From Villain to Virtual Sweetheart: The Fake Heir's Grand Scheme(BL)-Chapter 731: When Jealousy Attacks the Wrong Person (part one)

Chapter 731: When Jealousy Attacks the Wrong Person (part one)

Darcy had been seated quietly in the back of the Ramsy family vehicle, his attention loosely fixed on the passing cityscape outside the window as the car made its steady return from the company headquarters. The late evening streets were illuminated by an intricate web of artificial lights, reflections shimmering across glass buildings and polished pavements. Ordinarily, such a scene would not have drawn any particular reaction from him. However, on this occasion, something entirely unexpected captured his attention.

Through the tinted glass, his gaze landed upon a familiar figure standing near the roadside. Micah.

The young man was visibly agitated, his movements lacking their usual composed precision. There was a distinct urgency in the way he raised his arm to hail a taxi, his posture tense, his expression shadowed with unmistakable impatience. Within moments, a vehicle pulled over, and Micah entered without hesitation.

Darcy’s eyes narrowed slightly.

Without allowing himself time to deliberate further, he leaned forward and addressed the driver in a calm yet decisive tone. "Follow that taxi."

The driver did not question the instruction. The vehicle adjusted its course smoothly, merging into the traffic flow behind the taxi at a discreet distance.

At the same time, Darcy retrieved his phone and dialled Micah’s number. The call rang. And rang. But there was no response.

A faint crease appeared between Darcy’s brows, his expression growing increasingly serious. His mind, conditioned by past experiences, immediately began to construct possibilities, none of them reassuring. The thought that surfaced most prominently was one he could not easily dismiss.

Those four men.

The mere idea that they might have orchestrated something, that they might be attempting to lure Micah into an unfavourable or dangerous situation, caused a subtle but undeniable tension to settle within him. His fingers tightened slightly around the phone.

Not once did it occur to him that Clyde could be the cause of Micah’s current state.

The taxi eventually slowed to a stop in front of a well-known establishment, its illuminated signage casting a warm yet decadent glow across the street. A bar. Not just any bar, but one with a reputation, frequented by the affluent, the influential, and those who sought indulgence beneath dim lighting and loud music.

Micah exited the taxi almost immediately, his movements brisk and purposeful. Without so much as a glance behind him, he made his way inside.

Darcy followed shortly after, stepping out of the car with controlled urgency.

The moment he crossed the threshold, he was greeted by a wave of sensory overload. The interior of the bar was alive with energy, voices overlapping in animated conversation, laughter ringing out in bursts, the rhythmic pulse of music vibrating through the air. Groups of young men and women gathered around tables, some engaged in lively drinking games, others leaning close in intimate conversation.

Darcy’s gaze swept across the room with calculated precision.

Micah, in his haste, had made no effort to conceal his appearance. His distinctive silver hair alone was enough to draw attention, and combined with his recognisable features, it did not take long for the surrounding patrons to begin noticing him.

Recognition spread quickly.

Darcy watched as Micah moved through the crowd, his expression cold and unyielding, his path direct. Those who attempted to approach or intercept him were brushed aside without ceremony. There was no hesitation, no politeness, only urgency.

His destination was clear. The staircase leading to the second floor. That area was reserved exclusively for VIP guests, a space where privacy was prioritised and access carefully controlled.

Even though Micah had not set foot in such an environment for months, his identity alone granted him passage. The manager, upon recognising him, offered a respectful nod and allowed him through without obstruction.

Darcy stayed behind, his instincts telling him to be cautious. He stepped away from the main crowd and attempted to call Micah once more. Again, there was no answer.

His expression darkened slightly.

After a brief moment of consideration, he moved toward a quieter corner of the establishment, partially obscured from view. From there, he retrieved his phone and initiated a program, one of his own creation. Within seconds, he had accessed the bar’s internal surveillance system.

The CCTV feeds flickered to life across his screen. Camera angles shifted rapidly as he navigated through them with practised efficiency.

And then... He saw him. A familiar figure, unmistakable even through the grainy footage. Darcy’s lips twitched faintly, the reaction bordering on disbelief.

"That old man has completely lost his mind," he muttered under his breath.

The situation, as it revealed itself, was so far removed from his initial concerns that for a brief moment, he felt an almost absurd sense of foolishness. All that worry, all those assumptions, and for what?

A pair of overly dramatic lovers behaving like a set of inseparable mandarin ducks.

With a quiet exhale, he shut off the program and slipped his phone back into his pocket. He turned to leave. And collided directly with someone.

The impact was not particularly forceful, yet the presence of the individual he had bumped into was... unsettling. The man appeared ordinary at first glance, average height, unremarkable features, nothing that would draw immediate attention. And yet, there was something distinctly off about him. An inexplicable aura that did not sit well.

"Watch where you are going!" the man snapped irritably as his phone slipped from his grasp and fell to the ground. "Damn it! My phone!"

Darcy immediately lowered his gaze, offering a quiet apology as he bent down to retrieve the device.

"I am sorry," he said, reaching for it.

However, the moment his eyes landed on the screen, something shifted. The image displayed as the screensaver caused an abrupt, chilling stillness to pass through him.

For a fraction of a second, his blood seemed to run cold. The reaction was instinctive, immediate and carefully suppressed.

By the time he straightened, his expression had returned to its usual calm composure. He extended the phone toward the man, his tone now more deliberate, more controlled.

"I sincerely apologise," he said. "Is your phone still functioning properly? If there is any damage, I will compensate you."

The man appeared slightly unsteady, likely affected by alcohol. He took the phone, glanced at the screen, and, finding no visible issue, let out a few more irritated curses.

