Could his aunt be any more stubborn?

The answer, of course, is an unmistakable 'no' - because who can ever beat Catherine de Bourgh in a staring contest?

Darcy groans, loudly, before shoving the door closed with the back of his head.

He gets a part of the logic, really. The company's image as old money is losing its glamor. It needs fresh blood. It needs an image of acceptance and opportunity.

It's just that if things were really up to the young VP, the so-called fresh blood would be sourced from much more, say, reputable sources - maybe Harvard, maybe Columbia, maybe even a good-old Shark Tank style interview of up-and-coming talent. It needs to be something controllable.

The Internet is all well and good, but who knows what kind of creeps and scammers dwell in its depths? And what did a robust, aging woman know about Internet safety anyway?

And why did she announce this supposed special competition way before he's heard a word of it?

Darcy can't help the low-key cursing he lets loose as he tosses his coat on the back of the desk chair and tumbles for the bed.

He rolls from standing to sitting to stretching until the back of his head hits the covers. William Darcy doesn't really do childish gestures. His whole life has been lived on legacy - prestige, philanthropy, pride. Any stray thoughts he may ever have had about forging his own path all these years have been repeatedly quenched by a family as well-versed in Greek guilt as if they hailed from the Mediterranean. Despite any concerns he may have at different junctures of his adult life, he's remained irrefutably loyal to his family's causes.

Maybe that's why it's such a gut punch to see his family finally embracing change - without even consulting him.

In so many ways, he feels responsible and powerful. In so many other ways, he knows he's basically William Darcy - VP of Nothing, DBC.

Darcy takes a series of deep breaths to soothe his agitated senses. The contrast of intensity between his own regular life and small-town, USA, is both debilitating and invigorating. Here, he's a force of nature - all quick words and power strides. Sometimes, though, it helps his sanity to stay just these few days in a town that is basically a giant spa.

The Midwest chill isn't exactly smothering Southern hospitality, but its general serenity is still a treat from the hustle and bustle of Manhattan.

A series of unexpected knocks gets Darcy's attention.

He sits up halfway, eyeing his private entrance suspiciously.

The knocks come again.

"Mr. Darcy?"

He turns, surprised, at the sound coming from the door connected to the indoor hallway. He straightens himself just a little before opening the seldom-used entrance to a smiling Mrs. Collins.

"I'm very sorry to disturb you, sir."

"It's fine. Is something wrong?"

There's a comfort in Mrs. Collins's sensibility - and how she doesn't pry or snoop or peek at what he's been doing to his portion of the borrowed premises. God knows what uncomfortable observations Aunt Catherine would try to wrestle out of the situation - or, rather, did use to wrestle.

"My friend who stayed here before you believes she may have left her coat in the closet. Would you be kind enough to retrieve it if you were to come across it?"

Darcy inclines his head just slightly towards the closed closet door, knowing he hadn't noticed anything out of the ordinary when unpacking last night.

"What color is it?"

"Beige." Mrs. Collins smiles. "I don't believe she needs it in a hurry. I can always endorse it back to her when she visits again. I just hope it won't be in your way."

Darcy nods, still a little preoccupied with his disastrous meeting this afternoon. "I'll keep an eye out."

"Thank you. I'm sorry to disturb."

"No problem. Thank you, Mrs. Collins."

He bids the lady goodbye without another thought.


He doesn't think much of the unexpected conversation, not until the end of his stay - when he's running his habitual final check to make sure he doesn't leave anything behind.

He finds the vaguely-described item of clothing dangling off a thin wire hanger at the back of the closet, its insignificant color blending in perfectly with the closet space's neutral tones. Its complete invisibility before this point is perfectly reasonable in hindsight, since his large-framed suit jackets always crowds the quaint storage provisions. Darcy even debates with himself for a quick moment if he should take out the coat or just leave it in what seems to be its most natural habitat.

If he hasn't noticed it all this time - then it shouldn't bother whoever stays here next, should it?

There's a slight disproportion to the item, though, that catches his eye. The shoulders look well-balanced, and the sleeves appear even enough despite the obvious wear and tear.

It's where the seams run down the sides, where the coat pockets protrude, that shows a clearly heavier side to the fabric.

Is his host's friend urgently looking for an old coat - because she's left something important inside?

Darcy's brotherly instincts take over the invisible owner of the slender coat, and he reaches out to unhook it from the hanger.

Emptying the pocket contents feels more clinical than intrusive. He wants to help; he wants to make some kind of purpose out of his frustratingly purposeless visits.

And all that helpfulness finds him standing stupidly beside the bed thirty seconds later - one used candy wrapper, one crumpled Post-It note, and one well-worn Austen novel in hand.

If not for his impeccable business attire, he would feel almost sheepish.

He tosses the wrapper in the modest trash can by the desk. The Post-It note falls open when it lands on the bed, displaying the simple words of 'L, gas up first' in a barely-legible scrawl. He tosses it too.

That leaves the novel - the clearly well-loved copy of Pride and Prejudice - he's still holding between his urbanised fingers.

It shouldn't surprise him, really. Austen is revered by so many ladies that her books have managed to stay popular for two hundred years. This book, of all her books, have inspired at least a dozen films, movies, and whatnots.

But maybe it's the nostalgia in him - the fond memories of his mother loving this very book a little more than any other book, of how she wold cry and laugh and giggle and sigh every time she read the original or any variation of it - that has him flipping through this stranger's copy.

'To Elizabeth,' the dedication reads - in a strong print that's decidedly more feminine and legible than the scrawl on that horrendous Post-It note. 'May you wear this one out as much as you did your last copy. Your Mr. Darcy may come yet. Love, Charlotte.'

It doesn't take long for Darcy to know this girl isn't just any guest of the Collins family. This girl - this lady - is educated enough to love Austen, a bibliophile enough to still read hard-copy paperbacks, and sensible enough to be good friends with Charlotte Collins.

After half a week of losing rapid faith in the ability of ladies to be anything but reasonable, he honestly finds it beyond refreshing that a level-headed girl can still exist in this day and age.

So he flips without thinking to where where the bookmark is nestled, the strip of soft leather pliant under his hands.

He grins at the fact that location happens to be the unhappy dip in the story when the Netherfield party has uprooted itself to London without another word. He can practically feel the righteous anger seeping through the pages, the dents on the side of the pages hinting at genuine discontent at the fictitious heroes' abandonment.

On a whim, Darcy figures this faceless woman needed some empathy - some kindness beyond ugly notes reminding her to gas up.

He pulls out his planner, a physical one despite the rapid modernisation of every other aspect of his life - because God forbid Aunt Catherine bribe his secretary to share her calendar with him. It doesn't take long to rip out a blank page from the back.

'To Liz,' he figures, given the initial on the previous Post-It note and the full name in Mrs. Collins' dedication, 'Spoiler alert: They eventually do come back.'

He pauses just for the briefest of seconds. Then he adds a small hyphen, and then, simply, 'Liam.'

His flight leaves in two hours, so he messages Mrs. Collins through the platform that he's found her friend's coat in the closet - choosing not to divulge the new addition to the pages of the book inside the pocket of said coat. He even adds a little bit of something else, on a whim, before he can overthink it all.

There's something about this cozy space that makes him feel more benevolent - especially to anyone with good enough tastes to occupy it as often as he does.

God knows he has enough problems to deal with in every other aspect of his stupid life anyway.


A/N: And that's how it starts :) I hope you like it so far! :)