethics Board.”

  He paused, glanced at Elizabeth, then grinned.

  He stepped away, hands in his pockets, about to retreat into the shadows of the path.

  Then he paused.

  With a glance back over his shoulder, he turned and hurried the few steps back to Elizabeth.

  “Oh—one more thing,” he said, eyes twinkling. “That little sparring match you had with Darcy in class a few weeks ago?”

  Elizabeth tilted her head, wary.

  Bingley grinned. “It’s still giving him sleepless nights.”

  Elizabeth blinked. “Excuse me?”

  Bingley grinned as he backed away. “Try not to charm him to death, would you?”

  And with that, he made his exit, hands in his pockets, whistling.

  The three women stood in silence flabberghasted.

  Then Charlotte said, “So... that was unexpected.”

  Jane laughed, the tension leaving her all at once.

  Elizabeth looped her arm through hers. “Men,” she said with exaggerated exasperation.

  They began walking toward their shared corner of town, the familiar cobbled streets guiding them home. The apartment block stood just beyond the university gates—close enough to feel the pulse of campus life, far enough to feel like their own world.

  And somewhere between shared giggles and knowing glances, the three of them felt the world shift just a little closer to what it was meant to be.

Chapter Text

SMOKE AND MIRRORS

  Darcy stood behind his desk, arms folded tightly across his chest as Collins paced before him. A man known for his careful tone and placid demeanor, Collins now looked tense, his brow furrowed as he handed over yet another folder.

  “These figures were slipped to me by someone in Finance who didn’t want to be named,” Collins said. “They show two years’ worth of discretionary reallocations.”

  Darcy opened the folder. The numbers didn’t just concern him—they enraged him.

  “Fourteen-point-eight percent of unrestricted university funds are being rerouted to Law. And this... Wickham’s housing allowance doubled in six months?” His voice was dangerously low.

  Collins sighed. “I’ve submitted four formal queries. Every one diverted by Lady Catherine.”

  Darcy looked up sharply. “She refused to address it?”

  “She refused to acknowledge it,” Collins corrected. “Her office sent me a statement this morning suggesting all budgetary matters fall under her jurisdiction as Executive Chancellor. That she sees no cause for alarm.”

  Darcy’s jaw clenched. “That’s absurd.”

  “It’s dangerous!” Collins replied throwing his hands in the air. “Which is why I need your help. As a university benefactor, your stake gives you leverage, you may be the only one she’ll actually listen to.”

  Lady Catherine’s office was a cold temple of power with a polished marble desk, antique maps on the wall, and a view of the university’s oldest quad through tall French windows. Darcy entered without knocking. She looked up from her laptop, her mouth already tight with disapproval. “Fitzwilliam.”

  “Aunt Catherine,” he said, not sitting. “We need to talk.”

  “I’m in the middle of—”

  “I’ve seen the finance records.”

  Her fingers stopped typing over the keyboard. He watched a flicker pass through her carefully composed mask—annoyance, maybe something deeper.

  “I take it this is about William Collins and his incessant pestering.”

  “He’s not wrong to be concerned.”

  She exhaled slowly, folding her hands on the desk. “Fitzwilliam. You are not an accountant nor are you involved in administrative governance. There are layers to these matters you do not understand.”

  “I understand enough,” he snapped. “Enough to know that nearly fifteen percent of this institution’s discretionary budget has disappeared into a department headed by a man with no published work and no oversight. That’s not administration, that’s laundering.”

  Her tone sharpened. “Watch your accusations!”

  Darcy stepped forward, the fury simmering in his chest barely contained. “You used to tell me this university stood for integrity. Academic freedom. Truth. What does it stand for now?”

  Lady Catherine didn’t blink. “This is neither the time nor the place for such melodrama.”

  “Melo—” He broke off, shaking his head. “You’re hiding something.”

  “I am managing something,” she corrected, and for the first time, something behind her voice cracked. “It is not as simple as you want it to be. And I am not at liberty to explain further. Not now.”

  Darcy watched her intently. There was something in her eyes—tiredness? Panic?

  He took a step back. “Fine. But don’t mistake my silence for compliance.”

  Without waiting for her response, he turned and left.

  The air outside was sharp with the scent of spring—budding grass, campus flowers in bloom, something fresh and impatient in the wind. Darcy barely registered it as he strode down the cobbled path toward the nearest café.

  He needed something to ground him, caffeine would have to do.

  He ordered a flat white without thinking, barely nodding at the barista before turning to gaze out across the central green. Students strolled between buildings, with laughter echoing from somewhere near the library steps.

  Elizabeth.

  She stood beneath a flowering tree with Jane, Charlotte, and the youngest Bennet girl—Mary, if he recalled correctly. All four of them were laughing about something, carefree and radiant beneath the soft light.

  But it was Elizabeth’s smile that arrested him.

  He didn’t hear the barista call his name. Not the first time. Or the second.

  He watched her—watched the way her hand lifted to tuck her hair behind her ear, the way her laughter curved like music in the air. And without meaning to, he smiled.

  Not his usual thin line of polite expression. A real smile—brief and unguarded.

  “Sir?” A tap on his shoulder.

  Darcy blinked and turned.

  The barista handed him his coffee, eyes amused. “Third time’s the charm.”

  “Thank you,” Darcy muttered, clearing his throat and taking the cup.

  As he turned back toward the quad, Elizabeth looked up.

  She smiled at him.

  Darcy’s heart gave the faintest lurch. He turned away too quickly and walked off, coffee burning against his palm, jaw tight.

  He didn’t understand her and he didn’t want to.

  The office was nearly dark.

  Only a slim lamp in the corner casting light across the room, its amber glow stretching long shadows over polished wood and thick rugs. The university was quiet—long past the hum of lectures and crowded halls. Outside, the quad lay still beneath the night sky.

  Inside, it was anything but still.

  Lydia's breath came fast against Wickham's neck, her arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders as she rocked against him in his leather chair. His hands gripped her hips possessively, guiding her pace with a silent, urgent rhythm.

  The moment was short. A collision of heat and impulse.

  She gasped as his last thrust caused him his release, her forehead now resting against his collarbone, sweat cooling on her skin. His hands tightened—just slightly—as she moved to draw back.

  “You’re incredible,” she whispered breathlessly. “No one’s ever made me feel like this.” Wickham smirked, breath steadying faster than hers. “No one else better.”

  She smiled, trailing her fingers along his jawline. “Definitely not.”

  Then something in his expression shifted. His grip on her thighs firmed—on the edge of painful, and unmistakably controlling.

  “You haven’t been with anyone else since me, have you?”

  Lydia blinked. “What? No. Of course not.”

  His voice was soft and closer now to her ear. “Because if I find out otherwise… we’ll have a problem.”

  She laughed, trying to brush it off. “George—don’t be ridiculous.” He’s grip became more bruising, “I’m not being ridiculous, and its professor,” his voice cold now. “I don’t share what’s mine.”

  Lydia’s smile faltered. Her gaze dropped to his chest, but she didn’t move.

  “You understand?” he said, lifting her chin with two fingers.

  She nodded quickly.

  He planted a kiss on her mouth that tasted of claim, not affection.

  Outside, wind rustled the trees along the quad. Inside, silence stretched like a warning.

  Lydia swallowed hard and looked away. She told herself it was just passion and that everything will be alright.

  The corridor outside Research Methodology buzzed with the end-of-lecture shuffle, papers stuffed into bags, coffee cups thrown into bins, and the usual thrum of student chatter. Elizabeth and Charlotte stood slightly off to the side, waiting. Their target emerged a few moments later, headphones in, hoodie half-zipped, head lowered as he scrolled through his phone.

  Charlotte stepped forward first. “Long.”

  He froze mid-step.

  Elizabeth smiled gently. “Do you have a moment?”

  Without waiting for a reply, they fell into step beside him, guiding him subtly down the corridor and through the door of a rarely used stairwell tucked between the lecture halls.

  The concrete echoed their footsteps as the door clicked shut behind them. The silence inside was thick with fluorescent light and old stairwell dust.

  Elizabeth leaned against the railing. “We wanted to ask you about your mother—and what she might know about the university's financial structure.”

  Long crossed his arms, his expression unreadable. “Do you even remember my actual name or is it just ‘Long’?”

  Charlotte blinked, momentarily caught off guard.

  Elizabeth audibly smacked her palm to the center of het face and felt heat rise to her cheeks. “You’re right. We’re sorry.”

  She stepped forward and extended a hand. “I’m Elizabeth Bennet. This is Charlotte Lucas. May we start over?”

  He looked at her hand, hesitating only for a second, then took it. His grip was surprisingly firm.

  “Sebastian,” he said. “Sebastian Long.”

  Charlotte murmured, “Nice to finally know it.”

  He reached into his backpack and pulled out a black folder, worn at the edges. “I saw your article, and guessed you might find me sooner or later,” he said to Elizabeth. “I figured if anyone could be trusted with this, it was you.”

  Elizabeth took the folder with both hands. “What is it?”

  “I found it in my mother’s office. She keeps printed records of everything. E-mails, correspondence, internal reports.”

  Charlotte gasped. “Won’t she notice it’s gone?”

  “I’m not stupid,” he deadpanned. “That is a copy, I returned the original before she came back from lunch. She won’t even know it left the drawer.”

  Elizabeth and Charlotte exchanged a stunned look.

  “Thank you,” Elizabeth said sincerely. “This could be... huge.”

  Sebastian shrugged. “Just don’t tell her I helped you. She’ll make my life hell.”

  He turned and disappeared through the stairwell door without another word.

  Elizabeth and Charlotte found a quiet corner on one of the upper levels of Rosings Park library, it had grown quieter with the setting sun, the usual bustle reduced to the sound of clicking keyboards and the occasional cough in the distance.

  They were tucked behind rows of rarely touched anthologies, surrounded by tall shelves and low lighting, they opened the folder on a heavy oak table.

  The contents were damning.

  Page after page of email correspondence, most of them dated over the last 18 months. Parents begging for answers, students writing in desperation. Complaints about skyrocketing tuition. Extra billing for practical labs, workshop materials, even “optional” coursework that was suddenly mandatory.

  Charlotte’s fingers shook as she flipped through. “They’ve monetized everything.”

  Elizabeth’s voice was low. “And priced out half the student body while claiming to offer support.”

  Charlotte’s eyes scanned a particular letter—

  “Look at this,” she whispered.

  It was an email from Dean Collins to Lady Catherine de Bourgh, marked with red urgency.

  ‘I must express my concern over the direction of our financial planning. These cost increases are unsustainable and unapproved. Students and faculty alike are raising serious questions. I urge you to reconsider these adjustments and allow for a proper audit.’

  Charlotte turned the page. Lady Catherine’s reply was clipped, cold, and devoid of concern.

  ‘My office does not require justification to staff. Kindly focus on your departmental performance.’

  Charlotte’s jaw clenched. “She doesn't give a shit.”

  “It seems more like she doesn't give a flying fuck,” Elizabeth replied, staring at the page.

  “Swearing please. No one’s stopping her.” Charlotte stood abruptly, grabbing her bag. “I need to go home. I need… a minute.”

  Elizabeth touched her arm. “Are you okay?”

  “No, this is heartbreaking, but I guess I will be once we can put an end to this absurd comfortability to commit crime.” Charlotte offered a tired smile. “I’ll message you later. Don’t wait up.”

  Elizabeth nodded as her friend disappeared down the staircase, the weight of what they’d just uncovered still pressing on her chest.

  She sat back down, staring at the closed folder for a long moment, feeling that familiar sense of helpless fury beginning to churn beneath her ribs. Too many emails, too many students hurting. And yet, all of it swept beneath the polished marble floors of the university's image.

  She closed the folder gently and stood. Her legs moved before her thoughts caught up.

  The Literature wing was quieter still, smelling of aged paper and leather bindings. Elizabeth wandered without thinking, brushing her fingers along the spines until one caught her eye.

  Persuasion by Jane Austen.

  She slid it off the shelf and through the small opening were she just pulled out the book, she saw him.

  Seated on a bench, head bowed, a book open in front of him. His reading glasses were perched low on his nose, and his fingers moved absently against the pages as he read.

  Something about the moment—the stillness, the light, the way he looked up at just that second and met her gaze—

  Their eyes held. No words were exchanged and both did not dare to move, too afraid of each other. 

Chapter Text

SHADOWS AND TRUTH

  Elizabeth lingered a moment longer behind the tall shelves, her fingers resting on the copy of Persuasion she had just pulled free. On impulse, Elizabeth rounded the shelf and walked slowly toward him. His gaze followed her without a word as she sat down beside him on the long, narrow bench, his face was unreadable.

  She opened her book.

  Darcy was still staring.

  She read two pages.

  Darcy was still staring.

  She turned slightly toward him, eyebrow raised. “Do I have ink on my face?”

  He blinked. “What?”

  “You’re staring,” she said, flipping a page with deliberate calm. “Just wondering if I missed something on my forehead.”

  His mouth opened, then closed again. Finally, he gave a quiet, unsteady chuckle. “No. I just… didn’t expect you to sit here.”

  Elizabeth shrugged. “Well, it’s a library. I also assumed the seat wasn’t claimed.”

  He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing in that way he did when he was studying her, unsure whether she was mocking him, or if he was dreaming.

  She nodded toward the book in his lap. “What are you reading?”

  Darcy held it up. The Secret Agent, by Conrad.

  “Light reading?” she asked, smirking.

  “Paranoia, betrayal, moral disillusionment—what’s not to love?”

  Elizabeth let out a low laugh. “And people say I have dark taste.”

  He looked at her then, properly—his expression softening in the low light.

  After a moment, she turned a little more serious. “Do you believe in moral courage?”

  He was now very confused. Why is she acting like we can suddenly stand each other? Like we are even acquainted.

  Darcy’s brow furrowed. “I suppose that depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On whether the person has anything left to lose.”

   “So you think it’s only brave if there’s a cost?” Elizabeth stared at him.

  “I think it’s only real if there is.”

   “That’s... cynical.”

  He met her gaze. “It’s honest.”

  She didn’t respond, not right away. Instead, she looked down at her book, running her thumb along the edges of the page. “Will I be seeing you at the student mingle in June? Or do professors strategically disappear that week?”

  WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING? Darcy thought

  He gave a low groan. “Unfortunately, it’s a faculty obligation. Glitter,  lights, and poor choices—what more could one want?”

  She chuckled. “Don’t forget the mediocre canapés.”

  Their conversation drifted off after that, both returning to their respective books. For a while, the silence was companionable—warm, even. A flickering, unnoticed thread stretched between them.

  And then the library lights shut off with a loud mechanical click.

  Both of them groaned in unison.

  Elizabeth stood. “Perfect.”

  “Do you have a flashlight?” Darcy asked, rising beside her.

  “I have a phone that’s nearly dead.”

  “Of course you do.”

  Navigating through the shelves proved a challenge. Elizabeth bumped into a cart, then a bookshelf, and on her fifth accidental collision with Darcy’s back, he sighed audibly.

  “Alright,” reaching behind him without warning. His hand closed around hers.

  Elizabeth’s heart beats quicker.

  “Let me help,” he added, voice low, almost reluctant. “Before you break your nose.”

  His hand was warm and firm, she was struggling to pull away.

  They made their way to the stairwell in silence, every step charged with something neither of them dared to name.

  When they finally pushed through the front doors of the library, the cool night air swept over them, but neither moved. Still hand in hand, they stood under the orange glow of the streetlamp.

  It took several long seconds before they realised.

  Elizabeth looked down, then up at him. They both let go at the same time.

  “Goodnight,” she said softly.

  Darcy nodded, and didn’t move, but just as she turned, he cleared his throat.

  “I’ll walk you home.”

  She hesitated. “It’s only five minutes.”

  “It’s dark.”

  “Fine.” Rolling her eyes.

  They fell into step, side by side, the click of her boots and his shoes filling the quiet.

  “I still can’t believe Wickham placed you in my class,” Darcy said after a moment.

  Elizabeth glanced sideways. “Is that a compliment or a complaint?”

  “You write like someone who lives inside literature. It’s unsettling.”

