From Villain to Virtual Sweetheart: The Fake Heir's Grand Scheme(BL)-Chapter 746: Micah Does Not Forgive

Micah turned his head with visible effort, as if something was holding him in place, preventing him from facing the individuals who had just arrived. In truth, that restraint was not imagined at all. Clyde’s arm, which had been wrapped securely around Micah’s waist and back, tightened just enough to stop him, his fingers pressing more firmly against the fabric of Micah’s clothing, as if reluctant, perhaps even unwilling, to allow him to fully turn and confront what stood behind him.

Nevertheless, Micah did not remain still.

He forced himself to rotate, his posture straightening inch by inch despite the tension in his body. His expression, which had only moments ago been clouded with exhaustion and lingering unease, sharpened the instant he heard Leo’s voice.

"Hey," Micah began, his voice low, edged with irritation, "what the hell are you doing here..."

The remainder of his sentence got stuck in his throat. Because Leo was not alone. Micah’s gaze shifted, sweeping past him, and in that single moment, he spotted people he least wanted to see. Aidan. Archie. Silas.

The air seemed to grow colder, heavier, suffocatingly still.

Micah’s expression hardened with alarming speed, every trace of softness or fatigue vanishing as though it had never existed. His back straightened completely now, his shoulders pulling back in a posture that radiated both defiance and contempt. He held himself upright, with a sharp, cutting mockery that glinted unmistakably within his hazel eyes.

"Oh?" he said slowly, the single syllable dripping with derision. "What is the occasion for this rather elaborate gathering?"

His gaze moved across each of them in turn, lingering just long enough to make the weight of his attention unbearable.

"Did you come here," he continued, his tone growing colder, sharper, "to see why he failed?" A faint, humourless smile tugged at the corner of his lips, though it never reached his eyes.

"Oh that makes perfect sense," he added, voice lowering into something far more dangerous, "you are here to take notes, refine your techniques... so you can get better at it. Being degenerate is your thing, isn’t it?"

The words struck with the precision of a blade, straight to their hearts.

Every syllable carried intent, to wound, to expose, to strip away whatever fragile composure they might have been clinging to.

Aidan’s head dropped almost immediately, his shoulders sagging as though the weight of those words had physically forced him downward.

Archie turned his face away, unable, or perhaps unwilling, to meet Micah’s gaze, his jaw tightening as his eyes fixed upon some indeterminate point on the floor.

Silas remained where he stood, his eyes locked onto Micah, yet there was nothing within them. No defiance. No anger. No visible emotion at all. They were hollow, empty in a way that felt deeply unsettling.

Leo, however, reacted differently.

His expression crumpled under the weight of Micah’s accusation, shame flooding across his features so openly that it was almost painful to witness. His hands moved restlessly, fingers fidgeting with the edge of his jacket as though he needed something, anything, to ground himself.

"We... we were worried," he managed to say, his voice quiet, uneven, lacking any real conviction.

Micah let out a short, bitter laugh. "Worried?" he repeated, the word rolling off his tongue as though it were something distasteful. "And what exactly would you be worried about?"

"That your precious little trophy might be taken away by someone insignificant?" he continued, his voice rising just enough to carry a cutting edge. He tilted his head slightly, his gaze narrowing. "Oh, ease up," he added with a cruel sneer. "The title of first place in abuse and assault still belongs to all of you."

Silence followed. It was heavy and unforgiving.

Leo’s mouth opened slightly, as though he intended to respond, to offer some form of explanation or defence. But nothing came out. Because there was nothing he could say.

Confusion flickered briefly within his eyes, however, beneath the overwhelming shame.

Micah had been harsh before, there had been anger, certainly, and even moments of violence. But this...

This was different. The way Micah looked at him now was entirely devoid of familiarity, entirely devoid of anything that resembled the past they once shared.

Those hazel eyes, which had once held anger, irritation, even reluctant concern, now regarded him with nothing but cold indifference.

Worse than hatred. Hatred implied feeling. This... was something else entirely. It was as though he were looking at something beneath notice. Something less than human. So insignificant that even ants seemed larger.

And then, slowly, realisation dawned. This situation... Ilyas...

It mirrored too closely what had once happened to Darcy. The implications were unmistakable. This incident had not merely angered Micah. It had reopened wounds that had never truly healed. It had dragged those buried memories back to the surface, raw and festering.

