“In . . . downtown LA. Huh.” He looks over the page again, dropping his arm from me to pull the supporting illustrations toward him. “A college friend of mine has a place in there. What made you think of it for Pemberley?”

“Chloe jogged my memory the other day. I visited her in LA when I was an undergrad. She took me on a tour of the Historic Core and saved the Eastern for last. It was . . .” Sudden emotion swells in my throat. “Like the first time I saw Ming perform. Inspiring. It’s why I went to design school. That’s what made the internship so important,” I say, running my fingers over the sketch. “It felt like it was meant to be, going back to within walking distance of the building that got me hooked on design in the first place. When everything fell apart, it felt a lot less like fate and more like cruel irony.” I let out a mirthless laugh. “Kind of like now.”

Darcy doesn’t say anything.

I close my eyes and force out the truth I’ve been trying to avoid since I saw that bag in Darcy’s hands. “We’re not getting Meryton back, are we? Your uncle . . .”

“It’s not hopeless, Bennet,” he says, too softly for the words to feel believable. “If you’re willing to wait, they can pursue this. And you could get a ruling in your favor. But”—he pauses—“there’s no guarantee.”

My eyes burn, and I wrinkle my nose, hoping to keep the tears at bay. I didn’t realize I was hanging on to that sliver of hope. Letting go, it’s like picking sandstone from my palm all over again.

“Which is why we’re here now.” Darcy rests a hand on the Eastern design. “I’ve been fielding proposals for Pemberley for months. This is better than anything I’ve seen from any design firm. This . . .” His eyes drift over the page. “This is genius.”

This blows Friday’s casual “outstanding” out of the water. “Thank you.”

“With your permission, I’d like to apply this design to Pemberley.”

“You’d like—”

“And, if you’re interested”—he pauses, eyes watchful on me—“move the Meryton productions here. Permanently.”

I gawk at him, speechless.

He lets me stare for a few seconds. When it’s clear that I’m incapable of vocalizing, he raises an eyebrow. “Please?”

I’m already shaking my head. “Darcy, you can’t—”

“I’ve run the numbers. Charles and Andrea have the liquid capital for the renovations. You and yours have the plan.”

Me and mine. “Seriously?” My voice is high with disbelief. Or is it shock? My concept at Pemberley. A new home for the show.