  She grinned. “Sooooo … , what? I’m a genius now?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You implied it.”

  “I was being generous.”

  “You were being you,” she said with a teasing glance.

  He smirked faintly. “Point taken.”

  They arrived at her apartment building just as the wind picked up. Elizabeth turned toward the stairs but paused when he did too.

  “Well,” she said. “This is me.”

  “Yes.” He sounded awkward, uncertain. “Right.”

  And then—impulsively—he leaned forward and kissed her cheek. Brief. Soft.

  He pulled back, visibly stunned by his own action. “I—”

  Elizabeth stared.

  He turned abruptly and began to walk away, his shoulders taut.

  “Professor!”

  He stopped but didn’t turn around.

  “I thought I was only tolerable,” she shouted, chuckling into the dark.

  Darcy said nothing, yet she saw his shoulders shake once—just slightly—as he kept walking.

  The morning air was cold against his lungs, the campus still cloaked in a blue-grey mist as Darcy cut along the winding paths between stone buildings and dew-soaked lawns. The lamps lining the central green still glowed faintly, casting golden puddles of light over empty benches and flowerbeds.

  His breath came in sharp, even bursts, the rhythmic pounding of his feet on gravel, the only thing silencing the noise in his head.

  He had woken before dawn.

  Restless and unsettled.

  He’d dreamed of her again.

  First, it had been innocent—her laughter carried on the soft rustle of book pages, the warmth of her cheek lingering beneath his lips longer than it should have.

  But then it had shifted.

  The dream darkened and deepened. Her back was pressed against a bookshelf in the library, and his hand gripping her thigh as it curled around his waist. His mouth exploring the curve of her neck while her fingers tangled in his shirt. And the sound—he’d imagined the quiet, breathy noises she might make as he touched her, as he learned every inch of her like a sonnet memorized in secret made him moan her name.

  He ran harder, as if the miles might erase the heat that still lingered on his skin.

  Darcy returned, he opted for a shower, got dressed, and realised he still was not quite rid of her.

  Bingley was already at their usual table in the faculty lounge, sipping espresso and scrolling through his phone. A half-finished croissant sat on the plate in front of him.

  “Morning,” Darcy said gruffly, dropping into the chair across from him.

  Bingley looked up and smirked. “That bad, huh?”

  Darcy took a long sip of water before replying. “I kissed her.”

  “Come again?” Bingley blinked.

  “Elizabeth. Last night I kissed her on the cheek.”

  Bingley’s grin grew wider. “And?”

  “And then I turned and walked away.”

  At that, Bingley laughed out loud. “You ran away?”

  “I didn’t run. I... exited swiftly.”

  “Oh, Darcy.” Bingley leaned back, positively delighted. “You hopeless, brooding idiot.”

  Darcy glared at his friend.

   “Was it a bad kiss?” Bingley sipped his coffee.

   “It was brief. But it felt... consequential.” Darcy stared into his water glass.

   “And now you’re panicking.”

  “She's twenty-four,” Darcy said after a beat. “A fourteen year difference,”

  Bingley then shrugged. “Jane and I are eleven years apart, it hasn’t bothered her once.”

  Darcy gave him a look. “You’re not her professor.”

  “No, but I am her student advisor” Bingley admitted. “But I’ve seen how the Bennet sisters carry themselves. They’re more composed, driven, and emotionally intelligent than half the faculty.”

  Darcy didn’t reply, but his silence didn’t mean disagreement.

  Moments later Collins arrived, a small plate of fruit in one hand and a glass of juice in the other. His tie was crooked, and his smile was uncharacteristically buoyant.

  “Gentlemen,” he greeted them. “Beautiful morning, isn’t it?”

  “You’re unusually chipper,” Bingley observed, raising an eyebrow.

  “Ah,” Collins said, sitting down, “I’m just looking forward to the student mingle. We’re pulling out all the stops this year—outdoor lanterns, live jazz ensemble, the works. It’s going to be... magical.”

  Darcy raised a skeptical brow. “Magical?”

  “I think you’ll find me a romantic at heart,” Collins replied with a wink, then popped a grape into his mouth.

  Professor Featherstone joined them not long after, dressed in her signature scarf and oversized glasses. She glanced toward Collins, then raised an eyebrow of her own.

  “Well, someone’s been in a suspiciously good mood these days,” she said, settling into a chair. “Met someone, have you?”

  Bingley chuckled. “We were just wondering the same.”

  Collins adjusted his tie with a knowing smile. “Let’s just say I’ve encountered someone... spirited. Keeps me on my toes.”

  Darcy watched him closely but said nothing.

  Professor Featherstone interjected proudly, “Yes! and speaking of spirited—Miss Bennet. I believe she is in your class as well Darcy. She’s been keeping me on my toes. Brilliant girl. Hasn’t let me win an argument since the first day of class.”

  Darcy felt something subtle shift in his chest.

  “She’s the most formidable student I’ve taught in years,” Featherstone continued. “Wicked sense of analysis, and never backs down from a challenge. I’ve had to prepare for her presentations.”

  Bingley laughed and Darcy said nothing, but he listened carefully. The praise settled into him like something private—something he wasn’t entitled to, but carried nonetheless.

  He was proud of her.

  The four of them finished breakfast with easy conversation, the mood warm as the lounge began to fill with faculty trickling in before lectures. But Darcy’s mind wasn’t fully there.

  It was still turning.

  Still lingering.

  How hard can it really get to stay away? It should be a simple task.

  The sun had barely lifted past the rooftops, casting a warm glow over the quiet, early-morning streets of town. Elizabeth and Jane walked side by side along the narrow brick sidewalk that curved gently toward campus, their bags slung over one shoulder, books tucked under arms.

  Jane chatted softly about her morning reading—something light, something romantic—but Elizabeth barely heard her. Her eyes kept darting ahead, then to the side, then back again—like someone expecting to be caught.

  “Okay,” Jane said finally, slowing her steps. “What’s going on with you?”

  Elizabeth blinked. “What?”

  “You’re twitchy. Distracted. Looking around like you’re about to run into a ghost. Are you ill? Should we go back home?”

  “No, no,” Elizabeth said quickly. “I’m fine.”

  Jane gave her a long, knowing look.

  Elizabeth hesitated. Then sighed.

  “Darcy kissed me,” she said, her voice quiet.

  “He what?” Jane suddenly stumbled.

  Elizabeth turned toward her—and that’s when Jane tripped.

  Her books spilled across the sidewalk as she went down with an undignified thump on the cobbles.

  “Jane!” Elizabeth gasped, dropping to her knees. “Are you alright?”

  Jane’s shoulders began to shake.

  Elizabeth’s panic deepened—until she saw her sister’s face.

  Jane was laughing so hard she had tears streaming down her cheeks, one hand clutching her ribs, the other loosely gesturing at the mess of her books.

  Elizabeth narrowed her eyes and smacked her lightly on the shoulder. “You absolute menace.”

  Still laughing, Jane fell back against her bag, breathless. “You—you kissed him?”

  “He kissed me!” Elizabeth muttered, pointing a finger to her chest. “On the cheek. And then basically ran away like a Victorian governess.”

  That only made Jane laugh harder.

  With a groan of resignation, Elizabeth sat beside her on the pavement, staring up at the sky while students began to pass by, casting confused glances at the sisters on the ground.

  They stayed there a moment longer—laughing until it hurt, until the strangeness of the night before faded into something lighter.

  Bingley was making his way through the central quad, coffee in hand and mind still lingering on breakfast, when he caught the sound of laughter drifting from behind one of the stone columns.

  A group of students—three or four, lounging near a planter—were snickering over something. Normally he wouldn’t pay attention, but one word caught his ear.

  “Tripped,” said one. “Right there. She just collapsed. Books everywhere.”

  Bingley slowed, and approached them.

  “Was she hurt?” he asked, approaching them casually. “Do we need to call medical services?”

  One of the girls waved a hand, amused. “No, no. She was fine. She and her sister were laughing like complete psychopaths on the sidewalk. Outside the front gate.”

  Bingley blinked. “Sister?”

  Another student nodded. “Yeah, Jane Bennet and her sister.”

  Bingley didn’t wait for more.

  His coffee hit the bench with a thud as he took off across the quad, his strides long and increasingly urgent.

  Darcy however had just crossed the old faculty courtyard, his mind preoccupied with how to respond to a stack of student essays, when movement caught his eye.

  Bingley.

  Running.

  Darcy stopped mid-step and watched in disbelief as his usually unbothered friend sprinted full-tilt toward the main gates like the world was ending.

  Without thinking, Darcy followed.

  Bingley rounded the stone archway that marked the university’s front gates and skidded to a stop.

  There, seated on the sidewalk a few steps from the path, were Jane and Elizabeth. Their heads were thrown back, their laughter uncontrolled and bright, books scattered around them like fallen leaves.

  Relief crashed over him.

  He sprinted the last few steps and dropped to his knees beside Jane.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked, breathless, hands scanning her arms and elbows. “Did you fall? Are you okay?”

  Jane blinked at him in stunned amusement. “Charles?”

  “Someone said you collapsed—tripped, sidewalk—”, he was completely out of breath.

  “I’m fine,” she said gently, but he was already checking her knees. “I’m really—”

  Before she could finish, a second figure appeared behind them.

  Darcy, flushed and winded, stared at them wide-eyed.

  “What happened?” he demanded, dropping beside Elizabeth. “Are you alright? Why was Bingley sprinting across campus like a madman?”

  For a brief moment, no one spoke.

  Then both Bennet sisters looked at each other.

  And exploded into laughter all over again.

  Jane clutched her side. Elizabeth leaned against the low iron fence, tears springing to her eyes.

  Elizabeth, between gasps, managed to say, “I told her you kissed me and she tripped. That’s it. That’s what happened.”

  Darcy groaned audibly and stood up, brushing off his knees.

  “You’re all insufferable,” he muttered, offering a hand down to Elizabeth.

  She took it, still shaking with laughter.

  He turned and walked back toward camps, “We’re going to be late.”, throwing his hand in the air.

  Bingley looked after him, bemused.

  Jane tucked her hair behind her ear, still laughing. “Did he just—?”

  “Yup,” Elizabeth said, grinning. “Classic exit.”

  Elizabeth dropped her bag by the door and made her way to her desk, flipping on the small lamp in the corner. Its warm glow spilled across a mess of papers, sticky notes, and open books—all orbiting around the near-complete center of her universe: Veil of Respectability.

  Nearly four months had passed since the semester began. It was mid-May now—just warm enough to leave windows cracked, just deep enough into the year for everything to feel real. There were only a few weeks left before final deadlines and departmental reviews.

  She sat down, fingers already curling around her pen. The screen blinked awake as she nudged the trackpad. Chapter after chapter stood ready. Cross-referenced. Cited. Clean. Beneath the academic structure and language, the core of the truth pulsed—just veiled enough to pass Wickham’s first read without suspicion.

  She had been careful.

  No names. No direct references to Rosings Park. Only institutional archetypes. Faculty models. Case patterns. The university could be any elite academic institution in the world.

  But she would know.

  Charlotte would know.

  And one day soon—everyone else would too.

  She scrolled down to the final paragraph, her cursor hovering at the end.

  And if justice has no place within the ivory tower, then perhaps the tower was never built for justice to begin with.

  Elizabeth sat back.

  Through the window, she could hear the faint rustle of tree branches brushing the glass, the sounds of distant traffic beyond the edge of town. No office lights. No looming figure. Just her, the words, and the storm building beneath them.

  She saved the document.

  Then backed it up three times.

  Tomorrow, she would hand it in—and begin the quiet war.

Chapter Text

FAULT LINES

  Elizabeth moved through her lectures like a current beneath the surface—composed, focused, but waiting.

  She had attended her morning classes, taken diligent notes, nodded through policy lectures and theory discussions, but it wasn’t until she stepped into her final lecture of the day— A.L.P —that her chest tightened.

  He was already at the front when she arrived, sleeves rolled up, books fanned across his desk in structured disarray. Their eyes met briefly—nothing passed between them.

  For the first time in weeks, both of them kept to their corners of the room, shielded by professionalism and unread pages.

  They were deep into the discussion of narrative framing and implicit bias in first-person texts—Darcy in his element, the students quietly entranced. Elizabeth forced herself to listen, to let the rhythm of analysis distract her from what was waiting just beyond the lecture doors.

  She didn’t even realise the hour had passed until Darcy closed the book in his hand.

  “That’s all for today,” he said. “Your comparative essay drafts are due Monday. You know where to find me.”

  Chairs scraped back., bags were zipped and the students rose.

  Elizabeth stayed seated.

  She pulled her notebook closed, slid it into her bag, and reached for her thesis draft, setting it on top of her desk so it would be ready and in her hand on her way to Wickham.

  She, however, didn’t notice she was the last one in the room.

  Darcy hadn’t expected her to linger.

  He was halfway through erasing the board when he turned—and saw her still gathering her things at the far desk. She moved with calm efficiency, sliding her notebook into her bag, unaware that she was alone.

  He watched her reach for a folder from beneath her stack of literature notes—something about the way she handled it made him curious.

  He moved before he thought.

  “Miss Bennet—wait.”

  She froze at the handle.

  He crossed the space in a few long strides, reaching out gently to touch her wrist—just enough to stop her. The warmth of her skin under his palm sent a strange jolt through him, his hand lingered a moment too long before he let go, stepping back slightly.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said.

  Her gaze was guarded. “You didn’t.”

  He hesitated. “About the other night—I want to explain. The kiss, I mean. It wasn’t planned. It was… a gesture. Polite, one might even call it.”

  She raised a brow. “A polite kiss?”

  “I understand how that sounds.”

  The corner of her mouth quirked slightly, but she didn’t comment.

  Then his eyes dropped to the folder in her hand—tilted just enough for the title to catch the light.

  He was very curious.

  Veil of Respectability

  - by Elizabeth Anne Bennet

  His expression shifted.

  “What is that?”

  She followed his gaze. “My thesis draft. I’m handing it in today.”

  He frowned. “May I see it?”

  She hesitated, then held it out. “Only if you promise not to circle every comma. Wickham already thinks my grammar is unforgivable, why, no one knows.”

  He opened the folder—and the tension began to build…

  He read the abstract.

  And read the first page.

  By the second, his breath was shallow.

  “Elizabeth,” he said tightly, eyes scanning a section on financial opacity within elite academic institutions, “Is this about Rosings Park?”

  “No,” she said too quickly. “It’s about a university system.”

  “This is here,” he said, louder. “How do you know all this? Who are your sources?”

  She pulled her arms across her chest. “That’s none of your concern.”

  His voice rose. “You’re playing with fire! You don’t know what Wickham is capable of.”

  Elizabeth’s own frustration cracked. “I know exactly what he’s capable of.”

  Darcy stared at her, stunned.

  She continued, “You don’t get to tell me what’s dangerous. You, who hides behind bureaucracy while students suffer. You think you know the cost of silence?”

  “I’m trying to protect you, and those suffering students. Don’t do this!” he snapped. “This—this will have consequences.”

  “I’m not afraid of consequences,” she said. “I’m afraid of silence.”

  Darcy ran a hand through his hair, pacing. His voice laced with anger. “You don’t understand. Wickham has friends in high places and he’ll destroy anyone who gets in his way.”

  She stepped toward him, snatching the thesis from his hand. “Then let him try.”

  At the door, she turned back. Her voice was low, calm, but sharp as a blade.

  “I am capable of anything, Fitzwilliam. And injustice—whether it wears a name like Wickham or Darcy—will not stand in my way.”

  She left without another word.

  Wickham’s office was dimly lit, the blinds half-drawn against the afternoon light. Piles of documents littered his desk in varying degrees of neglect, and a mug of coffee sat cold beside his elbow.

  He didn’t look up when she entered. Just waved a hand distractedly while his eyes remained fixed on his laptop screen.

  Elizabeth stood a few feet from the desk, folder in hand.

  Wickham finally stretched out his hand—still not meeting her gaze. “Still got a week, Bennet. Sure you’re ready to submit?”

  “Yes,” she said evenly.

  She placed the folder in his palm with deliberate precision.

