AN: Sooo hi everybody. Has it been five years since I last updated? Oh really? Wow, how time flies! *Ducks behind a sturdy makeshift barrier* Well, there are many excuses and reasons I could give you, Internet, why I was not able to finish my previous endeavor at P&P fanfiction, but they are mostly boring and typical. All I can say is, this time, I will actually update biweekly. For those of you who still even remember the original story from five years ago, welcome to a somewhat altered story with different narrative styles and much less complicated plot lines (why did I think a fake pregnancy was a good idea? Ah well, I was young...er). To new readers, enjoy!

Chapter One

New York, New York

"LYDIA," called out an authoritarian, if not slightly panicked, disembodied male voice from down the hallway on the twenty-first floor of a Frank Gehry designed Manhattan building.

"Yeah boss?" replied his personal assistant, not bothering to look up from her iPad where she was revising her employer's schedule.

"Did you pack the travel-sized humidifier?"

"Yes, it's in your carry-on so you can use it once you board the plane."

"What about the antihistamines from Dr. Watkins' office?"

"I put them in the outside flap of your briefcase. And what the hell boss, I thought you fired him for good this time? Why are you doing still filling out his prescriptions?"

"Because Lydia, you know how I like to travel with a fully stocked first aid kit and I needed to replenish my supplies on short notice."

"But why get a prescription from that charlatan, why not run down to the drug store – ha, now there's a funny thought, you running your own errands…"

"Lydia, Watkins is a highly educated man who serves half of the Upper East Side –"

"The severely over medicated half…"

" – and is very respected in his field –"

"The field of fabricating little known symptoms and diseases to con his way into your checkbook…"

"Lydia, you are fully aware of my condition –"

"Light hypochondria..."

"My cough which develops every time I fly and the hives I break out into unless the cabin pressure is offset by my specially regulated air filter!"

"Whatever you say, boss. By the way, I made you a kale and flaxseed hummus smoothie with quinoa. It's in the fridge in the staff kitchen next to the Kripsy Kreme boxes from Maria's birthday party."

A growl rumbled from the slightly ajar door of her employer's office.

"Woman! I swear you did that on purpose! You know that I just started a diet. Why do I put up with you?"

"Because you said that I have otherworldly organizational skills and am excellent at communicating with your employees, legal team, and stock analysts whereas you, to quote, 'hate having to deal with the plebian masses.'"

"You can include my family into that mix," the voice griped bitterly.

Silence followed and only the sounds of soft keyboard clacking could be heard. Lydia Montgomery may have been the sassiest PA this side of the Hudson, but she knew better than to discuss The Big Honcho's reputedly wretched family members. She wanted to keep her job, after all, and everyone at Darcy Group International knew that the surefire way to provoke the infamous temper of Mr. Darcy was to mention his family in his presence.

Lydia paused before sending Darcy's new trip itinerary to the printers. She shook her head. Yeah, mos def never going to cross that line and initiate a convo about his super wacked out family. That would be inapropo mad awks…

The PA's internal musings were disrupted by William Darcy himself, who appeared in front of her desk with an agitated look upon his beautifully sculpted face. Dark, perfectly groomed eyebrows contorted into a grimace above striking blue eyes, a strong, angular jaw showed the signs of gritted teeth. Man, if only he wasn't, like, 36 and super ancient…and anal retentive and goes to bed at 9 every night and, like, never drinks beer, what the hell? Ewww his breath probably reeks of olive oil or like, fennel seed.

"What happened to my green tie? The Ferragamo one."

Lydia looked confused.

"Er, boss, aren't you wearing it right now?"

"This one? No, Lydia, this is the forest green Lanvin silk. I meant the Ferragamo wool blend."

"Isn't wool going to look a little heavy for the summer?"

"No…You think so?"

"So it would look weird, that's all. What about the emerald green tie you like so much?"

Darcy's expression quickly transformed from one of irritation to bashfulness.

"Yes, about that…" he rubbed one hand behind his neck. "I need you to replace it for me. Like, immediately."

Lydia had already picked up a legal pad and pen, ready to jot down her boss's directions. But first,

"Wait…You lost…The Special Tie?"

One look at Darcy's face confirmed his misdoings.

"Boss! That was a limited edition Hermes silk blend hand-crafted by old French biddies in the countryside! Only, like, 50 were made and only three in that specific color of emerald green exist. Do you know how many people I had to hussle to get my hands on just one of them? And now you say you lost it?"

"Well, I didn't exactly lose it, per se…A, er, well a woman sort of…uh, cutitupintolittlepieces after I told her it wasn't 'working out' between us."

Lydia blew out a breath and slumped over her desk, already looking for that Hermes atelier contact number in her Macbook…

"Omigod, seriously,boss. When are you ever going to learn to stop dating floozies?"

