Page 75 of Stuck

Georgiana cocked her head to the side. “I’d be surprised if she hates you. She’s likely annoyed and offended, sure, but just because you can hold a grudge in perpetuity doesn’t mean she won’t get over this in time.”

“I don’t want to sit around and wait for her to get over this on her own. I need to put it right.”

“Okay, well, if you can’t fix this, is there anything else you can fix? You just need to show up for her—and keep showing up. She’ll get the message eventually.”

My mind went immediately to Tom Bennet, but I dismissed the idea out of hand. Throwing money at that situation before anything was settled between Elizabeth and me would be insulting. But there must be a myriad other small ways I could prove I cared.

“I have to go,” I told Georgiana, already gesturing to a waiter for the bill.

She grinned. “Good luck. Not that I think you’ll need it. She’d be a fool not to love you.”

33

ELIZABETH

When I got into work on Wednesday morning, it quickly became apparent that Bingley’s assurances had been for nothing, because my desk was gone. Not just my computer or my belongings—the entire desk was missing. As though firing me wasn’t enough, they had to remove all traces of everything I’d ever touched. Not only that, but other than Don, the rest of the legal team sat in an open-plan office, and as such, they were all watching me with avid curiosity as I stood like a lemon, staring at the empty bit of carpet.

I almost burst into tears, which went to show how unsuccessful my day of relaxation had been. I’d spent the entire day, evening, and most of the night torturing myself with memories of the last month with Darcy: all the sweet moments we’d had together that I’d thought meant something; the shambolic confrontation in his office; guilt-ridden recollections of every time I’d lied to him; his text; his subsequent silence. My head was a mess, and the missing desk and probable sacking were high on the list of things that might break me.

“Elizabeth?”

I took a deep breath and turned around. “Morning, Don. I don’t suppose you know where my desk is, do you?”

“Follow me.”

When he led me away from my dingy corner towards his office, I assumed he must want a more private setting in which to hand me my marching orders, but he stopped just outside it. Usually, there was a small seating area here, but those furnishings had been removed and replaced with what looked suspiciously like my desk. In fact, there was no doubt it was my desk, because there were my Moomin Post-it notes.

“Why is it here?” I asked.

He put his hands on his hips, continuing to stare at it. “If I had to guess, I’d say it was an apology.” He chuckled at the little squeak of confusion I let slip and pointed to the window. “Don’t knock it—it’s a stellar view. Now do me a favour and get to work—we’re behind. Oh, and… it’s a pleasure to have you back.” He retreated into his office and closed the door.

I pulled out my chair and slid into it, mortified. I was going to murder Bingley; everyone was staring at me. I pulled my laptop out of my bag and connected it to the screen then opened my bottom drawer to put my handbag away like I always did—and froze. There would be no stashing of anything in my drawer, because it was full. To bursting. With packets of Maltesers.

“What the…”

I opened the other drawers—each one was crammed full of Maltesers. A little flutter in my belly told me this was not Bingley’s doing, and by extension, perhaps neither was the desk relocation, which I suddenly and irrationally found a lot less annoying.

My screen came to life, and I logged in, immediately opening my email and firing off a question to Mark in IT. As soon as I hit ‘send’, a new message arrived in my inbox from Don. I sucked in a breath when I saw that the subject line read, “Fwd: A message from Fitzwilliam Darcy for your immediate attention.” It had originally been sent yesterday and hadn’t been intended for my eyes—the main recipient line said, “All Board Members,” although weirdly, Jerry had been copied in. With a slightly shaky hand, I clicked it open.

Good morning, all.

Some clarification on yesterday’s incident involving Miss Elizabeth Bennet.

I made the grave error of accusing Miss Bennet of acting against the interests of the company and asked her to absent herself from the office while the matter was investigated. My allegations were formed on ill-founded, mistaken premises and were quickly proved categorically incorrect.

I accept full responsibility for this mistake and will be formally apologising to Miss Bennet upon my return from Denmark. She will, of course, be given the option of submitting a formal complaint to Human Resources.

In the meantime, it has come to my attention that the way I mishandled the situation has resulted in speculation arising. Your help in quashing any rumours within your teams would be appreciated.

My error is extremely regrettable. Miss Bennet is a competent, trusted, and valued member of the Hydro Crops family, whose commitment to and impact on the company are undeniable. I trust none of you will allow my mistake to negatively impact her reputation or working environment.

Please forward any concerns or questions to me, Bingley, or HR.

Thank you for your cooperation,

F Darcy

I read the email three times before reaching for one of the bags of Maltesers and stress-eating chocolate while I read it for a fourth. I was stunned by the message. Darcy was one of the most private people I’d ever met—he avoided all attention, disliked talking if he could escape it, and loathed looking like a fool—yet with this email, he’d revealed to the entire executive board of Bingley’s company how badly he’d messed up. That couldn’t be a good look for the owner of the revered Pemberley Group.