  He opened it lazily, skimmed no more than the title, the abstract and first few paragraphs, then grunted. “Looks fine.”

  Reaching for the submission sheet, he scribbled his name across the faculty advisor approval line, stamped the date, and slid it back toward her without a word about the contents.

  “You’ll go to Professor Featherstone for final review,” he muttered, already returning to his screen. “She’ll coordinate committee submission.”

  Then, with a dismissive flick of his wrist: “You’re done here. Good luck. I look forward to reading it after submission.”

  Elizabeth didn’t move.

  After a moment she then turned slowly, the weight of the folder now replaced with anticipation. Wickham’s attention remained glued to whatever spreadsheet or self-serving memo consumed his screen.

  As she stepped outside and closed the door behind her, her mouth curved slightly.

  Idiot.

  He hadn’t read a single word past the heading. He hadn’t noticed the language. The pattern. The veiled accusations.

  She walked down the hall with a confidence that was quiet but fierce. Let him sign it. Let him smile through his own undoing.

  The sun was sinking fast behind the western edge of campus, casting the quad in long shadows and golden light. Darcy stood in the center of his office, arms folded tightly across his chest, pacing the narrow stretch between his window and desk.

  He couldn’t stop thinking about it.

  Her thesis, and the title. The words she’d written, so sharp and deliberate—veiled, yes, but dangerous all the same.

  His heart hadn’t slowed since reading it.

  He should’ve stopped her.

  He should’ve said more.

  But all he could see now was her slipping through Wickham’s office door, handing over something that could put her squarely in his crosshairs.

  And Wickham never reacted to threats with grace.

  A sudden, sharp pang of worry hit his chest.

  She’s in there. Alone.

  Without a second thought, Darcy grabbed his blazer and stormed out of the office.

  The air outside was cooler now, brushing against his skin as he crossed the quad. He moved quickly past the library steps, weaving through the few students and staff, ignoring their curious glances. He rounded the edge of the Law Building, heading for the front entrance to Wickham’s office and collided—full force—into someone coming the other way.

  They stumbled and Darcy instinctively reached out, arms wrapping around the person to steady them—only to comprehend too late that the weight had already shifted.

  He took the full brunt of the fall, his back hitting the grass with a thud.

  Elizabeth landed squarely on his chest.

  For a moment, there was only the sound of their breath and the distant rustle of trees.

  Her hands were on his shoulders, her hair brushing his jaw. She slowly lifted her head and looked down at him, one brow raised, eyes amused.

  She sighed. “Why do we always have to meet like this?”

  Darcy stared up at her, stunned.

  Then, before he could think better of it, his hand settled on the small of her back—gentle and warm, a total contrast to their previous encounter.

  “I was coming to find you,” he said quietly. “I thought—Wickham might do something and I couldn’t stop thinking about your safety. About him reading what you wrote.”

  Elizabeth’s expression softened, she smiled.

  “He didn’t read it,” she said.

  “What?”

  “I handed it in. He skimmed the first line, maybe two sentences. Then signed off on it like it was a grocery list.”

  Darcy looked incredulous.

  She shrugged. “I’m beginning to believe he’s an actual idiot.”

  They stayed there a moment longer—still entangled, her weight light on his chest, her eyes scanning his face.

  “Ahem!” A loud cough shattered the haze.

  They both turned sharply.

  Bingley stood a few paces away, arms crossed, eyebrows raised, barely suppressing a grin.

  “Well,” he said. “I was going to ask if either of you had seen Jane, but clearly I’ve interrupted… something.”

  Darcy practically launched Elizabeth off his chest and scrambled to his feet.

  “This is not what it looks like,” he began.

  “It looks like you tackled her on purpose,” Bingley said, deadpan. “In which case, very smooth.”

  Elizabeth laughed as she stood, brushing grass from her leggings.

  “You know,” Bingley added, “if you two want to be more intimate, I’d recommend not doing it on university property. Or at least not on the lawn.”

  Darcy turned red.

  Elizabeth didn’t help, “He was very worried, Professor Bingley,” she said sweetly.

  “Clearly,”

  Before Darcy could dig a hole deep enough to disappear into, a familiar voice called out from behind them.

  “Is everything alright?”

  They turned to see Jane walking toward them from the path that led up from the library steps, a gentle breeze tugging at the hem of her coat and her blonde hair pinned neatly behind her ears.

  She looked from Elizabeth to Darcy, then to Bingley—eyebrows slightly raised. “Did something happen?”

  Bingley stepped forward before either of the guilty parties could respond.

  “Nothing tragic,” he said cheerfully. “Just your sister tackling my best friend to the ground in broad daylight.”

  Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “He ran into me.”

  Darcy looked skyward, defeated. “Technically true.”

  Jane pressed a hand to her mouth, trying not to smile. “Well, I’m glad no one’s hurt. I think.”

  Bingley beamed. “Since we’ve all survived the impact, why don’t we commemorate the occasion with dinner?”

  Elizabeth tilted her head. “Dinner?”

  “The Wild Fig Café,” Bingley said. “I have a booking for two—but I think the two of you need food. You’ve clearly burned a lot of energy in your… rugby match.”

  Darcy groaned.

  Elizabeth sighed with mock exasperation. “Only if we don’t have to explain the grass stains.”

  Jane looked amused. “So that’s a yes?”

  Darcy and Elizabeth exchanged a glance, both visibly reluctant—but their stomachs had other plans.

  “Fine,” Darcy muttered.

  Elizabeth nodded. “We’re hungry. Not proud.”

  Bingley grinned, linking his arm with Jane’s. “That’s the spirit. Let’s eat before someone else gets tackled.”

  The café glowed warmly under low lighting and exposed brick, the clink of cutlery and soft jazz forming a bubble of comfort around the small booth near the back.

  Elizabeth, Jane, Darcy, and Bingley settled into the curved corner seating, their menus folded and drinks already ordered. Candles flickered gently between them.

  Jane leaned forward, voice low. “So—how did it go? The hand-in?”

  Elizabeth sipped her coffee and raised a brow. “He barely read it.”

  Darcy rolled his eyes.

  “Because he’s reckless, or because he’s lazy?” Jane asked.

  “Both,” Elizabeth replied, setting her mug down. “But that works in our favor. Professor Featherstone is now my sole reviewing advisor. I’m going to use that freedom to finalise the real draft—the one that names what’s actually happening.”

  Darcy exhaled audibly, long and low.

  “Wait—what am I missing?” Bingley asked looking at them confused.

  The table fell quiet.

  Darcy was now the one to lean forward. “Elizabeth’s thesis isn’t about some abstract theory. It’s about this universityk, Rosings Park. She’s been tracking discrepancies in faculty funding, grant misappropriation… and Wickham is right at the center of it.”

  Bingley coughed mid-sip, nearly choking on his water. “Wickham?”

  Elizabeth nodded calmly. “And it’s not just him. It’s structural and designed to keep people like him protected while students are squeezed dry.”

  Bingley leaned back, stunned. “Collins has been trying to access internal financial records for months. The entire department has been stonewalled at every turn. How have you managed to uncover this so quickly?”

  Elizabeth smiled modestly. “You’d be surprised what happens when you put a few determined students together. We make a formidable army.”

  Darcy glanced at her, part amused, part alarmed.

  Elizabeth stirred her drink slowly, then added, “What I really need now is someone who understands accounting—someone trustworthy.”

  That’s when she noticed it.

  The brief glance that passed between Bingley and Darcy—quick, but unmistakable.

  Her eyes narrowed. “What?”

  Darcy sighed like a man caught in the act. “Collins.”

  Elizabeth blinked. “Collins?”

  Darcy nodded. “Master’s degree in accounting. He was a Chartered Accountant before he pivoted to theology, numbers were his first love. Which might explain the existential crisis.”

  Bingley snorted into his drink.

  Elizabeth sat back, stunned. “That explains… everything. The emails to Lady de Bourgh. His frustration. His persistence.”

  Darcy stared. “Wait—how do you know about the emails?”

  Elizabeth only smiled and looked into her cup.

  He gaped at her. “What are you? Some kind of corporate spy?”

  “I’m a criminology major,” she replied sweetly. “A very... committed one.”

  Darcy stared as if seeing her for the first time, “Unbelievable.” He sat back, muttering,

  Their food arrived just as the door to the café chimed open behind them.

  Bingley glanced toward the entrance—stupefied.

  “Incoming. Don’t panic.”

  The others followed his gaze.

  There, walking through the front door—smiling, casual, a little too flushed for a professional outing—was Collins.

  And Charlotte.

  Together.

  On a date.

  “Move!” Jane hissed.

  They all shuffled violently to the side—an awkward domino of limbs and panic—as they tried to disappear deeper into the booth.

  Jane ended up half in Bingley’s lap, clinging to his sleeve. Elizabeth was practically seated on Darcy’s, her thigh brushing his, her hand braced awkwardly on his chest.

  Darcy went pale.

  Elizabeth barely breathed. “I think they’re heading to the back.”

  “Of course they are,” Darcy muttered under his breath, very aware of the fact that Elizabeth’s body was practically pressed against his.

  Bingley caught his friend’s panicked look and raised an eyebrow.

  Darcy mouthed: Help me.

  Bingley bit down on a grin and shrugged, eyes full of wicked amusement.

  Elizabeth, finally registering the situation, shifted slightly—just enough to give Darcy some breathing room.

  She smirked without looking at him. “Don’t pass out, professor.”

  “I’m trying.” He swallowed.

  They remained frozen for another beat as Collins and Charlotte were seated on the opposite side of the café.

  Then, with careful ease, the group exhaled.

  “I have an idea,” Elizabeth said softly, adjusting her seat and straightening her posture.

  Jane looked over. “What kind of idea?”

  Elizabeth glanced across the table, eyes twinkling. “Let’s just say our best friend here”—she nodded subtly in Charlotte’s direction—“might be very persuasive when it comes to involving Collins in the project.”

  Darcy groaned again, this time behind his hand.

  Bingley raised his glass. “To covert academic warfare.”

  Elizabeth clinked hers against it. “And a well-timed romance.”

Chapter Text

UNWELCOME ADVANCES

  The café in Brighton was tucked into a narrow-cobbled alley, lit by iron lanterns and the low gleam of its name—Le Marais—etched in gold across the glass. Inside, the atmosphere was warm but dim, like a secret whispered between wine glasses and flickering candles.

  Lydia Bennet perched at a small table near the window, dressed in a slinky cream blouse and high-waisted skirt that she had chosen specifically because it made her feel sophisticated. The interior of the café smelled faintly of rosemary and charred lemon, the kind of place people photographed their food before eating it. Opposite her sat George Wickham, lounging like he owned the place. His dark button-down shirt was open at the collar, sleeves rolled casually, revealing a watch she was certain cost more than Elizabeth’s rent. He had brought her here—two hours from campus—for a weekend getaway. Just the two of them.

  She couldn’t help but feel a little dizzy with it all.

  “You know,” he said, swirling his wine, “you turn heads when you walk into a room.”

  Lydia giggled. “You think so?”

  “I know so,” he replied, leaning forward slightly. “You’ve got such elegance and confidence for someone your age, that’s rare.”

  Lydia tilted her head, amused. “You mean for someone nineteen?”

  He chuckled. “I mean for someone in general. Age is just a number, Lydia. You’re wiser than most women I’ve met in their thirties.”

  “Even thirty-seven-year-olds?” she teased, eyes sparkling.

  Wickham gave her a slow smile. “Especially thirty-seven-year-olds.”

  Their menus arrived and as she began flipping through hers, Wickham reached across the table and gently closed it.

  “Why don’t we try something light?” he suggested. “That citrus quinoa salad—perfect for someone with your figure. You don’t want to feel bloated all night.”

  Lydia blinked. “Oh. I was eyeing the pasta…”

  He laughed softly. “Trust me, salad now, dessert later. We’ll make it special.”

  She nodded, smiling, unsure why her cheeks were flushing. Was this how grown-up relationships worked?

  As she reached for her wine glass, Wickham added, “And maybe skip that high-waisted skirt next time. Don’t get me wrong—it’s stunning, but you don’t want every man in the room trying to undress you with his eyes. I’d rather keep that privilege to myself.”

  Lydia stunned, caught between a blush and a frown.

  Dinner passed in a blur of polished silverware and practiced conversation. Wickham was attentive, always leaning in, laughing at the right moments, brushing her hand with his fingers as if by accident. She felt wanted, chosen and after their meal, they shared one last glass of wine. Wickham cleared his throat and offered a small laugh.

  “You know,” he said, “we should probably keep this—us—quiet for now. Just until things settle a little, for your sake. I’d hate for anyone to judge you, or… complicate things.”

  Lydia looked at him, eyes wide. “You think people would?”

  “People love to gossip. Especially about student-faculty dynamics. Even though technically, I’m not your professor.” He grinned. “Still, let’s protect what we’ve got and keep it just ours for a while.”

  Lydia nodded slowly, her heart full. She took his hand and squeezed it. “That’s really sweet.”

  He smiled back, but behind his eyes, there was something colder and more calculating. When Lydia turned to collect her purse, Wickham’s smile faded entirely.

  So eager. So needy. So plain up close. 

  He sighed inwardly. Still, she was useful and loyal, his plan were falling into place.

  As they finished Lydia stepped into the alley for a quick smoke just as the last of the sun dipped below the rooftops. She wrapped her coat tighter and smiled to herself, the wine making her lightheaded in all the right ways.

  When she turned around she saw a couple approaching from the other side of the street.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Lucas!” she said brightly.

  “Lydia?” Mrs. Lucas asked, smiling politely. “What are you doing all the way in Brighton?”

  “Oh, I’m on a little weekend getaway!” Lydia chirped. “My boyfriend brought me. He’s just inside paying for dessert.”

  “How lovely,” Mr. Lucas said carefully. “Is he a student?”

  Lydia laughed. “No, he’s … a businessman from Kent. Older, very mature.”

  Lydia then turned, glancing toward the window of the café.

  Wickham was still inside, leaning against the counter, tapping something on his phone.

  The Lucas’s followed her gaze—and went still.

  “Oh,” Mrs. Lucas said softly.

  Lydia nodded proudly. “Isn’t he handsome?”

  The couple exchanged a quick glance.

  “Well, congratulations,” Mr. Lucas said quickly. “He… looks like quite the man.”

  “We should be going,” Mrs. Lucas added. “Our train leaves soon, but enjoy the rest of your weekend, dear.”

  “Thanks! I will!” Lydia waved as they disappeared around the corner.

  The moment they were out of Lydia’s sight, Mr. Lucas quickened his pace, tugging his wife gently by the arm as they rounded the corner and stepped into the shadows of a quieter side street.

  “She’s dating George Wickham,” he muttered under his breath, pulling out his phone.

  Mrs. Lucas’s expression had gone pale. “That’s the man Charlotte warned us about, isn’t it?”

  “She didn’t give many details,” Mr. Lucas said. “But she called him dangerous.”

  Mrs. Lucas shivered. “And now he’s got his hands on Lydia Bennet.”

  He didn’t hesitate, “I’m calling Charlotte. Right now.”

  The tide was rolling in slow and steady, casting long white ribbons of foam across the sand. The sky above was a dusky gold, painted with streaks of lilac clouds, and the scent of brine and salt-weed hung gently in the air.

  Elizabeth and Charlotte strolled along the damp shoreline near The Crown—a quiet stretch just outside the village, far from the bustle of campus and deadlines. Their shoes dangled from their hands, their toes pressed into wet sand, and for a while, neither said much.

  The quiet was welcome.

  “Feels good to breathe for once,” Elizabeth said, stretching her arms overhead. “No admin meetings, no PDFs, no Darcy monologues about literary structure.”

  Charlotte smirked. “You say that like you don’t live for the Darcy monologues.”

  Elizabeth gave her a look. “Please.”

  Charlotte was about to reply when her phone buzzed.

  She glanced down at the screen.

  Mum.

  The easy smile growing on her face.

  “Sorry,” she said, stepping aside to answer. “Hey, Mum?”