"Caroline was a nice girl!...Until the very end."

"When she went psycho happy with scissors on your personal belongings? Please tell me nothing happened to Fyodor at least."

Fyodor Catstoyevsky was Darcy's incredibly lazy Siberian who ruled supreme over his large home in Sutton Place.

"He's fine, thank God. Reynolds is looking after him while I'm gone. I think he might be a little traumatized after being introduced to Caroline…she wears almost too much fur…"

"Alright, I'll see what I can do about the Hermes, but I can't make any promises. You might have to settle with the new shipment of Burberrys that came into Saks today, heaven forbid that you deign to wear cotton –"

"Well...I don't necessarily have a problem with it if it's hypoallergenic," Darcy quipped.

"Now here is your finalized schedule," Lydia handed over the meticulously detailed document freshly printed in Helvetica font size 11 with 1¾ inch margins, as per Darcy's request.

"Thank you, Lydia," Darcy said gratefully as he tucked the file into his vintage leather Asprey portfolio, a beloved item that was bequest from his father's will. "I'll see you at JFK, six a.m. sharp."

With that, Darcy left the office at two minutes until 7 o' clock, got into the elevator and arrived in the lobby at 7 on the dot, nodded to Fred the security guard before getting into the Mercedes to be drive by Emmanuel to the gym where Darcy worked on strength conditioning and cardio for two hours, then returned home to eat a meal of USDA certified organic tofu, chickpeas, and cauliflower that Reynolds prepared while answering the 63 emails he received since leaving work, distractedly tried to watch one episode of Game of Thrones in bed while working on his Macbook propped on his lap, and promptly passed out by 11pm with his BlackBerry lying next to his head on the goose feather down and cashmere-fitted pillow.

Paris, France

"Elizabeth, did you hear anything I just said?"

"Hmmm?"

"Elizabeth – "

Lizzie Bennett kept her head down, thumbs typing a text message at a furious pace.

"Elizabeth…" Charlotte Lucas said through gritted teeth, eyes narrowed – not that her flighty client took any notice.

Charlotte's breakfast companion sighed, as if all the world's burdens rested unjustly on her youthful and delicate shoulders, and took a sip of her espresso.

"Yes, Charlotte, I believe I heard you perfectly," Lizzie said through a mouthful of an almond croissant.

The public relations junior executive cringed at the crumbs on Lizzie's left cheek. Raised by nannies and brought up in English boarding schools, the daughter of the Drs. Lucas, the legendary wife and husband plastic surgery team from Beverly Hills, could not find amusement in her client's table manners, no matter how famous or sought-after she was in Hollywood.

Charlotte straightened her back and picked invisible lint from her custom tailored Armani jacket. It was now Charlotte's turn to heave a sigh as she regarded Lizzie from across the small table laden with coffee and half-eaten pastries. As one of the most promising PR consultants at her firm, Charlotte had her fair share of difficult meetings with fame-hungry reality TV stars, fading rock stars who hadn't produced any new material in years, and athletes in sore need of career revivals. Lizzie Bennett was a budding superstar and Charlotte's first assignment of any promise and substance. Charlotte could see herself building her career and reputation alongside the young yet already respected screenwriter. Lizzie Bennett could really be something if she wanted to, but much to Charlotte's frustration, she didn't.

Sitting cross-legged and eating a second pain au chocolat, Lizzie certainly looked extremely out of place among the L'Espadon patrons at the Hôtel Ritz. Bright hazel eyes on a pale, high cheek-boned face were hidden behind large sunglasses that looked like Prada knock-offs purchased at a sidewalk vendor. A tall and toned body was concealed underneath an oversized flannel and Wellesley College sweatpants. Personally knitted Harry Potter quidditch themed socks adorned her feet and were openly displayed for the whole world to see through worn-in Birkenstock sandals.

The waiters had to bite their cheeks every time they passed the table and made Charlotte wish that she could find a nice, comfortable Charlotte-sized hole to crawl into and disappear.

Oblivious to the attention, Lizzie dug into another pastry as she proved to her PR manager that she had, in fact, listened to the endless speeches about her upcoming responsibilities.

"Yes, Charlotte, I understand that while in Paris for this press tour, I am to frequent at least three restaurants and two lounge bars. Monday morning, I have a phone interview with the arts and culture editor from The Times…" Lizzie ticked off each item from her schedule on one hand – the one that wasn't holding a beignet.

"Let's see…there's dinner with my literary agent somewhere in the sixth arrondisement tonight, a fitting at Christian Dorry –"

"Dior."

