“Yeah, just come on in. Make yourself at home, why don’t you?”

Jane’s busy kitting a steel-grey scarf in her famous jet-black rocking chair. She is not a fan of my barging in without knocking.

Despite her sarcasm, I do make myself at home by plopping down on her deep violet velvet dining chair. I throw my head back and let my hair fall over the back of the chair. She simply shakes her head and gets back to work. I sigh loudly.

“Lizzie, just say it.”

She’s not having any bullshit, as usual. She slurps a sip of her Earl Grey tea.

“Say what?”

I have so much to say, but I just hold it in for a while, listening to the jazz station playing gently through Jane’s ancient, tube-powered radio. The soothing sound of soft electric piano drifts through the air. I feel the music wash over me, making me feel even more ecstatic from head to toe.

No garden variety bullshit daydreams for me—this is the afterglow of a fantasy brought to life.

“Fuckin’ fine. Whatever.”

Jane continues knitting like a madwoman.

There’s only one poster on her wall that I recognize. It’s bright pink and decked out with 1950s-era home appliances and housewares: a vacuum cleaner plugged in somewhere out of frame and an icebox with a giant, metal latch handle taking center stage. A Pacific island-inspired floor lamp completes the picture.

I only recognize that poster because of the band name—The Cure—but the rest of her posters are nonsense to me. Sisters of Mercy? Bauhaus? HIM?

On the other hand, I always love to take in the Celtic tapestries and Jane’s own drawings of sprites and pixies hanging on the walls and pasted to the ceiling. She sometimes drags a piece or two of décor to her workspace as show props and to add a bit of character, but her actual room encapsulates her passion for the arts.

“Hi, my name is Lizzie…”

“Hey, Lizzie!”

She’s quick. Let’s see if she knows where I’m going with this.

“…and I’m a Darcy-holic.”

I hear her knitting needles stop moving for half a second. They start up again before she speaks.

“Fucking figured that’s where you were.”

“Jane, are you…”

I can’t finish, I know the answer.

“That’s an open-ended one, Lizzie. Let me sleep on it.”

Fuck this shit, I’ll ask anyway.

“Aren’t you happy for me? Even just a little bit?”

She stops her knitting again, for less than half a second this time, before tearing back into it with purpose.

“I’m on your side, love. Always. I’m looking out for you, and the rest of us. But this is our new boss you’re fucking around with.”

I pivot my head to look back at her directly. She’s still going at it. Who knows what that scarf is really for.

“Still an assumption, Jane. Even if it’s happening for sure, he’s not the boss yet.”

“I’m not being abstract with this shit. I’m talking about William Darcy, your new man-toy. You don’t know about his rep? Not at all?”

I shift positions, leaning forward now. The velvet-covered cushions are starting to get scratchy.

“I have no idea. Seriously. I just met him for the first time when he came by with Hawk.”

This gets Jane to stop knitting and drop the whole mess in her lap.

“And before that?”

“No idea.”

“Well, shit. He’s well-known in the industry. You know, the industry where people generally fuck each other all the time? Darcy doesn’t do that. He’s famous for not doing that. He just does not fuck employees. I’m not saying it’s a bad thing, Lizzie. It just means it’s going to end. The more wrapped up you get, the more that’s gonna hurt.”

My eyes are cast down on a sparkly silver shag carpet. I don’t even want to consider what she’s saying.

It must be different this time. Darcy can’t just cut it off for some goddamn business deal. I know Jane would never buy that, though. I go for my backup argument.

“Hawk wants to buy all of Bennet Babes for himself. His pockets are deep enough, and that dude is determined.”

Jane takes the cue to get back to her scarf-making, speaking with her eyes fixed on her work.

“I know, I hear the news traveling through the grapevine. Now, that man has no ethics meter on his cock whatsoever. I’m sure any one of us could have him before or after the sale.”

It’s a relief to see her smiling.

“I think only one of us could, and her name is Lydia.”

Jane’s laugh is a wondrous sound, and I can’t help but join in. Another one of those moments I live for, and another sign that Hawk is the right choice to own Bennet Babes.

My excitement gets the best of me, and I let it slip:

“I’m kind of grooming him.”

Jane’s still laughing a tiny bit when she asks:

“Grooming? Grooming who? What are you talking about?”

I know she’s the last person in the world I could convince with this shit, but now I have to try.

“Hawk. Just Hawk. I’ve got him on the hook to buy the site, pretty much. We’re almost there—well, he’s almost there. He’s pretty much got his check book out.”

She manages to laughs a smidge, but she’s not happy this time. If I didn’t know her, I’d say she’s disgusted by the idea—but that can’t be it.

“You’re playing with fire, my love.”

Jane doesn't stop knitting, but her needlework takes on anger and worry.

“Why? It’s all working out.”

“You think it is?”

I tilt my head back up at the ceiling, my hair falling further down the back of the chair again. I smell the lingering hints of incense that Jane likes burning during the day. Jasmine. Vanilla.

“It’s good, Jane. It’s really, really good. It couldn’t get better. I feel so…satisfied.”

Shit, she’s stopped knitting again. I can hear it. I’m afraid to look back down from the ceiling, I know she’s glaring at me.

“You think this’ll be good for you, Lizzie? Forget about the rest of us. I’m talking about you.”

I gather the courage to look over at her, and I see she’s looking at me, but not glowering. She has that pitying expression that I’m getting so damn sick of from everyone. Why can’t they just be happy for me?

“If you start a war, it won’t be good for anyone. These people operate in a different world. It won’t be about you, anymore. Not at all. And it might be too late by the time you realize that.”

“Oh my God, Jane. I don’t know about this whole melodramatic thing you’re trying. It’ll be fine.”

Jane’s knitting project makes no noise when she flings it down on the carpet, but her combat boots make some heavy thuds as she trudges out her door. It’s okay, I know she’s just trying to help, just like everyone. I look back up at the ceiling, and go back to thinking about that limo ride.