  Elizabeth watched her friend’s expression shift as she spoke—confused at first, then tight. Her posture stiffened, one arm wrapping around her waist. She glanced sideways once, then again.

  By the time she ended the call, her face had gone pale.

  “What’s wrong?” Elizabeth asked, stepping toward her.

  Charlotte didn’t speak right away. She looked out over the water, eyes distant.

  “My parents saw Lydia.”

  Elizabeth blinked. “Okay…?”

  “In Brighton. At Le Marais, with Wickham.”

  Elizabeth’s brows knit together. “With—no. That can’t be right.”

  Charlotte’s voice was firm. “They said she called him her boyfriend.”

  Elizabeth exhaled sharply and turned back toward the water, running a hand through her hair. “Goodness, Lydia.”

  “She doesn't even know who he really is, right?” Charlotte asked quietly.

  “She knows of him, that he is a professor” Elizabeth said. “We’ve talked about him once or twice. But… I mean, she’s reckless, but she’s not stupid.”

  Charlotte didn’t look away. “Being clever doesn’t stop people from being used.”

  Elizabeth went quiet.

  The tide pushed further up the beach, lapping at their feet.

  “We have to do something,” Charlotte added. “Before he does real damage.”

  Elizabeth was silent for a moment. Then, slowly: “If we come at her too directly, she’ll dig her heels in, she always has. Especially if she thinks we’re jealous or trying to control her.”

  Charlotte nodded. “Then we go sideways.”

  “Sideways?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Find someone Lydia actually trusts. Someone she listens to—without her defenses going up.”

  Elizabeth was quiet for a moment, thinking, “Kitty.”

  Charlotte looked at her. “Why?”

  Elizabeth nodded. “Because, she’s always had Lydia’s back, always covered for her and defended her. If anyone could talk her down without triggering a tantrum, it’s Kitty.”

  “You think she’ll believe you?”

  “She won’t believe me,” Elizabeth said. “But she’ll believe something’s wrong if we show her carefully—enough to look closer herself.”

  Charlotte nodded slowly. “Alright. We try Kitty first.”

  Elizabeth’s gaze drifted out toward the sea again.

  “And if that fails,” Charlotte added, “then what?”

  Elizabeth’s jaw tightened.

  “Then we burn Wickham to the ground.”

  The room was quiet, save for the occasional scratch of pens and the hum of the overhead projector. Sunlight streamed in at a sharp angle through the tall windows, dust hanging in the light like suspended thoughts.

  Darcy stood at the front of the classroom, a slim folder in one hand, the other resting on the podium. He was uncharacteristically still.

  “I’ve received your comparative essays,” he began, voice even. “Many of you attempted to explore modern parallels between classic narratives. Some quite skillfully. I’d like to share a few samples aloud today—anonymous, of course.”

  He began with a short analysis of identity in The Picture of Dorian Gray and The Bell Jar. Then one on gender and societal masks in Jane Eyre and The Handmaid’s Tale. The students were attentive, murmuring thoughtful reactions.

  Then he picked up another page.

  He didn’t say the title, only read.

  “Justice, like fiction, relies on careful manipulation of narrative. Whether penned by a novelist or disguised within a university policy, the story told determines the power held. To read critically is to trace who benefits—and who disappears.”

  He paused briefly, eyes scanning ahead.

  “In both Austen’s Persuasion and Atwood’s Alias Grace, women are trapped in systems that reward silence and punish perception. Their survival hinges not on virtue, but on their ability to be believed.” Another pause. “What binds these stories across time is not the heroine’s endurance—but the reader’s complicity. We cheer for quiet strength while ignoring the machinery that demands it. A good reader is dangerous. A believing reader, even more so.”

  A longer silence followed.

  Then he lowered the page.

  Darcy looked out at the class. “This essay—while ambitious—lacks scholarly detachment. The comparisons are... emotive rather than analytical. It’s difficult to draw clear lines between fiction and polemic when the tone is this personal.”

  Elizabeth’s posture stiffened in her seat.

  The class grew still. A few students exchanged uncertain glances.

  Darcy continued, “Your argument should be grounded in structure, not sentiment. Avoid rhetorical flourish when clarity is your goal.”

  Elizabeth raised a hand slowly, her voice calm.

  “Respectfully, sir—some comparisons require discomfort. Strict compartmentalization can erase the connections that matter most, sometimes, similarity is found in the consequences, not the structure.”

  Darcy’s eyes narrowed.

  “Be careful, Miss Bennet,” he said tightly. “When you bend narrative to suit your purpose, you become as unreliable as the systems you claim to criticize.”

  Elizabeth held his gaze. “And when you refuse to see likeness in flawed characters, you risk turning a blind eye to the present reflections of their faults.”

  There was weight in her words—something unspoken. A shadow cast between them and students began shifting uncomfortably in their seats.

  Darcy’s expression hardened. “You’re stubborn and brash! You act without thought for the consequences of your provocations. This—this is reckless scholarship!”

  Elizabeth’s lips parted slightly. But she said nothing.

  His words stung.

  She looked down at her desk, the corner of her notebook crumpling under her tense fingers.

  Darcy stood still for a moment, then exhaled sharply.

  “That’s all for today,” he said. “We’ll resume on Wednesday.”

  He turned his back to the class as they began to pack up.

  Elizabeth was the first to leave.

  He didn’t watch her go.

  His office was dim, the last light of the day sinking beyond the quad. A single desk lamp illuminated the edge of a manuscript and a neglected cup of tea.

  Darcy sat with Elizabeth’s essay in front of him, the pages slightly creased from where his fingers had curled around them too tightly.

  He read the words again—slowly this time.

  There was clarity in them, even if it was sharp. It was the Truth.

  It was everything he’d admired about her.

  And everything he was afraid of.

  He set the pages down, pressing his palms together.

  It wasn’t her writing he was trying to undermine.

  It was his own fear speaking.

  Because Elizabeth Bennet wasn’t careless.

  She was relentless.

  And if he didn’t learn how to stand beside her, he might be trampled in her path—or worse, end up trying to stop her.

Chapter Text

A NIGHT IN PEMBERLEY

  The final light of day filtered softly through the trees lining Rosings Park’s central green, casting golden hues across the flurry of motion below.

  Dozens of tables had already been arranged in crescent patterns around the open-air dance floor, the polished wooden panels catching the sun like lacquered bronze. String lights hung overhead in graceful arcs, half-suspended, half-tangled—still waiting to be tamed. Volunteers moved between rose-draped columns and catering tents, checking and rechecking the logistics.

  Near the edge of it all stood Elizabeth, Jane, and Charlotte—each armed with clipboards and a growing layer of dust on their shoes.

  “Remind me why we agreed to help again?” Elizabeth asked, squinting at a table number marker with a crooked smile.

  “Because I bribed you both with good wine and food, as well as assisting Elizabeth on a certain thesis,” Charlotte replied.

  “Right,” Jane said. “Academic blackmail and food.”

  In the distance, Collins stood atop a folding chair, waving his arms like a flustered conductor while shouting, “No, no, no! The string lights must be symmetrical! Pythagoras would be disgraced by this layout!”

  Elizabeth glanced at him. “Is it strange that I find that endearing?”

  Charlotte followed her gaze, her mouth softening into a barely-contained smile.

  Elizabeth leaned in, lowering her voice. “Speaking of …”

  Charlotte blinked. “What?”

  “I might know someone who can help you sort through the university's budget disaster,” Elizabeth murmured, adjusting a wine glass on the nearest table.

  Charlotte raised a brow. “Please don’t say Hill came up with a suggestion. He’s already dodging my texts.”

  Elizabeth tilted her head meaningfully toward the man still shouting about geometry and light symmetry.

  Charlotte blinked. “Dean Collins?”

  Elizabeth shrugged innocently. “Apparently he has a Master’s degree in accounting. A Chartered Accountant before he turned to the sacred texts. Doesn’t it make perfect sense?”

  Charlotte stared at her for a beat. “You want me to seduce him into helping us?”

  “I didn’t say seduce,” Elizabeth said quickly. “But, you already do that just by existing near him.”

  Charlotte flushed but didn’t deny it.

  “I’ll think about it,” she muttered, turning back to the clipboard.

  Elizabeth only smirked. Jane, who had been silently watching the string lights sway in the late breeze, finally chimed in. “If we’re done saving the ball from structural collapse, can we agree to meet at our place to get ready?”

  Charlotte nodded. “Give me an hour. I want to shower off these logistics.”

  Elizabeth laughed. “Perfect. Bring the champagne!”

  They turned toward the outer path, dusting off their pants as they walked.

  Behind them, Collins shouted again—this time at a poor assistant about symmetry and the spiritual balance of centerpieces.

  Charlotte didn’t look back, but she smiled.

  Their shared laughter echoed through the apartment, weaving through the clink of champagne flutes and the rustle of fabric pulled from garment bags.

  Elizabeth stood barefoot on the rug, a half-curled strand of hair pinned at her temple as she held up two gowns—a sleek black one and a deep emerald dress.

  “Which says ‘charmingly academic but emotionally unavailable’?” she asked.

  Jane, sitting cross-legged on the sofa in a silk robe, grinned. “The green one. You’ll look like a Brontë heroine who files tax fraud reports.”

  Charlotte emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of lavender-scented steam. “Are we pretending this isn’t a tactical strike of beauty?”

  Elizabeth smirked. “I’d never admit to that on the record.”

  They moved around each other with ease, applying mascara and teasing curls, swapping jewelry and bad jokes. Every now and then one would burst into laughter mid-lipstick application. By the time the bottle of champagne was nearly empty, they were glowing—from both wine and anticipation.

  “Are we ready to destroy hearts and unravel institutional corruption?” Elizabeth asked, raising her glass.

  Charlotte clinked hers against it. “Is there any other way?”

  The Pemberley guesthouse sat quiet and sprawling beneath the fading afternoon sky. Inside, Darcy stood in front of a full-length mirror, buttoning the cuffs of a charcoal suit, it was classic, understated and impeccably pressed.

  Across the room, Bingley tugged on a dark teal waistcoat embroidered with subtle gold threading.

  “Do you think this says approachable professor or intellectual rake?” Bingley asked, turning slightly.

  Darcy didn’t look up. “It says Jane will be speechless.”

  Bingley grinned. “Excellent.”

  They worked in relative silence for a while, the room filled with the soft sound of classical piano playing from Darcy’s speaker.

  “You’re thinking about her, aren’t you?” Bingley finally asked.

  Darcy adjusted his collar. “I’m thinking about the ball.”

  “No, you’re thinking about Elizabeth. And whether you’ll say something clever or ruin everything again.”

  Darcy gave him a look.

  Bingley shrugged. “Just… don’t let her slip past you tonight, alright?”

  Darcy didn’t respond, but he fastened the final button of his vest with a deep, bracing breath.

  Lydia twirled in front of her mirror in a tight silver dress, the hem glittering as she moved. “Too much sparkle?” she asked.

  Kitty, perched on the bed and painting her nails, glanced up. “For you? Never.”

  After receiving the riddled phone call from Elizabeth expressing her concern over Lydia, she decided to grab the first train to Kent to surprise her favourite sister with a brief visit and to make sure she was not diving headfirst into trouble.

  Maeve— Lydia’s roommate, was curled in front of a hair straightener. “You’ll outshine all the lights.”

  Lydia grinned and fluffed her curls, clearly pleased. Her phone sat facedown on the desk, ignored—but Kitty’s eyes kept flicking toward it.

  “You excited?” Kitty asked, keeping her voice neutral.

  Lydia shrugged lightly. “I mean, it’s a ball. Gowns, music, dancing. What's not to like?”

  “You going with someone?” Maeve asked, not looking up.

  “Maybe,” Lydia said with a coy smile. “But I’ll keep the mystery.”

  Kitty raised a brow but said nothing. Instead, she reached for her lip gloss and pretended not to notice the way Lydia kept glancing toward her phone.

  “Hope the night lives up to your expectations,” Kitty said casually, screwing the cap closed.

  Lydia flipped her hair. “It always does.” Kitty smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

  The room smelled like amber cologne and expensive bourbon. Wickham stood shirtless in front of the mirror, adjusting his tie. The click of his belt buckle echoed as he tightened it with practiced ease.

  “Skip your event. Stay in.” A woman’s voice called from the other room—low and sultry.

  Wickham glanced toward the bedroom, his reflection smug. “Can’t, I've got to maintain the facade. It’s a university thing.”

  “You hate those things.”

  “I hate being irrelevant more.”

  He checked his phone: three unread messages from Lydia.

  He didn’t open them.

  Instead, he slid the phone into his jacket pocket, stepped into his shoes, and ran a hand through his hair.

  Everything tonight was about optics.

  And he knew exactly how to shine.

  The sun had long dipped beneath the horizon, but the glow of Rosings Park University had never burned brighter.

  Students poured in through the main gates in clusters, heels clicking over cobblestone, shoes crunching faintly on gravel paths. Hundreds made their way through the tree-lined promenade, each side flanked with flickering lanterns and soft-lit candles guiding the way toward the green.

  As they neared the entrance to the green, a grand archway rose before them—a custom wooden frame draped in linen and ivy. Across the top, in curling gold script, the banner read:

  A Night in Pemberley

  Beyond it, the university grounds had been transformed.

  Thousands of delicate string lights twinkled overhead like fallen stars caught in the trees. The surrounding cafés were dressed in 19th-century charm—lace tablecloths, candelabras, vintage silverware. Ornate wooden tables were scattered throughout the green, each adorned with fresh flowers, silver menus, and crystal glasses that caught and bent the light like prisms.

  In the far corner, a large white marquee tent had been raised, lined inside with champagne towers, dark oak barrels, and soft white lanterns floating near the ceiling. A trio of bartenders in waistcoats poured wine and mocktails with silent precision.

  At the center of it all lay the dance floor—smooth, polished, and framed by low wooden fencing woven with roses and lavender. A string quartet sat beside it, tuning slowly as they waited for the night to begin.

  The first to arrive were Collins, Bingley, and Darcy.

  They passed beneath the archway in tailored coats and well-fitted vests, their shoes already dusted faintly with the cool earth. Younger students turned to watch them as they entered—smiling, giggling, nudging one another with whispered commentary.

  Collins noticed and turned to the others with a slight huff. “It is profoundly unfair, the way youth worships a well-pressed suit.”

  Bingley grinned. “And what about the woman you are seeing? Shouldn’t you be worrying more about her attention than the students’?”

  Collins blushed. “That is… different.”

  They approached the drinks tent, each selecting a glass of white wine or champagne from the tower with practiced elegance.

  The crowd was growing fast now—professors in dark velvet coats and floor-length gowns mingling with students in tuxedos and formal wear. The whole evening shimmered, suspended somewhere between a period drama and a dream.

  And yet, the three men waited—quietly, without saying it—for a specific trio to arrive.

  An hour into the evening, the hum of voices and music shifted.

  Three women stepped beneath the archway, and for a moment, the candlelit air seemed to hold its breath.

  Charlotte was a vision in sky blue satin, a clever creation of balanced ornate beauty with thoughtful restraint. Silver embroidery lined the square neckline into the bodice in swirling patterns; a soft lavender tulle draped over the floor length skirt giving it a gentle volume and structure. Collins forgot his drink entirely.

  Jane followed in a pale blush gown with silky sleeves; it radiated classic elegance. The high lace collar that framed her neck made her beautiful face shine and her gold cinched corset amplified her graceful curves. Her golden hair was pinned into a loose chignon with silk ribbons trailing behind. Bingley’s hand tightened around his glass, he was unable to move.

  Everyone’s eyes only flickered to Jane and Charlotte but remained at Elizabeth behind them.

  Elizabeth Anne Bennet did not come tonight to enjoy a ball; she came to claim it.

  In the deepest emerald, the gown commanded the room with a presence as captivating as it was unyielding. Velvet flower petals crowned the off-shoulder neckline dipping into a deep v just below her breasts, framing her collarbones like a sculptor’s masterpiece, while the corset accentuated her hourglass shape with almost regal defiance. The voluminous skirt swept the floor in heavy folds, the hem adorned with even darker oversized petals that seemed to be falling from the bodice and piling at the edges. The rich colour caught the light in shifting shadows, whispering secrets of power and desire, and as Elizabeth moved, the gown did not follow meekly — it lead, and the world had no choice but to follow.