Leo’s throat tightened. Of course. That was why. And with that understanding came something far heavier.

Guilt. Crushing, suffocating guilt.

Because he knew, just as the others did, that there was no defence for what they had done. Not then. Not now.

The four men stayed silent under Micah’s harsh condemnation. None of them could form a single word to defend themselves.

Their gazes shifted, almost instinctively, toward Micah once more. And then... toward Clyde.

The sight that greeted them was enough to fracture whatever composure they had left.

Clyde’s arm remained firmly around Micah’s waist, his hand resting with quiet possessiveness, his posture relaxed yet unmistakably protective. The intimacy between them was not exaggerated. It was not displayed for effect. And yet, it was undeniable.

It was real. And that reality hurt.

More than any insult Micah could have delivered. Their hearts twisted painfully within their chests, a sensation so sharp that it almost felt physical. They had known, of course. They had been aware that Micah and Clyde were together.

But knowing something in theory was entirely different from witnessing it with their own eyes. Seeing the way Micah leaned, however slightly, into Clyde’s presence. Seeing the way Clyde held him without hesitation. Without doubt. Without the cruelty that they themselves had once inflicted.

It was unbearable. Regret surged within them, violent and relentless. They had loved him.

Each of them, in their own way, had believed that their feelings for Micah were genuine, irreplaceable.

And yet... what had those feelings amounted to?

Nothing but harm. Nothing but betrayal. They had become the very thing they should have protected him from. Now, standing here, they were forced to confront the irreversible truth.

There was no returning to the past. No undoing what had already been done. No reclaiming what they had lost.

Clyde had won. Not through manipulation. Not through force. But simply by remaining steadfast. By loving Micah without wavering under the plot pull. By refusing to become what they had become.

And they... had no right. No right to interfere. No right to question. No right to demand anything at all.

Their silence stretched on, heavy with everything they could not say.

Micah, meanwhile, watched them closely. And within that gaze, there was something unsettling. Something almost satisfied.

He observed the way their expressions shifted, the way their composure crumbled, the way their eyes hollowed under the weight of their own regret.

Good. That was how it should be. Let them suffer. Let them drown in it. Let them feel, even if only for a fraction of a moment, the consequences of what they had done.

Because only through that suffering, only through that unbearable shame, could there ever be even the slightest possibility of repentance.

And even then... It would never be enough.

Micah’s chest tightened suddenly as the old memories surfaced. Not his own. The ones that broke Darcy...

The thought struck him like a blade. Images flashed through his mind uninvited, fragments of what Darcy had endured, the quiet suffering he had concealed, the scars that remained unseen yet deeply ingrained. A sharp, almost violent urge surged within him.

To destroy. To tear them apart piece by piece. To make them feel everything they had inflicted upon others.

His jaw clenched. Ilyas...

That near incident had done more than anger him. It had triggered something far deeper. Something far more dangerous.

If it affected him this much... Then what about Darcy?

Would he be able to remain composed? Or would this reopen wounds that had barely begun to heal?

Micah’s expression shifted abruptly. No. He could not allow that.

Darcy could not see them here. It was too dangerous. Too unpredictable.

"Hey..." Micah called out suddenly, his voice sharp, cutting through the heavy silence. "You assholes."

Their attention snapped back to him instantly.

"Get out," he continued, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. "Leave. Now." His eyes narrowed dangerously. "If you so much as..."

The door opened. The sound echoed far louder than it should have.

Micah froze. Every muscle in his body went rigid as his head snapped toward the source of the noise.

Darcy stood in the doorway. For a single, horrifying moment, Micah felt as though the blood had drained completely from his body.

No.

No, no, no.

Not now.

Anything but this. Did he see them? Did he notice?

Darcy’s gaze moved. It landed on Micah. And only Micah. His expression remained calm, composed, entirely unreadable. Then, he blinked.

"Micah," he said evenly, as though nothing unusual had occurred at all. "He is awake."

That was it. No acknowledgment of the others. Not even a glance in their direction.

Micah’s heart pounded violently within his chest, a mixture of relief and lingering anxiety flooding through him all at once.

He forced himself to move, his earlier tension redirecting into something else entirely. "Really?" he asked quickly, stepping forward. "How is he?"

Without waiting for further elaboration, he moved past Darcy and into the room.

The door closed behind them. And just like that, the confrontation outside was cut off.