The Meryton Gallery snub didn’t just hurt Eliza’s feelings—it fueled her. If William Darcy thought she was a "tolerable local," she was going to make sure he remembered her as a permanent headache.
The opportunity arrived forty-eight hours later at the Hertfordshire Charity Tech Auction. It was a high-stakes event where the city’s elite bid on "mentorship hours" and "exclusive data packages" to fund local education.
Eliza wasn't supposed to be there. But thanks to Jane’s blossoming friendship with Charles Bingley, the Bennets were tucked into a back table, looking like a splash of vintage color in a room full of monochrome power suits.
The Auction
"Look at him," Mrs. Bennet hissed, nodding toward the front row. "He hasn't touched his champagne. He looks like he’s judging the very air we breathe."
William Darcy sat like a statue. He was staring at a tablet, his fingers moving with surgical precision. To his left, Charles was laughing, engaged with the room. To his right, Darcy was an island of ice.
"He isn't judging the air, Mom," Eliza whispered. "He’s calculating the ROI of his presence here. Every minute he spends in this room is a tax write-off."
The auctioneer stepped up. "Next up: A one-on-one strategy session with the architect of the Pemberley OS, Mr. William Darcy himself. We’ll start the bidding at ten thousand dollars."
The room went silent. Bidding on Darcy wasn't just about business; it was about social standing. Two tech CEOs quickly drove the price to fifty thousand.
Darcy looked bored. He didn't even look at the bidders. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere else—preferably somewhere without "locals."
Eliza felt a spark of mischief. She knew her bank account had exactly $412 in it, and her student loans were the size of a small house. But she also knew how the "Game of Pride" worked.
She raised her hand.
"Seventy-five thousand," Eliza called out, her voice clear and ringing.
The room froze. Necks craned. Darcy’s head snapped toward the back of the room. His silver-blue eyes locked onto Eliza’s, and for a split second, his bored mask cracked. He recognized her—the girl from the bookstore, the "tolerable" girl.
The Face-Off
"Seventy-five thousand from the young lady in the back," the auctioneer said, surprised.
Darcy leaned back, crossing his arms. He didn't look annoyed; he looked... intrigued. "Do you even have seventy-five thousand dollars, Miss Bennet?" he asked, his voice projecting without a microphone, cool and challenging.
The room gasped. It was a breach of etiquette to speak during a bid, but Darcy didn't care for rules.
Eliza stood up, smoothing her thrifted velvet blazer. "I have something better, Mr. Darcy. I have a list of three critical security flaws in your latest beta software. If I win, you don't get my money—you get my silence. If you outbid me to save yourself, the charity gets your money, and the tech blogs get my report."
The "Oohs" from the crowd were audible. Charles Bingley let out a muffled laugh.
Darcy stared at her. This wasn't a social climber. This was a direct attack. He stood up, slowly, buttoning his blazer. The height difference was intimidating even from across the room.
"One hundred thousand," Darcy said, his eyes never leaving hers. "To the charity. Keep your report, Miss Bennet. I’d rather pay to see you try to publish it."
"Sold!" the auctioneer shouted, sensing the tension.
The Aftermath
As the room erupted into applause, Eliza sat back down, her heart racing. She had just forced William Darcy to pay $100,000 to keep his own ego intact.
Ten minutes later, as the crowd moved toward the buffet, a shadow fell over her table.
"Your 'security report' is a bluff," Darcy said. He was standing right behind her. He smelled like expensive sandalwood and cold rain.
Eliza turned, a sharp smile on her lips. "Is it? Or are you just afraid that a 'tolerable local' found a backdoor your Ivy League engineers missed?"
Darcy stepped closer, encroaching on her personal space. "You have a very dangerous tongue, Miss Bennet."
"And you have a very expensive pride, Mr. Darcy. I think we’re even."
Darcy looked down at her, his expression unreadable. For a moment, the silence between them wasn't cold—it was electric, charged with the kind of friction that starts fires.
"I don't play games," he said quietly.
"Then you’re going to find the next few months very difficult," Eliza replied. "Because I’ve just decided that humbling you is my new hobby."
Darcy didn't respond. He simply turned and walked away, but Eliza noticed something his engineers would have missed: his hands were clenched at his sides.
She had hit a nerve. And she was just getting started.
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and then Add to home screen.