  Darcy’s breath caught.

  She looked—calm. Composed and utterly untouchable.

  Their eyes met across the green. Her hair fell in dark, cascading waves down her back — not pinned tightly like so many others, but left to flow freely, as though even gravity hesitated to interrupt it.

  Only the sides were gently pulled back and twisted with care, secured at her crown with a constellation of pearls that shimmered like starlight. Dozens more—some large as moonlit teardrops, others no bigger than a whisper—were woven through the loose curls as if they'd been scattered by the hand of a celestial muse. They caught the glow of the lanterns and string lights, refracting soft halos around her silhouette, turning every movement of her head into a quiet ripple of brilliance.

  It wasn’t just beautiful—it was otherworldly, like a secret spell threaded into her hair.

  And for one long, suspended breath, Darcy forgot every word he had ever learned about restraint.

  Laughter chimed through the warm night air as Elizabeth, Jane, and Charlotte moved through the green like a constellation in orbit—drawn toward glowing conversations, drifting between clusters of faculty and students.

  They stopped to admire the soft jazz from the string quartet, smiled at students who complimented their gowns, and plucked delicate hors d’oeuvres from silver trays carried by servers in vintage waistcoats. Every flicker of candlelight caught in the pearls in Elizabeth’s hair, the blush of Jane’s gown, the gleam of Charlotte’s soft satin.

  The night was alive with music and light, and for a moment, everything terrible felt far away.

  Charlotte’s gaze drifted to the drinks tent—where Collins stood at the edge, nursing a tall flute of champagne, turning the stem slowly in his fingers as he scanned the crowd.

  “I could use a drink,” she said, her voice casual but eyes fixed.

  “We’ll come with you,” Jane said at once, linking her arm through Charlotte’s.

 “I’ve earned a gin.”

  They glided across the lawn toward the glowing white marquee. Inside, soft music mingled with the gentle clink of bottles. Charlotte reached for a glass of chilled champagne, Jane requested a white wine, and Elizabeth selected a gin cocktail dressed in lavender and a twist of lime.

  As they turned with glasses in hand, two familiar shapes appeared from the left side of the tent.

  Collins and Bingley.

  Both looked freshly composed—but distinctly alert. Their eyes swept the three women with something between admiration and anxiety.

  Charlotte froze with her glass halfway to her lips, Elizabeth raised a brow and Jane blinked, then smiled gently.

  Collins straightened his coat, while Bingley looked like he was either about to deliver thrilling news—or declare war.

  Darcy watched with restrained alarm as Collins—face flushed with nerves—and Bingley—grinning with boyish resolve—drifted toward Charlotte and Jane. Subtlety was not a strength they rely on.

  He could only sigh as the two men offered their hands with a flourish. Jane and Charlotte each accepted with a surprised smile, vanishing with their partners onto the dance floor as the quartet’s tune shifted—slowing, drawing into the familiar rhythm of a 19th-century waltz.

  Darcy was left standing at the edge of the green, one hand curled lightly around the rim of his glass, the other clenched uselessly at his side.

  Elizabeth stood nearby, radiant in her dark emerald dress, he knew he had only moments before someone else asked her to dance. So he crossed the distance and she turned just as he reached her.

  Her expression was unreadable.

  He opened his mouth. The right words danced around his throat, but none of them felt sufficient.

  So he said the truth.

  “You look… beautiful.”

  Elizabeth’s brow lifted slightly, a trace of amusement curling her lips. “That’s the best the great Professor Darcy can manage?”

  He almost smiled. “Tonight, apparently.”

  She held out her hand.

  He took it.

  They stepped onto the dance floor, and the music folded around them—stringed and lilting, drawn from a time that should have felt distant but instead felt hauntingly intimate.

  Darcy’s hand settled at her waist, the other guiding hers with careful precision. She moved with equal ease.

  He tried to speak again, to apologize, to explain, but her eyes found his and—just like that—he lost the thread.

  “You’re very quiet,” she said lightly, glancing up.

  “I’m… distracted.”

  “By what?”

  “Your eyes,” he admitted before he could stop himself.

  Elizabeth blinked. Then laughed, soft and genuine.

 “That’s better,” she said. “Almost sounded like a line.”

  He found himself laughing, too—quietly. “I’ll try harder.”

  “You usually do.”

  A pause.

  Then he added, “I’m sorry about the way I reacted to your comparative essay. It was… harsh. I let my personal concern override my professional judgement.”

  Elizabeth’s gaze flicked sideways.

  “I appreciate the apology,” she said. “And I accept it, but I’m not changing the thesis.”

  “I would be disappointed if you did.”

  Their hands shifted naturally with the movement of the music, bodies leaning subtly into the next turn.

  For a moment, it felt like they were alone in the world.

  And then—

  “May I cut in?”

  Darcy’s hand tightened just slightly.

  Wickham stood at their side, all charm and teeth.

  Darcy looked at Elizabeth, waiting for her choice.

  She hesitated—but then, with a polite smile, stepped back and nodded. “Of course.”

  Darcy released her hand.

  Wickham moved in, his hands sliding far too familiarly—one around her waist, the other drawing her closer than custom allowed.

  Elizabeth kept her smile, but her spine stiffened under his touch, and so they danced.

  Wickham leaned in close, his voice velvet-smooth and thick with entitlement.

  “You have no idea what that dress is doing to me,” he murmured near her ear. “That bodice—by the gods. The way it hugs your breasts—every man here’s thinking the same thing, but I get the front row seat.”

  Wickham smiled wider, pleased with himself.

  “And that waist…” he continued, his hand drifting just slightly, “You’re absolutely delicious tonight.”

  She gripped his shoulder a fraction tighter—but said nothing.

  He leaned in closer, breath warm against her neck. “You’d look perfect standing next to someone like me. You belong on the arm of power, Elizabeth. Not chasing shadows with children.”

  Darcy could feel the tension from across the green.

  That was it.

  Elizabeth stopped mid-step.

  Her face remained composed—but her eyes flashed cold.

  Without a word, she stepped out of his grasp, turned her back on him, and strode off the dance floor, her heels clicking like punctuation.

  Wickham’s smile faltered.

  She left the floor quickly, shoulders rigid, disappearing down the candlelit path between the library and the old stationery shop.

  She didn’t stop walking until the music had faded behind her.

  The air between the buildings was sharper. A breeze slipped through the space like a ribbon pulled too tight.

  Elizabeth pressed her palms flat against the ivy-covered wall behind the library, head bowed between her shoulders.

  She tried to breathe.

  One more whisper and I would have punched him in the throat..

  She swallowed the fury down, her jaw clenched. She could still feel Wickham’s breath on her neck. His disgusting, vile words echoing beneath her ribs.

  She will not cry.

  But her hands trembled slightly where they touched the stone.

  After a moment, she exhaled and pushed herself upright and collided with a firm chest.

  A hand steadied her gently at the elbow.

  She looked over her shoulder and Darcy stood behind her— very close.

  His voice was quiet. “Are you alright?”

  Elizabeth’s back was still flush against his chest, the warmth of him anchoring her in place. Her breath was steadying, but just barely.

  Darcy didn’t speak—he only stood behind her, one hand resting lightly on her upper arm, his thumb drawing slow, absentminded circles over her skin. It was comforting. And electrifying.

  She closed her eyes and exhaled, voice low.

  “He said the bodice of my dress showed off my breasts. Called my figure delicious,” she said flatly. “And then suggested I belonged on the arm of someone with power.”

  She didn’t need to say his name.

  Darcy’s whole body tensed behind her, suddenly se felt him move. His hand dropped, his frame pulling away slightly—but only to turn, as though ready to storm back across the quad and end Wickham with his fists, but Elizabeth spun, placing her hands firmly on his chest, stopping him.

  “No,” she whispered.

  His jaw clenched, his breath hard in his throat.

  But her hands—her hands—were warm. Soft. Steady. Darcy looked down at them. Looked at her. Something cracked open inside him.

  His much larger hand reached up and gently covered hers, engulfing it completely.

  A beat passed.

  His voice was hoarse. “Why is it… that with you, I forget every boundary I’ve ever placed on myself?”

  The question wasn’t really for her.

  But Elizabeth felt the sadness in it anyway. She stepped back slightly, pulling her hand from his chest.

  “I understand,” she said softly, trying not to let the disappointment bleed through. “Boundaries are important, your reputation is important.” Darcy’s breath caught—and then he reached her. Closing the distance again. He took her hand once more and placed it back over his chest—deliberately.

  Still holding it there, he leaned in just enough that she could feel the heat of his breath against her skin.

  “I haven’t felt this way in a very long time,” he said, voice low. “You make me forget caution. You make me feel…”

  He paused. Swallowed.

  “I need you to understand something, Elizabeth. If we continue—if this goes further—I won’t be able to stop easily. I do not love quietly; I love fiercely and passionately.”

  Elizabeth’s pulse kicked up sharply as her breath hitched. The way he said her name made every reasoning of why this was wrong falter. She could smell the warmth of his cologne, sharp and earthy. Feel the tension in his body. The sincerity in his voice.

  “I don’t think…” she whispered, stepping closer until only a breath remained between them, “I’ll be able to stop you.”

  Darcy’s restraint shattered.

  He closed the distance and kissed her like his life depended on it. He kissed her like he’d been starved of breath, and she was the only air in the world. His lips found hers with a hunger that was both reverent and desperate, a silent confession wrapped in every movement. His arms encircled her, one hand threading into her hair, the other pressing against the small of her back to hold her impossibly close.

  And Elizabeth kissed him back like she’d been waiting her entire life for this kiss—for his kiss, and his alone. Her hands gripped the lapels of his coat, tugging him toward her, anchoring him to the place they’d both been circling for weeks. Her fingers slipped into his collar, feeling the heat of his neck, the tension in his jaw. He tasted like resolve and longing.

  It was fire and breath and something between a war cry and a lullaby. Their bodies pressed close, close enough to blur the lines they’d so carefully drawn.

  Every touch grew bolder. Every breath caught, but even desire has its limits.

  Darcy pulled away with effort, breathing heavily, his forehead pressed to hers.

  “We need to stop,” he said through ragged breath. “Someone might come looking for us.”

  Elizabeth, flushed and grinning, nodded. “You’re right.”

  She smoothed her dress, then turned as if to walk away, but just as she moved to leave, he grabbed the bodice of her dress and pulled her back to him—and kissed her again.

  This time it was brief, playful.

  Before he could do it again, she winked and whispered, “You’ll need more boundaries if this keeps happening.”

  And with that, she disappeared around the corner of the library path, her laughter caught on the breeze.

  Darcy stood alone for a moment, stunned. Still breathless. He looked up at the stars, one hand on his heart.

  “Insufferable woman,” he muttered.

  Then, with one final deep breath, he turned and walked back into the glowing celebration, the echo of her touch still burning on his skin. They each returned to the green from opposite sides, straightening their clothes and their expressions. Their friends welcomed them without question.

  The night was still young.

  And magic, it seemed, still lingered in the air.

  The luxury car pulled to a smooth stop outside the ivy-framed entrance of The Bishop’s Crown Boutique Hotel, nestled discreetly near the edge of town. Warm lantern lights bathed the cobbled drive, and the soft hush of well-pruned hedges made the night feel almost rural—if not for the luggage being unloaded with precision and polish.

  Caroline Bingley stepped out onto the stone path in four-inch heels that had never touched gravel in their life. Her perfectly manicured fingers pushed her copper hair behind one shoulder as she surveyed her surroundings with a faint wrinkle of her nose.

  “So provincial,” she murmured, lips curling upward.

  A porter wheeled her designer trunks inside—each one stamped in silver with the monogram of her fashion empire: C. B. Atelier

  A name whispered in high-end style circles from London to Dubai. Four stores, two capsule collections, and a recent Harper’s feature on her “quiet luxury aesthetic.”

  But Caroline Bingley had not come to Kent for rest. And certainly not for family.

  As she ascended the steps into the hotel, she pulled out her phone and tapped out a message:

 Caroline 💬:

 Charles, I decided to come a day early after all. I’ll see you and Fitzwilliam for breakfast tomorrow. Let’s say 9 a.m. at that café you boys love?

  She pressed send, slid the phone back into her quilted clutch, and allowed the receptionist to check her in with a saccharine smile.

  She had told Charles she needed a break from city life. What she didn’t say was that she had plans.

  Caroline Bingley had always believed in strategy—and timing. Darcy might have escaped her once, but she knew now what she wanted. She would marry him. Become Lady Pemberley. Reclaim what was meant to be hers.

  And nothing and no one will stand in her way.

  She hadn't built an empire by being kind.

Chapter Text

THE ART OF POISE

  Caroline Bingley swept into The Wild Fig Café with the elegance of someone used to five-star dining rooms, her heels clicking smartly against the old wooden floors. One glance around and her lips curved into the faintest sneer. The décor was quaint—hand-painted chalkboard menus, mismatched teacups, local flowers arranged in simple glass jars. Charming, she supposed, if one admired rustic mediocrity. “How very… simple.” She muttered under her breath.

  Choosing a small table near the front window, she set down her designer handbag with a theatrical sigh and signaled the waiter. “I’ll have a café au lait with Madagascar vanilla, extra foam, and cinnamon dusting—light, not heavy,” she said, smoothing a manicured nail across the menu without actually reading it.

  The waiter, a young man in an apron dusted with flour, smiled apologetically. “I’m afraid we don’t serve specialty coffees like that, ma’am. But we have what’s on the menu—americano, cappuccino, latte—”

  Caroline’s sigh was sharp enough to cut glass. “Fine, an americano, black.”

  When the drink arrived, she lifted it delicately, inspecting it as if it were an artifact, then placed it down with a slight grimace. Her watch told her it had been fifteen minutes since the agreed time, it was entirely unacceptable and decided to call them, she dialed Charles first, he did not answer. Then Darcy, his phone went to voicemail.

  Again. Again. Again.

  By the time she set her phone down, the screen displayed ten missed calls and her jaw was clenched so tightly it hurt.

  Her attention wandered to the street outside the café window. Two young women strolled past, their laughter ringing out as they greeted nearly everyone they met in the square, they wore light sundresses. Clearly cheap, Caroline thought. Their hair caught by the spring breeze, and the townsfolk lit up at their approach, exchanging warm greetings.

  Caroline’s gaze hardened. “How exhausting,” she murmured to herself. “All that smiling, and that… selflessness. They must be poor, only poverty makes one so desperate to be liked.”

  She drained the last of her americano, and signaled to the waiter that she wanted to pay. Caroline swiped her black card, not even sparring a cent for the young man, she swept her handbag onto her arm. Not a penny more would this backwater establishment get from her. 

  On her way out, she tapped furiously at her phone, sending a blistering message to both Charles and Darcy.

  Caroline 💬:

  The both of you missed breakfast. Ten fucking missed calls. When I find you, you will regret it.

  With a final withering glance at the cheerful café, Caroline Bingley exited into the square, her poise unshaken but her irritation simmering dangerously.

  Elizabeth and Jane had decided to spend their Saturday morning wandering through the town square. The air was fresh, laced with the scent of newly baked breads and blooming flowers as summer was on the rise. They bought warm chocolate pastries from the bakery, followed by tall-iced coffees from The Wild Fig, and now ambled along the cobbled street toward the boutiques that dotted the square.

  “This is exactly what I needed,” Jane said, smiling as she adjusted the paper bag in her hands. “A morning without any worries, just coffee and clothes and some bonding time with my lovely sister.”

  Elizabeth laughed with a mouth full of pastry, brushing a crumb from her coat. “Agreed. Consider it research in consumer behaviour—completely justified for academic purposes.”

  As they entered Forster & Finch, the most prestigious boutique in town, they were greeted not by the usual soft music and fragrant perfumes, but by raised voices.

  Behind the counter stood Miss Forster, the kindly shopkeeper they had known for years was crying, her eyes red and her hands twisting nervously at her apron. Facing her was a tall, slim woman with gleaming copper hair and sharp cheekbones, dressed impeccably in a tailored coat. Her words rang through the shop like lashes.