Before the situation could escalate further, a bar attendant approached, clearly alerted by the raised voice.

However, the man seemed to become aware of the attention he was attracting. With a dismissive gesture, he cut off the attendant’s concern and moved away, disappearing into the crowd.

Darcy remained where he stood for a moment longer. Then, slowly, he retrieved his phone once more.

This time, his fingers moved with remarkable speed across the screen, his expression no longer neutral, but sharpened with intent.

*******

Meanwhile, on the second floor, Micah moved like a storm given human form.

His steps were quick, purposeful, his gaze sharp and blazing with barely restrained fury as he scanned the area. The dim lighting did little to obscure his presence; if anything, it only accentuated the intensity of his expression.

It did not take long for him to locate his target.

At the far end of the room, Clyde was seated at a table, his posture slumped forward in a state that could only be described as thoroughly intoxicated. Beside him or rather, leaning far too close was a young man speaking animatedly, seemingly oblivious to Clyde’s condition.

Micah’s eyes narrowed. The individual in question was... undeniably stylish.

He wore a red V-neck shirt, cut low enough to expose far more than necessary, the fabric loosely draped in a way that revealed the line of his collarbone and the faint outline of his abdomen. His white trousers were fitted closely to his slender frame, stopping just above the ankles. His hair, a mass of soft black curls, framed his face in a way that drew attention to his features, particularly the small dimple that appeared when he spoke.

Fuck! The boy was way too attractive!

Micah’s expression darkened further. An unfamiliar sense of alarm rose sharply within him. This was... a threat. He gritted his teeth, thinking Clyde must have a death wish, drinking alone in a place like this.

The moment he saw the young man reaching out, as though intending to poke Clyde, something in Micah snapped.

He crossed the distance in an instant. His hand shot out, grasping the young man’s wrist with firm, unyielding force.

The reaction was immediate.

The young man inhaled sharply, turning toward him with wide, expressive eyes, peach blossom eyes that seemed almost too soft, too delicate for the situation and yet now they were looking at him with aggravation. There was a faint sheen of moisture in those seductive eyes, as though tears might gather at any moment.

Micah froze. For a brief second, his mind failed to process the scene correctly.

"Could you... let go of my hand?" the young man asked, his voice gentle, almost sweet.

Micah blinked. That voice... It did not match the one he had heard over the phone.

Realisation struck. He released the young man immediately, his grip loosening as quickly as it had formed. "Sorry," he muttered, the apology slipping out before he could stop himself.

Micah scratched his cheek, at a loss. His gaze dropped briefly to the young man’s wrist. A faint red mark had already formed where he had been held. The contrast with the pale skin was too glaring.

Micah frowned slightly. Had he truly used that much force?

"I thought you were..." he began, only to trail off, unable to finish the sentence without sounding accusatory.

At that moment, Clyde stirred. His head lifted slowly, his eyes unfocused yet unmistakably drawn toward Micah. And then, he smiled. It was bright. Unfiltered. Almost dazzling in its sincerity.

"Ah..." he murmured, his voice slurred. "I told you... My wife is coming..."

And then, just as abruptly, his head dropped back onto the table. Motionless.

Micah stared at him. For a moment, the overwhelming urge to strike him across the head surfaced with surprising intensity.

The young man beside them seemed startled. "Oh... sorry," he said quickly, his tone turning shy. "I was just worried about him."

Micah hesitated. Faced with such a soft, harmless persimmon, his earlier hostility felt... misplaced. "I see," he said after a moment. "Then... thank you."

The young man smiled, showing his white teeth. It was disarmingly bright, his eyes curving into gentle crescents.

Micah felt momentarily stunned. What was this... overwhelming visual impact?

Before he could fully process his own reaction, his hand moved almost of its own accord. He reached out and lightly pinched the young man’s cheek. It was exactly what he had imagined, Soft and Warm. Micah was drawn to the feeling.

At that exact moment, a familiar arm wrapped around his waist. The man had not even fully awakened, yet his hold was firm, instinctive.

Micah froze. What had he just done? He immediately withdrew his hand.

The young man, rather than reacting with offence, appeared entirely unbothered. If anything, he seemed accustomed to such gestures.

He leaned slightly closer and asked, "Do you need help moving him?"

Micah glanced at him, then at Clyde. Then back again. His gaze lingered briefly on the young man’s slender arms, doubtful he could bear the weight.

"No, no... I can manage," Micah said. He attempted to lift Clyde. However, reality quickly made itself known.

His strength was not what it used to be. The effort caused him to lose balance slightly, his footing faltering. Before he could fall, the young man stepped forward, steadying him, not Clyde.

His grip was light, careful, directed solely at Micah.

A short distance away, partially concealed behind a structural pillar, four figures observed the scene in silence.

Then Mason let out a quiet chuckle. "Well," he said, clearly amused, "that did not go according to plan."

His gaze remained fixed on the unfolding interaction.

"If anything, it backfired. Instead of making Micah jealous, I would say Clyde is about to drown in his own sour mood."

Lin Heye blinked, still attempting to process what he was witnessing. "What... exactly is happening?"

Georgina covered her face with one hand. "Shit...This is a disaster," she muttered. "His luck is unbelievably terrible."

Dylon shifted nervously. "What should we do?"

"Nothing," Mason replied immediately. "We have already caused enough trouble. Let us leave before we are noticed." He was ready to leave as he had had his fun for the night.

There was a brief pause. None of them disagreed. The other three were speechless at how the events turned out. But they could not appear in front of Micah now and blow up their involvement.

"Sorry buddy," Dylon murmured under his breath, already turning to follow the others. "Yeah... you’re on your own now."