"Um…okay. So tomorrow, there's lunch with some French actor who is rumored to be cast in my next project – Xavier? Gerard? – Whatever, he's not going to get it anyway, it's just another one of your publicist plot thingies…"

Charlotte rolled her eyes heavenward and cursed the day she was assigned to manage the image of the utterly unmanageable Elizabeth Bennett. Any of her previous clients would have killed for all the media attention Lizzie was receiving. But the Cannes Festival winning, Academy Award nominated, film critics' dearly adored screenwriter of two extremely successful films was blissfully indifferent to being world famous at the age of 24.

The perfectly put together PR agent waved to a passing waiter, indicating to Lizzie that their breakfast meeting was over. Elated, for she had plans to visit Musée d'Orsay today, Lizzie stood up hastily and ungraciously slung her huge canvas tote on her shoulders.

Taking one last sip from her espresso, Lizzie turned around to leave and abruptly collided with a tall body possessing of a hard muscled chest.

"Oof!" cried out Lizzie.

"Monsieur, are you alright?"

William Darcy did not deign to involve himself in such trivialities and especially not in public at L'Espadon. The girl – or should he say street urchin who was somehow admitted, perhaps out of a misplaced sense of charity, into the restaurant – was nothing more than a tiny slip who at least had not caused any damage to his new Hermes tie –

"Omigod, boss, your portfolio is absolutely drenched in coffee –"

"WHAT."

Damn it. Cue Darcy Panic Attack, Final Level: OhFuckFuckFuck The Ship Is Going Down. This is not a drill. I repeat, this is not a drill, Lydia silently thought as she quickly flipped through her attaché case in blind terror.

"Boss, it's okay, I have the back-up copies right here!" Lydia said breathlessly after finding them in record time. But it was too late, Darcy didn't hear a word of Lydia's reassurances. The Darcy temper had already been relentlessly unleashed on the poor unsuspecting soul that stood under his infuriated stare.

"Do you have any idea what you've just done? Are you so blind behind those cheap sunglasses and unkempt hair that you didn't realize that you were in the way of another person? Or did you actually manage to see me and were too dumb and slow to move out of the way? Now the entirety of MY FIVE MONTHS OF HARD WORK AND NEGOTIATIONS has just been saturated with the noxious, cancerous sludge you call coffee! You've not only RUINED all of my work, but also my 5,000 dollar one-of-a-kind portfolio which I'm sure you'll never be able to replace. You'd probably have to work a lifetime sweeping sidewalks to pay back because, OH YES, YOU WILL pay it back."

Stunned silence and wide-eyed scandalized stares were directed at the incensed, yet still handsomely dark figure after his outburst. Many of the upscale patrons had previous or current dealings with the mercurial William Darcy and were not completely affronted by his behavior, and especially not on behalf of some ridiculously dressed girl.

Several moments passed as the poor flummoxed waiter stood by helplessly and the breakfast goers wondered whether the girl would run out of the restaurant crying in hysterics.

But Lizzie Bennett stood her ground and deliberately pulled off her sunglasses to give the asshole in front of her the patented Bennett Bitch Stare (copyright Francine Johanna Bennett).

Darcy instantly forced himself to suppress a surprised gasp as he gazed into dark, intelligent eyes that were currently holding in tears. He felt a tiny twinge of guilt.

The young woman dug into her messy, disorganized tote and pulled out several items – chapstick, a jar of peanut butter, about nine thousand pens – before finding her checkbook. Hastily writing out a check, the girl ripped out the small piece of paper and slipped it into the breast pocket of his Tom Ford suit jacket.

Lizzie, who did actually hear the frightened assistant's remarks about the copies, looked over to Lydia and smiled genuinely, "Have a good day, miss." Hardening the angles of her face, which only made Darcy generate unwelcome thoughts about her beauty, Lizzie returned her Bennett Bitch Stare to the accosted CEO. "And good luck with this guy."

Stepping pass the stunned party, Lizzie hurriedly left the Ritz.

Darcy finally regained his wits and fished the slip of paper out from his pocket. Curiously glancing at it, he saw that an Elizabeth M. Bennett from Silver Lake, California signed a $5,000 check made out to "Dickhead" for "heartless douchebag activities." Darcy huffed and promptly handed it over to Lydia, telling her to dispose of it before stomping towards his meeting.

"Omigod, that was FIERCE!" Lydia whispered reverentially as she followed her employer after tucking the impertinently written check in her purse, possibly to be framed for purposes of future preservation of a moment in history - The Time Darcy Got Pwn'ed.

Before the terrified waiter could scurry along after them, he was interrupted by a small, defeated female voice from seemingly out of nowhere.

"I'd like a whiskey neat. Immediately, please," Charlotte Lucas said.

Happy fourth of July, y'all!