  “These fabrics are appalling—thin, cheap, utterly beneath what you dare charge for them! Do you think I don’t know quality? I could find better rags in London for half the price!”

  Miss Forster’s attempt to reply was cut short by another outburst. The mysterious woman threw a crumpled blouse onto the counter. “And look at this—already ruined. Your so-called ‘boutique’ is nothing more than a flea market dressed up with mirrors!”

  The room fell silent except for Miss Forster’s quiet sobs. Elizabeth and Jane stood frozen in the doorway watching the scene. With a sharp flick of her coat, the woman turned on her heel and stormed past them, shoulder-checking Elizabeth hard into the wall as she left. Elizabeth winced, steadying herself against the rack of dresses.

  Jane’s eyes widened. “Lizzy! Are you hurt?” Elizabeth rolled her shoulder, testing it with a grimace. “That will leave a bruise, but I’ll live. Though next time, I’ll wear armour.”

  Jane hurried to the counter, where Miss Forster dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. “What happened?” she asked gently.

  Miss Forster sniffled. “She came into the shop and asked for recommended pieces. I provided those there to her and she tried them on, but this blouse was hanging on the display and she was adamant to ty it on despite me advising that the blouse might be too small for her frame. When it tore at the seam, she accused me of selling ‘fucking garbage,’ refused to pay, and—well—you saw the rest.”

  Elizabeth reached into her paper bag and pulled out one of the chocolate pastries with a few tissues, and slid it across the counter. “Here, this will help, chocolate works for anything, from sadness to even being hungry.” For the first time that morning, Miss Forster’s lips curved into a smile. She accepted the pastry, laughter bubbling through her tears.

  “Tell you what,” Elizabeth added, “why don’t you dress us up for the rest of the day? We’ll buy whatever you choose.”

  Miss Forster let out a watery laugh, clasped their hands, and pulled them both into a grateful hug. Soon, the three were giggling as Jane and Elizabeth were ushered into the dressing rooms, the tension already melting into warmth and camaraderie.

  After spending what felt like hours in Forster & Finch, twirling in new dresses and laughing with Miss Forster, Elizabeth sighed contentedly but admitted she was exhausted.

  “I think I’ll head home,” she said, adjusting the shopping bags on her arm. “You bring the charm, Jane—I’ll bring the wine. Meet you at the apartment?”

  Jane smiled, handing over her own bags. “Done, I’ll just stop at the café and get us some pasta.”

  With a squeeze of each other’s hands, the sisters parted ways. Elizabeth turned down the quieter street toward their apartment, while Jane strolled along the cobblestone road, her mind drifting to the peaceful evening ahead. Halfway to café, she spotted a familiar copper head of hair crossing the road with unmistakable poise. The mysterious woman from earlier was making her way toward The Bishop’s Crown. Jane slowed, her heart pounding, on impulse she quickened her steps until she intercepted the woman’s path. Standing firmly before her, Jane lifted her chin. Be brave like Elizabeth, Jane! Do the right thing.

  “Excuse me,” she said, her voice steady despite the tremor inside her. “May I ask your name?”

  The woman regarded her coolly before replying, “Caroline.” Her tone carried the weight of expectation—that the single name alone should be enough.

  Jane, undeterred, introduced herself and held out her hand, “I’m Jane Bennet.”

  Caroline’s brow arched in faint curiosity ignoring the polite gesture. “How quaint.”

  Gathering every ounce of courage, Jane pressed on. “Your behaviour in the boutique today was unacceptable. Miss Forster deserves an apology, she has worked extremely hard on her collections, and you owe her payment for the blouse you tore.”

  For a moment, silence hung between them, like thunder hitting a tree Caroline threw back her head and laughed, the sound sharp and cold.

  Looking Jane up and down through her dark sun glasses Caroline spoke with a sneer on her lips, “Let me guess, young, cheap clothing half combed hair. Are you a student by any chance?” she asked rhetorically, her eyes narrowing. “Only a student would presume to lecture me about adult affairs. This town, that shop, even you—you’re all worthless. I could buy this entire square with the swipe of a card if I wished. But,” she paused, her smile turning razor-thin, “I wouldn’t bother. It doesn’t deserve me.”

  Jane’s breath caught and she stood rooted in place, stunned by the sheer arrogance. Caroline brushed past her without another word, her heels clicking against the stones as she disappeared through the ornate doors of the hotel. Left in the fading light of evening, Jane could only watch her go, her hands trembling slightly. Never in her life had she encountered such rudeness.

  Far from the quiet cobblestones of Kent, the docks of London’s East End slept under a blanket of fog. Cargo containers loomed like silent sentinels, their hulking shadows broken only by the faint glow of street lamps reflecting on the oily water. A man stood at the edge of the pier, a tailored suit beneath his long coat, the brim of his hat casting his face into shadow. He held a phone to his ear, his voice low and deliberate.

  “I trust your little scheme will work, Wickham,” he said. “The money must be clean and the cargo here on time. The ship sets off for Korea soon.” He paused, listening, before his tone sharpened. “And don’t forget our deal. If you want your cut, I want the girl.”

  The line went dead. He slipped the phone into his pocket and let the waves lap quietly against the pilings. Footsteps echoed on the pier and another man emerged from the fog—broader, and more heavier. He stopped beside the first, his gaze scanning the horizon.

  “Don’t worry, brother,” he said with a smirk. “Wickham will pull through. He’s greedy to the bone. And you know as well as I do—the Adams Family always get what they want.”

  The sound of their footsteps faded into the night, swallowed by the groan of ships shifting in their berths.

  Elizabeth had dreaded this day. All weekend she’d thought of him—the sharp taste of his kiss, the way his hand had steadied her, the terrifying ease with which she had wanted more. Now, as she walked across campus with her books clutched tightly against her chest, she wished she could disappear into the crowd. She didn’t even have his number and that detail nagged at her, it was absurd., but, if she couldn’t summon the courage to ask for something so simple, what right did she have to think about… more?

  She slid into her usual seat, halfway down the lecture hall while students murmured around her, shuffling papers and opening laptops. The air smelled faintly of ink and floor polish. Her eyes darted to the front where Darcy had entered with his customary composure, his black coat was unbuttoned with lecture notes in hand. His gaze flicked across the room, and though it never lingered, Elizabeth felt the brush of it, like a spark on her skin, she quickly forced her eyes to her notebook.

 “Today,” his voice resonated, steady and commanding, “we turn to Renaissance love poetry—particularly Donne and Marlowe. These texts walk the line between sacred devotion and physical desire, between reverence and the raw urgency of passion.”

  His words wound their way into her, unbidden. Passion… devotion… desire. She swallowed hard.

 On the whiteboard, Darcy wrote a line from Donne: “To enter in these bonds, is to be free;  Then, where my hand is set, my seal shall be.”

  Elizabeth’s throat went dry. Each phrase he spoke seemed to pulse with something, something that belonged not to the lecture, but to them. She shifted in her seat, her body felt warm in ways that embarrassed her.

  Stop it! Focus.

  When the class ended, she gathered her books deliberately, waiting for her heartbeat to calm. Students filed out around her in the usual rush. She rose, descending slowly, eyes fixed on the door.

  And there he was.

  Darcy stood by the exit, one hand resting lightly against the frame, as though he had been waiting which made Elizabeth’s steps faltered. For a heartbeat she considered fleeing, slipping past him with a polite nod, but something in his posture made her reconsider. Reluctantly, she stepped aside to wait, watching the last students trickle out. As the door closed with a soft thud, leaving them alone, silence pressed in.

  Darcy’s gaze was unreadable, his jaw tense as if fighting words, and with a sudden urgency, he moved.

  His hand rose and found the back of her neck and drew her forward, his breath ragged as though he had abandoned restraint in that instant. His mouth captured hers—fierce and full of desire. Elizabeth’s books nearly slipped from her arms and for a moment she was stunned, then her lips curved into a smile against his. She kissed him back, her free hand gripping his sleeve, her body leaning toward him as though it had been waiting for this exact moment.

  But when his hand slid from her neck to her shoulders, she flinched, a sharp gasp escaping before she could stop it. Darcy recoiled instantly, his eyes wide, chest heaving. “Elizabeth—did I hurt you?”

  She shook her head quickly; her hand raised in reassurance. “No, no, not you. Over the weekend, someone shoved me into a wall. It’s just a bruise.”

  His expression darkened, his voice dropping. “Who?”

  Elizabeth hesitated. She thought of the woman’s sneer, her careless strength. “A woman, I guess she was just passing through town. It doesn’t matter.”

  “It matters to me,” he said, voice rough with barely checked anger. “If you need me to confront her—”

  She pressed her palm lightly to his chest, feeling the rapid beat beneath. “Please. I can handle it, but… thank you.”

  For a suspended moment, neither moved. His hand still lingered at his side, hers still resting against him, both caught in the gravity of what neither dared to name. Finally, she stepped back. “I should go.”

  Darcy caught her hand before she reached the door, his brow furrowing. “You don’t want my number?”

  She blinked, caught between amusement and disbelief. “I wasn’t sure it would be appropriate to ask.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched, the faintest humour breaking through. “Elizabeth… two intense kisses are far more inappropriate than a phone number.”

  Heat bloomed in her cheeks.

  “Then—” he hesitated, almost awkwardly, “would you consider being my teaching assistant? It comes with extra credit. And…” his eyes held hers, “it would allow us more time together without raising suspicion.”

  Her lips curved into a mischievous smile. She leaned up, brushed his cheek with the softest of kisses, and placed her phone into his hand.

  After his number was set into her phone she turned toward the door. With one hand on the handle, she looked back, her eyes glinting with challenge.

  “Sorry, Professor. But I don’t think Professor Featherstone will like you stealing her TA.” She winked at him.

  She slipped out into the corridor, her laughter soft against the closing door, leaving Darcy staring after her.

Chapter Text

RIPPELS

  It had been a week since Elizabeth and Jane had asked Kitty to come to Kent, and now she understood why. Summer had settled over the campus, thick with heat and the hum of cicadas. Even in the early evening, Lydia’s dorm room was stifling, the blinds drawn against the golden light and a small fan whirred in the corner, doing little more than pushing the warm air around. Kitty sat cross-legged on the edge of the bed, watching her sister stretched out like a cat, phone in hand, lips curved into a private smile. Every few seconds, the screen lit up, and Lydia’s laughter spilled into the room.

  Kitty fiddled with the hem of her sundress. “Lyddie, don’t you think you’re spending an awful lot of time with him?” Lydia’s eyes didn’t leave the screen. “Don’t start, Kit. Wickham isn’t like the other guys.He actually gets me.”

  Kitty tilted her head. “Gets you? Or… controls you?” That earned her a sharp look. Lydia sat up, hugging the pillow to her chest like armour.

  “Why would you say that?”

  “Because,” Kitty said carefully, “the other night, when I asked you if he ever pushed you too far—if he ever made you feel uncomfortable—you looked like you were going to cry.” For a heartbeat, the room was still. Lydia’s gaze flickered away, her mouth tightening and then she forced a laugh and rolled her eyes. “You’re imagining things. Honestly, you sound just like Lizzy—always poking at people’s business. I’m fine. Better than fine.”

  Kitty leaned closer, lowering her voice. “I just… I don’t want you to get hurt. You know I’ve always had your back, right?”

  Lydia softened slightly at that, giving a small smile. “I know. You’ve always been my little guard dog.”

  “Wolf,” Kitty corrected, nudging her shoulder. “Guard wolf.”

  They both laughed, the sound momentarily easing the tension, but Kitty’s worry lingered. She had always defended Lydia without question, but this felt different. This felt like Lydia was playing with fire. She looked out the window, where the campus lawns shimmered in the fading sun, an idea came to her. “Hey, the long weekend’s coming up. What if we go home? Just the two of us. We could spend it at Longbourn, help mom with the garden, steal Papa’s good wine, maybe swim in the river.”

  Lydia’s eyes softened, wistful. “Longbourn…” She sighed. “I haven’t thought about home in forever.”

  “Exactly,” Kitty pressed gently. “It’ll be like old times” Lydia hesitated, chewing her lip. Then she smirked, tossing her phone aside. “Maybe, but only if you promise to braid my hair like you used to.” Kitty’s chest loosened with relief, and she nodded quickly. “Deal.” And as the last golden light slipped through the blinds, Kitty allowed herself a fragile hope—that a weekend at home might be enough to pull Lydia back from the edge.

  Charlotte and Collins walked the shaded paths of Hunsford Park, the midsummer air heavy with the scent of roses. Charlotte barely registered the beauty around her—the stone fountain trickling in the distance, the rustle of leaves overhead. Her thoughts were elsewhere, flickering back to the night before, to the emails she had reread again and again. She knew she should say nothing, that her feelings for William could complicate everything, but the weight of secrecy pressed too heavily. Her silence stretched until Collins stopped, his brow furrowed as he looked at her with concern. “You’re very quiet, what is troubling you?”

  He guided her gently toward a wooden bench tucked beneath the lime trees. Sitting beside her, he took her hand, warm and steady. “Please,” he said softly, “let me help, I want to make you feel better.”

  Charlotte drew a trembling breath, and then, once the first word slipped free, the rest tumbled out. She told him everything—about Elizabeth’s thesis, about the irregularities in the budgets. She admitted she had seen the emails between him and Lady Catherine. With her heart in her throat, she rushed to add, with hands raised, “Please don’t be angry with me, that I pried. I only—I like you very much, and I couldn’t—”

  Collins’s expression changed and shock flickered across his face, he stood abruptly, letting her hand fall away.

  Charlotte’s stomach dropped.

  He turned from her, pacing a few steps down the path, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. Then he turned again, walked back toward her—only to veer away at the last second. His face was unreadable and his jaw was tight. Charlotte’s chest constricted, and she decided to standup halfway from the bench, bracing herself for reproach, for the weight of disappointment she feared most. Her heart hammered, each second of silence stretching, it was unbearable. At last, Collins stopped, turned sharply, and pressed a finger against his lips. Charlotte clenched her fists, she was ready for the scolding.

  Instead, he asked, “Did you just say you like me… very much?”

  The breath caught in Charlotte’s throat. “What?”

  “You did,” he pressed, stepping closer, his voice rising slightly. “You said you like me very much.”

  Her mouth opened and closed soundlessly, her cheeks heating, her thoughts scattering like startled birds.

  “Did you even year what I just said?”

  Collins dropped his gaze for a moment, his tone gentler now. “Yes, yes, my dear Charlotte, I will help. I know how important this is, but that is not what matters now. What matters is … is that you said… you like me very much. But how much? Enough to say yes if I asked for more? Or only enough that you would like to continue to kiss me and hold hands?”

  Charlotte shot to her feet, words failing her. She seized him by the lapels and kissed him, fierce and breathless. “Yes,” she whispered against his lips, kissing him again, “yes—and thank you, thank you—”

  At last, she drew back, breathless, her eyes bright. “Yes. I want more. More from you and to do more with you.” Collins blinked and a little dazed, he broke into a smile so uncharacteristically soft that Charlotte laughed through the tears welling in her eyes.

  Catherine de Bourgh sat alone in her living room, a vast chamber that smelled faintly of old oak and smoke from the hearth. Her home—Rosings House—stood in quiet grandeur between the university and Hunsford Park, hidden behind the tall, looming trees that guarded it like sentinels. Its walls, clad in weathered stone and mullioned windows, echoed the stately, old English architecture of Rosings Park itself, but unlike the university’s bustle or Hunsford’s manicured beauty, Catherine’s house felt heavy, frozen in time, as though the past itself had sunk its roots into every beam and panel. A single lamp glowed at her side, casting long shadows that deepened the hollows beneath her eyes. She cradled a wine glass in one hand, her knuckles white against the crystal stem. With the other, she traced the edges of the photograph resting in her lap. It was of her and Anne—taken in brighter days, sunlight gilding the lawns of the university gardens. Her daughter’s smile had been shy, almost reluctant, but real. Catherine’s own hand rested on Anne’s shoulder in the picture, a mother’s pride carefully displayed for all to see.

  Now Catherine’s hands trembled. The photograph blurred as her tears welled over, slipping hot down her cheeks.

  “How could it all go so wrong?” she whispered into the silence. Her voice was hoarse, broken by wine and grief. “If I had looked at you, my darling, truly looked at you… instead of my name, the reputation, the institution. If I had seen you—Anne, my Anne—you would still be safe.” The sound of her glass clinking onto the table cut through the room, a brittle punctuation to her despair. She pressed her fingers to her temples, rocking slightly in her chair, as though her body sought to cradle itself. For a fleeting moment, another thought pierced her misery.

  Darcy! Could she trust him? Could she ask him for help? He was strong, sharp-minded, not so easily swayed as others. Perhaps he could…

  “No!” Her whisper came sharp, cutting off the thought. Her voice thickened with a grim finality. “No, not him. Only I can do this. Only I can help my daughter now.”

  Her grip tightened around the photograph, bending its edges as her shoulders shook. The lamplight flickered, shadows dancing across her face, deepening the cracks of despair. She closed her eyes and let the silence stretch again, suffocating and absolute, broken only by the faint creak of the house as though it too wept with her.

  Another month had slipped by, and the year seemed to be racing forward. Summer had settled in with a vengeance, and Rosings Park sweltered beneath its heat. Elizabeth lay sprawled on the sofa, the aircon humming on full blast, and a tall glass of lemonade sweating in her hand. From the kitchen, Jane hovered over a bowl of water and ice, dunking her wrists in with an exaggerated sigh of relief.

  “It’s only ten in the morning,” Elizabeth groaned, tilting the cold glass against her cheek, “and I already feel like I’m melting. If the rest of the day is like this, we won’t survive until evening.” Jane laughed, pulling her hands from the bowl and shaking them dry. “If the heat doesn’t kill us, the boredom will. I don’t think I have the energy to even step outside.”

  A knock at the door broke the sluggish quiet. Elizabeth groaned louder this time, dragging herself upright, she opened the door to find Charlotte, and immediately pulled her into a hug—except Charlotte stiffened in her arms, almost trying to break free. Elizabeth frowned. “What’s wrong with you? Do I smell, or is it that you just don’t want to hug me?” Her answer came in the form of a tall figure filling the hallway. Dean Collins stepped into view, and both sisters instantly straightened. Jane abandoned her bowl in the kitchen and appeared in the doorway, posture rigid, and her expression polite.

  “Dean Collins,” Elizabeth greeted, far too formally for their apartment.

  He raised a hand as though to wave off their stiffness. “May we come in? There are matters that need to be discussed.” Inside, Jane instinctively offered him water before joining the others in the living room. Silence fell—thick and awkward—until Charlotte cleared her throat.

  “I spoke to William,” she began carefully, “and he’s agreed to help. To help you, Elizabeth, he believes uncovering the truth about the university is possible—but we must be cautious. Myself and William thinks there’s more happening than what we have already uncovered.”

  Elizabeth exchanged a look with Jane before blinking back at Charlotte. “William? You call him William now?” Before Charlotte could respond, Collins answered for her. “I am already aware of Miss Bennet’s… possible relationship with Mr. Bingley. I once saw you together in the amphitheater late one afternoon.” Jane’s face went crimson. “I—I’m sorry, Dean Collins. It was inappropriate of me. I shouldn’t—”

  He lifted his hand, silencing her. “If I accepted that apology, I would be a hypocrite.” The sisters balked. Charlotte’s eyes widened in panic as Collins reached for her hand, his voice softened unexpectedly.

  “Because I asked Charlotte if she would be my girlfriend.” Charlotte’s blush deepened, but she managed to smile.  For a long heartbeat, the Bennet sisters stared in stunned silence—then shrieked in unison, flinging themselves at their friend. Charlotte laughed helplessly as she was smothered in hugs. Collins endured the chaos with a crooked smile, awkward yet strangely proud.

  Elizabeth finally pulled back and extended her hand to him, solemn in contrast to the shrieks. “Thank you, William. For trusting us.”

  Charlotte fanned herself with her hands. “This excitement, plus this heat—I can’t take much more. What on earth are we supposed to do for the rest of the day?” Collins’ lips curved into a smirk that looked entirely out of place on him. “I happen to know two gentlemen currently suffering as much as we are. I daresay they would be delighted to escape to the beach and The Crown.”

  Jane gasped, her face lighting up. “Really?” Without waiting for an answer, she darted to her room, snatched up her phone, and returned, already dialing. Elizabeth and Charlotte leaned forward as she pressed the phone to her ear. “Hi Charles.” Her voice softened automatically. “Yes, we were wondering—would you and Darcy like to join us at the beach today? And maybe The Crown, for a drink after, to get away from this awful heat?”

  She paused, listening, and her smile grew wider with every second. “You will? Both of you?” Her eyes darted up at Elizabeth and Charlotte, sparkling. “Oh, that’s wonderful. Yes, yes—we’ll meet you there.”

  By the time she hung up, Jane was glowing. “They’ll come!” she squealed, bouncing on her toes. The sisters dissolved into chatter as plans fell quickly into place. Collins and Charlotte departed soon after, leaving the Bennett's to their preparations. Elizabeth retreated to her room, flinging open her wardrobe with a sigh. “What on earth do I wear? Which bikini is least humiliating when Darcy will be there?”

  Moments later, Jane appeared with an armful of options. “I’m having the same problem.” Laughter filled the room as they sifted through the pile, trading critiques and encouragement. After extensive decision making, Jane settled on a pastel pink bandeau bikini—sweet and modest but flattering in its simplicity. Elizabeth, after much more hesitation, chose a white-and-brown set, the cut far bolder: the bottoms daring, and the top accentuating her breasts. They slipped on light cover dresses, grabbed their beach bags, and with mischievous smiles, stepped out into the sweltering summer day—hearts racing.

  Darcy leaned against the doorframe of Bingley’s flat, arms folded as his friend answered his phone with a grin that could only mean one thing.

  “Yes, of course,” Bingley said into the receiver, pacing across the rug like a schoolboy given a sweet. “That sounds wonderful—hold on.” He pressed his palm to the receiver and turned to Darcy, his eyes alight. “Jane’s inviting us to the beach, and The Crown afterwards for a few drinks. Will you come?”

  Darcy groaned softly, feigning reluctance. “Bingley, I’ve no desire to bake in the sun surrounded by students.” ... But then, unbidden, an image flickered into his mind: Elizabeth in a bikini, her hair tumbling over bronzed shoulders, sunlight catching her smile. The thought tightened something low in his abdomen. Before he could stop himself, the word escaped.

  “Yes!”

  Bingley blinked, surprised at his sudden shift. “Yes?”

  Darcy cleared his throat, forcing nonchalance. “Yes. Let’s go.”

  They pulled into The Crown in Darcy’s forest-green 2001 Land Rover Defender TD5 90—a true British car for a true British man. Its engine grumbled to a halt in the gravel, and Darcy felt a ripple of anticipation he tried to smother. The pub owner greeted them warmly as they passed and they descended the stairs to the beach, Bingley bounded ahead, nearly tripping over himself  half way down in excitement.

  “Steady,” Darcy muttered, catching his arm before he pitched forward. “What the hell are you doing?” But Bingley wasn’t listening, his gaze had fixed on something below, his jaw slack. Darcy followed it—and stumbled himself. There, walking across the sand in the full blaze of summer, were the Bennet sisters. Jane’s pastel-pink bikini was sweet, modest, entirely her. But Elizabeth—

  Darcy’s stared in awe.

  Her white-and-brown bikini was daring, cut to flatter every curve. Sunlight traced the line of her waist, and glowed against her long brown hair as it kissed the smoothness of her skin, she moved with unstudied grace, laughing at something Jane had said, and Darcy thought—helplessly—that no goddess of Olympus could rival her.

  “Ahem.” Collins’ dry cough yanked them back to earth. He appeared behind them with bottles of water in hand, entirely too composed. Bingley blinked, “Collins—what on earth are you doing here?” Collins raised a brow and gestured toward the group on the sand. “I’m here with my girlfriend and her friends. So, you’ll forgive me if I say—” He stepped past them, his shoes sinking into the sand. “There will be no judgments today.”

  Darcy followed, fighting to school his face into neutrality. Their spot was well chosen with bright umbrellas and towels spread wide, the hum of waves a perfect backdrop. Elizabeth spotted Darcy, and with a mischievous tilt of her head, she strode toward him. Bingley ran past, sweeping Jane into a delighted embrace. Darcy hesitated, he was uncertain, they hadn’t spoken of their kiss, and he wasn’t sure how much to presume. Therefore, he opted to keep it simple: he slipped his arms around Elizabeth, drew her gently against him, and pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. When she pulled back, her eyes were bright, playful and daring.

  “If you stare at me any longer,” she teased, “my bikini might fall off.”

  His lips curved into a rare, wicked smirk. “That might not be such a bad idea.” Her laugh rang out, bright and unashamed. “Come swim with me, before you scandalize the whole beach.” Darcy tugged at the hem of his shirt, stripping it off in one smooth motion. A sharp inhale drew his eyes back to Elizabeth—her gaze widened as it swept over him. Years of discipline had carved his chest and abdomen into firm lines, his skin bronzed from early morning runs.

  Elizabeth stepped closer, almost involuntarily, and placed her hand flat against his chest, heat sparked where her palm met his skin. Her voice dropped low, half a laugh, half a breath.

  “My gosh, Professor… maybe you should keep your clothes on. You’ll put Superman to shame.” Darcy chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest beneath her hand. He caught her fingers lightly in his, turned toward the waves, and with a crooked smile said, “Superman is a very bland comparison, I feel more up to par with the Witcher.” Darcy winked.

  After the swim, and after a breathless round of touch rugby that left them all sandy and laughing, Elizabeth jogged barefoot toward the umbrella where their cooler sat. She dropped onto the towel, tugged out a bottle of water, and downed half of it in greedy gulps. As she lowered the bottle, a buzz made her glance down. Darcy’s phone, lying atop his folded shirt, had lit up again. She ignored it at first—it had already rung twice since she’d come to sit down, but when it buzzed a third time, more insistent, Elizabeth sighed and picked it up. She turned the screen toward herself.

  Caroline Bingley.

  Elizabeth frowned. She lifted her gaze, scanning the shoreline. Darcy and Bingley were still walking a good distance away; heads bent together in conversation, they were too far to call over and again he phone buzzed in her hand. She hesitated, then swiped to answer.

  “Hello? This is Darcy’s phone. He’s busy at the moment—may I take a message?”

  A long silence followed. Then a clipped female voice. “Who is this?” Elizabeth straightened, her tone polite but steady. “Elizabeth Bennet. I’m… a friend of his. We’re at the beach today. I can tell him you called.”

  Another pause. Taut, like someone weighing every syllable. Finally, the woman replied, cool but sharp-edged: “Thank you.”

  The line went dead.

  Elizabeth blinked and shrugged, she set the phone carefully back atop Darcy’s clothes and brushed the sand from her legs, then bounded back toward the shoreline. Darcy spotted her first. With a sudden burst of energy, he scooped her up around the waist and spun her in a wide circle. Elizabeth squealed with laughter, clinging to his shoulders.

  “Put me down, you ridiculous man!” she managed between gasps. When her feet finally touched the sand, she steadied herself and grinned up at him. “By the way, your phone’s been ringing. I think it was your sister—” she pointed to Bingley, “I answered and she asked you to call her back Fitzwilliam.”

  Darcy’s smile faltered, just barely. Bingley, stiffened too. Elizabeth, oblivious, waved when Jane called her name from further up the beach. She turned and jogged toward her sister, her laughter still echoing. Behind her, Darcy and Bingley remained rooted in the sand, their expressions shadowed. An unspoken understanding passing between them.

  “Fuck.” They both said in unison as they watched the Bennet sisters.

Chapter Text

WHISPERS BEHIND GLASS

   Caroline was livid.

   Darcy had never let her near his phone when they were briefly involved—never even so much as let her glimpse the screen. He was a private man to the point of austerity and yet… some lowlife little chit had answered his phone. “A friend.” Caroline’s manicured nails tapped furiously against her phone. She was no fool. This Elizabeth Bennet was not just a friend. She stabbed at the hotel phone and barked for a car.

  “Destination, madam?” the receptionist asked meekly. Caroline’s voice rose to a shriek. “How should I know? Take me to where everyone goes in this infernal heat—wherever they swim at the beach!”

  When the black sedan arrived, she swept inside, the leather creaking under her impatient movements. Her dress—a skin-tight scarlet sheath that clung like a second skin—was utterly impractical for sand, but Caroline wore it like a sword, ready to kill and her heels clicked against the pavement; she would sooner sink into the beach than lower herself to flats.

  Finally the car pulled up beside a bar, its painted sign read: The Crown. Caroline slid out, radiating disdain and fury in equal measure. She strode toward the stairway, but the beach below was empty, no crowd of sunbathers, no Darcy in sight. Her grip tightened around her phone until her knuckles ached.

  Then—laughter.

  She snapped her head toward the bar, through the wide front window she caught sight of them: Darcy, laughing. He is actually laughing. She thought. And worse—next to him sat a young woman with soft, girlish curls, her hand resting under the table where Caroline could see it brush against his.

  Elizabeth Bennet I presume. She had a sneer and Caroline only saw red. Before she could think, her legs carried her forward, storming through the entrance like a tempest in silk. She reached their table, breath sharp, words poised like daggers—then stopped short. Recognition flashed before her, these were the same provincial girls from that ghastly boutique. Instantly, Caroline’s expression melted into sweetness, every edge smoothed into charm.

  “Charles!” she sang, her voice lilting as if she hadn’t just carved her way through the air. Bingley jumped slightly, startled, and scrambled to his feet. “Caroline—! This is my sister, Caroline Bingley,” he said hastily to the Bennett sisters, gesturing. Jane and Elizabeth exchanged a look of pure disgust, which Caroline caught, she tucked it away behind a dazzling smile and, without waiting for an invitation, slipped gracefully into the empty seat beside them.

  “Forgive me for intruding,” she purred, crossing her legs with practiced poise. “But I simply couldn’t resist saying hello.” And with that, Caroline Bingley transformed into the most charming creature alive.

  Caroline’s smile was all politeness, her voice syrupy sweet. “And who are these charming young ladies?”

  Darcy’s response came too quickly, too stiff. “They’re friends—part of the university.” Elizabeth’s irritation sharpened. Friends. Was that all? Across from her, Jane’s eyes flicked toward Bingley, silently urging him to add something more, to offer even the smallest correction. But Bingley only fidgeted, caught between his sister’s presence and Jane’s expectation, and said chose to say nothing.

  Darcy cleared his throat. “Caroline, what brings you here?” Caroline let out a delicate laugh, though her eyes never softened. “What brings me here? Will, you missed our breakfast appointment. You’ve ignored my calls for over a week. And then—” her gaze cut briefly, pointedly, to Elizabeth, “—when I finally get through, a stranger answers your phone. So of course I came. What else was I to think?” Elizabeth held her gaze, her chin tilting up almost imperceptibly. 

  Darcy’s jaw tightened. “That wasn’t necessary.”

  “Oh, but it was.” Caroline leaned forward slightly, her perfume cloying in the air between them. “You and Charles owe me a proper explanation. And perhaps some time alone.” Bingley straightened, his discomfort plain. “We’ll make an effort tomorrow morning for breakfast—”

  “No!” Caroline’s interruption was velvet over iron. “Dinner, now! My driver is waiting outside, we’ll leave together.” The words hung over the table like a command, not a suggestion. Bingley exhaled, shoulders sagging. His eyes flicked toward Darcy, pleading silently for rescue, but Darcy said nothing, at last, Bingley turned to Jane, regret written across his face. “I’ll call you later,” he murmured. As Caroline was standing making space to ensure Charles and Darcy followed, Elizabeth’s irritation reached a breaking point. She curved her lips into a saccharine smile and said sarcastically, “Oh, Caroline, before you go—please don’t trouble yourself over my medical bills. My shoulder bruised quite badly from the boutique wall, but it’s all taken care of.”

  Caroline blinked once, the shock evident on her face.

  Jane’s voice followed sweetly, wanting to throw a punch as well, “Annnnd .... truly, don’t worry about Miss Forster either. After you stormed out, we stayed to cheer her up. Poor thing was heartbroken, but we managed to cheer her up.” She gave Caroline a smile that was all sharp edges wrapped in silk. Darcy’s fists curled under the table until his knuckles blanched. He was glaring at Caroline with such cold intensity that even she, practiced as she was in poise, shifted slightly in her chair. Then his patience snapped, he shoved his chair back abruptly, the screech of wood on tile making heads turn. Without a word, he stormed out of bar. Through the window, Elizabeth caught a glimpse of him as he climbed in his car and sped off, gravel spitting beneath the tires.

  Bingley lingered only long enough to mutter a quiet, “Goodbye,” before rising and following his sister, his face drawn with frustration. Silence settled heavy at the table, and as though on cue, Elizabeth and Jane both dissolved into laughter—sharp, breathless, eyes watering as they clutched at each other. Between fits of giggles, they slapped their palms together in a victorious high-five, but as the laughter ebbed, the weight of it returned. Elizabeth caught Jane’s eye, her expression sobering and beneath their triumph, they both felt it: the shadow of Caroline Bingley, and the very real fear that she might destroy everything—before it had truly begun.

  Later that evening Elizabeth wondered if a text to Darcy might smooth over the tension, her fingers hovered over the keyboard, she inhaled sharply and started typing.

  Elizabeth 💬:

  Hi,

  I wanted to know if you are alright. How did your dinner go?

  Charles’s sister seems quite like the character.

  Elizabeth had waited, even when her eyes started to drift off she waited, but nothing came.

  By Monday morning, the silence had already cut too deep. Elizabeth entered Darcy’s lecture hall, her heart beating faster than she cared to admit, but if she had hoped for even a glance—a fleeting smile, some unspoken recognition—it didn’t come. Darcy never looked her way. His gaze swept the room with meticulous care, pausing on nearly everyone but her.

  It hurt.

  And when the week dragged on, her message still unanswered, the wound festered into rage. By Friday, Elizabeth Bennet, who prided herself on being untouchable by men’s whims, despised herself for letting Darcy’s silence sway her emotions. He had breached the one fortress she’d sworn no man could enter and she hated him for it. When Darcy’s final class of the week ended, Elizabeth gathered her things with a clipped precision, determined to leave quickly. At the door she spotted a familiar figure weaving awkwardly against the flow of departing students.

  Nathaniel Hill.

  Elizabeth’s face brightened despite herself. The man had cracked open more doors for her investigation than anyone else, before she could reach him, Darcy intercepted her halfway down the steps, his tall frame blocking her path.

  “Elizabeth,” he said quietly, the stiffness in his tone betraying urgency. “Do you have a moment? I need to explain—” Elizabeth sneered, her jaw tightening. All the fury of the past week burned in her eyes as she looked at him. Darcy faltered, visibly shaken by the storm he found there. A deliberate cough came from the doorway. Hill stood waiting, his hands in his pockets, his gaze steady.

  “Excuse me, Professor,” Nathaniel said smoothly. His eyes shifted to Elizabeth, warm and unbothered. “Elizabeth—can we go on that date you owe me? I also have something for you.” Elizabeth understood instantly what he meant, and her decision crystallized. She met Darcy’s eyes one last time, her voice crisp. “I’m sorry, Professor. We can continue our discussion next week. Right now, I’m occupied. Have a good evening.”

  She slid her hand into Nathaniel’s offered one and let him guide her toward the exit.

  Darcy remained rooted in the lecture hall, stunned, the echo of her words and the sight of her hand in Hill’s burning like salt in an open wound.

  Elizabeth followed Nathaniel through the warm summer air until they reached The Gilded Lily, the most elegant restaurant in town. The façade glowed with soft gold lighting, glass walls reflecting the streetlamps, and inside the décor was stripped down and modern—white tablecloths, slate floors, art pieces that whispered money. Elizabeth had only been here once before. She, Jane, and Charlotte had laughed at how a single salad cost more than three meals at The Wild Fig. Elegant, yes. But soulless. They thought. Tonight, though, the place carried an edge of secrecy, like it was holding its breath. They were seated in a quiet corner, Elizabeth ordered a gin and tonic, the ice clinking sharply as the glass was set down. Nathaniel requested a Chablis, pale and crisp, swirling it absentmindedly when it arrived.

  Elizabeth leaned forward, ready for business. “Alright, Hill. You pulled me out of there like a knight in shining armour—what is it you’ve got to give me?”

  Nathaniel hesitated, his lips quirking nervously. “Truthfully? That line about having something for you… was a bluff. You looked like you needed saving from Professor Darcy.” He gave a small, self-deprecating chuckle. “But I do have something else. Something you should know.”

  Elizabeth arched a brow, sceptical but intrigued. “Go on.”

  His gaze darkened. “I dug deeper into the auditors who’ve been covering for Rosings. The anomalies in the budgets, the cooked reports—it’s not just incompetence.” He leaned closer across the table, lowering his voice. “They’re the same firm tied to the Clerkenwell syndicate.”

  Elizabeth froze mid-sip, nearly dropping her glass. “The Adams Family?”

  Nathaniel nodded grimly. “They’ve had their fingers in London’s underworld for decades. Started as an East End gang—gambling, protection rackets, that sort of thing. But now? They’re in shipping, finance, construction, and they’re clever. They don’t leave trails unless you know what threads to pull.” He glanced at her meaningfully. “And I think Rosings Park is one of those threads.” Elizabeth’s chest tightened. “We can’t jump to conclusions.” She let out a disbelieving laugh, shaking her head. “During my Honours year, I spent months tracing their shell companies for my research report. They were half the reason I even chose criminology. Their criminal behaviour and modus operandi fascinated me.” Her voice dropped, almost to a whisper. “But why would Rosings have the same auditors? I would believe that they would work closely with the Clerkenwell's and no one else.” Nathaniel reached out, covering her hand with his. His grip was firm, steady.

  “Elizabeth, listen to me. If you keep pushing this… you’re not just poking at Wickham anymore. You’re poking at people who kill without blinking, and they will kill you. Are you absolutely sure you want to keep going?” Elizabeth looked down at their joined hands. His warmth should have been comforting, but it only jarred her. It wasn’t what she wanted. It wasn’t who she wanted.

  She slipped her hand free, her chair scraping softly as she stood. “I should go. Thank you, Nathaniel. Really. I owe you… let’s say ten coffees at the campus café.” A faint blush rose to his cheeks, but he smiled anyway. “I’ll hold you to it.” Elizabeth gave him a quick nod, then turned on her heel. The moment the night air hit her skin, her pace quickened into a run. Not because of the possible dangers, but because she couldn’t outrun the thought gnawing at her: she had to know what Darcy felt. 

  Darcy’s apartment was cloaked in shadows, the blinds half-closed against the orange glow of the courtyard lamps. He sat hunched forward on the sofa, his elbows digging into his knees, his head in his hands. The silence pressed down on him, broken only by the faint tick of the clock above the kitchenette. All week he had tried to bury himself in lectures, books, anything—but every thought circled back to the same image: Elizabeth laughing on the beach, the sea wind in her hair, and then, cruelly, her hand in Nathaniel Hill’s as they walked out of his lecture hall together. That look she had given him before turning away—cold, proud, final.

  He had lost her.

  And behind that loss lurked Caroline, he was beginning to resent her, he was not oblivious to what she wants from him, but what she is willing to do to become a Darcy was what he feared the most. His thoughts running wild recollecting the events from their dinner.

  The hotel dining room had been set with white linen and flickering candles, but the atmosphere at their table was anything but refined. Darcy had walked in behind Charles and Caroline, refusing to look at her. Caroline was the first to speak, her tone honeyed but laced with venom. “William, Charles—what happened at that little shop was nothing. These young girls—” her lips curled on the word, “—were being overly dramatic, as they often are. I would have thought you’d see through it.”

  Darcy’s teeth clenched. Charles set down his menu, his face unusually stern. “Caroline, I went to see Mrs. Forster myself afterward. She was in tears, you may have high standards, but being a Bingley means being compassionate. You could have shown her some decency.” Caroline's laugh was sharp and humorless. “Compassion? For a provincial shopkeeper? Charles, please. It was a cheap blouse. The entire town behaves as though I’ve committed murder. You all need to grow up.”

  Darcy’s fingers dug into the tablecloth until his finger tips whitened. The candlelight trembled against the taut lines of his jaw. “Elizabeth had a bruise on her shoulder, I saw it with my own eyes.” His voice was low, dangerous. “That is not an exaggeration. You hurt her deliberately! Do you have no shame.” Caroline froze, her eyes narrowing. The smile slipped from her face, replaced by steel. "Do you have no shame? Please Darcy what are you a poet?."

  “Why,” she said slowly, venom curling beneath her words, “are those girls suddenly so important to you? To both of you?”

  Darcy met her stare, unflinching.

  Caroline leaned forward, her bracelets clinking against the table. “If you allow these—children—” she spat the word as though it were dirt, “to damage your reputations, to compromise your judgment, and to have a negative effect on our relationship, then I will have no choice but to act. Don’t think for a moment I won’t report it. To the dean. To the board. To anyone who will listen.”

  Charles gaped at her. “Caroline, you can’t be serious—”

  “I am,” she snapped. Her eyes gleamed, triumphant. “And if protecting you both means exposing… inappropriate entanglements, then so be it. I will not watch you destroy yourselves for two insignificant girls.”

  Darcy now raising his voice slightly speaking with a sarcastic tone, "Our relationship Caroline is nothing but a mutual acquaintance through your brother, my best friend. You will not do anything to those girls, because if you do, I will personally ensure your whole empire collapses. Or have you forgotten who your primary investor is?"  The table fell into silence, the weight of their threats hanging like smoke in the air. Darcy sat utterly still, his fists tight, his pulse hammering in his ears. He wanted to lash out again, to tear her words to shreds further—but he knew better than to draw Elizabeth, or Jane, any deeper into Caroline’s line of fire.

  When the waiter appeared with their wine, Caroline smiled sweetly as if nothing had been said.

  Darcy dragged his hands down his face, the memory making his chest burn, “She thinks Elizabeth insignificant. She has no idea.” He muttered under his breath, but what tore at him worse was the image of Nathaniel Hill—his easy smile, his hand closing over Elizabeth’s in a way that made Darcy’s entire body coil with rage. He had nearly shattered the lecture hall door after they left, the urge to strike something so fierce he could taste blood. He pushed to his feet, moving to the kitchenette, needing water, whiskey, anything to quiet the storm inside him. That was when he heard it, a knock he thinks. I am losing it!

  But the knock came again, firmer this time. Darcy crossed the room slowly, his pulse climbing as he opened the door. Elizabeth stood there. Her cheeks were flushed, her chest rising and falling as though she had run across half the campus. For a moment, Darcy only stared, disbelieving. Then instinct overpowered reason and he reached out, pulled her inside, and shut the door firmly behind them.

  The sound echoed through the small apartment.

  When he turned back, he caught his breath. Elizabeth Bennet, in the middle of his private sanctuary at ten o’clock at night. Her hair was loose from the heat, her eyes bright, her lips curved in the faintest smile. She should have been furious with him still. She should have turned her back for good.

  And yet—she was here.

  Darcy’s pulse thundered in his ears. He didn’t know whether to demand answers, to apologize again, or to kiss her until the memory of Hill’s hand on hers was erased forever.

  Elizabeth stared at Darcy. He was utterly still, a man carved from stone, his silence stretching like a rope pulled too tight, she took a hesitant step forward, the wooden floor creaking beneath her feet. That tiny sound seemed to break his trance. Darcy’s voice, low and rough, cut through the air. “Elizabeth… how did you even get into the faculty residence? And how, exactly, did you find my room?” Elizabeth laughed, breathless, her cheeks still flushed from the run across campus. “One, I’m a criminology student, remember? Investigative skills come with the territory. Two, I am very angry and disappointed in you.” Her words tumbled out in a rush, almost giddy with adrenaline. “And three, the lounge window was open—so I climbed through it. The registry in the lounge lists every professor’s office, lecture hall, and living quarters. From there it was just a matter of… deduction.”

  Darcy raised a brow, equal parts bewildered and impressed.

  She carried on, still out of breath, still laughing between her words. “Though I nearly didn’t make it. On the first landing, I had to jump into a broom closet because Professor Featherstone was coming down the corridor. I’m fairly sure I smelled of disinfectant for a moment.” She giggled, pressing a hand to her chest. “And by the time I got up here, I was certain Professor Bingley was about to step out of his flat. So I’m very grateful you pulled me inside when you did.”

  As if summoned by her words, a knock rattled Darcy’s door. The colour drained from Elizabeth’s face while Darcy’s eyes widened. They both began pacing in opposite directions like trapped animals. Darcy steadied himself first, he touched Elizabeth’s elbow, his voice quick and firm. “My room, now. Go!” Elizabeth darted toward the bedroom, slipping inside as Darcy pulled the door shut behind her. She pressed her ear against the wood, heart pounding and listening. Bingley’s voice floated through. Low, anxious.

  “Darcy… I’m worried about Jane and about Elizabeth too. Caroline’s temper is frightening—she won’t let this go. She’ll do something.” Darcy’s tone was steady but sharp-the way it always was when he was protecting someone. “I’ll handle Caroline. Leave her to me. You focus on Jane.” Bingley exhaled, the sound heavy with both relief and dread. Then came words that made Elizabeth’s pulse race for entirely different reasons: “I think I’m in love with Jane, Darcy. I can’t part from her now. I won’t.”

  Elizabeth clutched her hand to her chest, her smile breaking wide in the dark. Darcy reassured him softly, almost like an older brother. “Then don’t. Stay the course. I’ll make sure Caroline doesn’t interfere.” After a few more words, Bingley finally sighed and said goodnight. The front door clicked closed. Elizabeth quickly scrambled away from the bedroom door and perched on the edge of Darcy’s bed. The room was not what she had expected, deep blue walls with dark wood trim, bookshelves stacked to the ceiling, and tall windows opening onto the gardens below. The centerpiece was a massive four-poster bed, dignified yet lived in—a scholar’s sanctuary. Darcy entered, pausing at the threshold. He stood still when he saw her seated on his bed, her back straight, and her expression unreadable.

  Elizabeth tilted her head, amused by his sudden stiffness. “Why did you stop?”

  Darcy swallowed. “Why are you here, Elizabeth?” His voice was tight, guarded. Elizabeth’s smile thinned. She countered instead. “Why did you avoid me all week? Why didn’t you answer my text? Why let Caroline’s games dictate your silence?” Darcy said nothing, his silence was louder than words. Elizabeth sighed deeply, her body sinking into the mattress. She lay back, staring up at the ceiling beams. “I’m not leaving until I hear the truth. Because I have a decision to make.”

  That caught his attention. His voice dropped, almost reverent. “What decision?” Elizabeth turned her head toward him, her eyes gleaming with mischief and something more dangerous. Slowly, deliberately, she dragged her hand up and down her torso. Darcy’s throat bobbed, his eyes following the movement as though hypnotized. Her smile curved slyly. “I’m deciding if you’re worth it. Worth every thought. Every blush. Every pounding heartbeat and every argument. Every kiss ... Because, truthfully and honestly... I want you to be.”

  Darcy’s chest constricted. In that moment, Bingley’s words from earlier echoed inside him: I think I’m in love with Jane. And now, so clear it hurt, Darcy realized his own truth—that he might already be in love with Elizabeth Bennet. And so he told her everything. The truth about Caroline, their brief relationship, the dangerous influence she wielded, the threats she had made. Every detail he had kept buried out of fear for Elizabeth’s safety. When he finished, the silence was thick between them and Elizabeth rose, her eyes unreadable. She stepped closer to him, her perfume delicate and intoxicating, she pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. “Goodnight, Fitzwilliam.”

  And before he could respond—before he could beg her to stay—she was gone.