From Villain to Virtual Sweetheart: The Fake Heir's Grand Scheme(BL)-Chapter 751: At His Most Exposed (part one)

The door to the dimly lit room opened with a soft creak. A thin line of light from the hallway stretched inward before being swallowed by the shadows. Clyde stepped across the threshold with measured caution, his presence subdued, his movements restrained as if he feared that even the slightest sound might break the silence.

His gaze lifted almost immediately, finding Darcy without effort, as though he had expected him to be sitting exactly there. Their eyes met in silence. Darcy’s eyes were dark, heavy with exhaustion and a bit different from before, as if some of that unresolved and lingering pain had finally faded. Clyde’s expression did not change, yet there was a brief, almost imperceptible pause in his movement, a moment where his composure threatened to falter. It lasted no more than a heartbeat before he continued forward.

He approached without speaking. Words would have been intrusive here, unnecessary. When he reached them, he leaned forward with quiet certainty and carefully gathered Micah into his arms, lifting him away from Darcy’s hold with a gentleness that spoke of both caution and familiarity.

Micah did not stir. The boy had cried himself into sleep, the aftermath of his grief still evident in every detail of his face. His breathing was uneven, though calmer now, and his body remained slack with the heavy exhaustion that follows emotional collapse.

Darcy remained still for a moment after the weight in his arms disappeared. The absence was immediate, almost jarring. His hands lingered in the air for a second too long before he slowly lowered them. Then, as if awareness returned to his body all at once, he shifted stiffly.

His legs protested the movement. His back felt rigid, his muscles numb from remaining in the same position for far too long. He adjusted his footing with visible discomfort, subtly favouring one side as he forced himself to stand upright. There was no complaint, no outward acknowledgment of the strain, but it was there in the slight tightening of his jaw, in the careful way he moved.

Without looking back, Darcy turned and began to walk away.

Clyde did not stop him. Instead, his attention had already settled completely on the person in his arms. He held Micah close, not merely supporting him, but cradling him with a protectiveness that bordered on reverence. It was as though he feared that loosening his grip, even slightly, might cause Micah to slip away from him entirely.

His gaze traced every detail. The redness around Micah’s eyes was unmistakable, the skin irritated and swollen from prolonged crying. His eyelids were puffy, lashes still damp. His nose remained flushed, betraying how recently the tears had fallen. Even in sleep, there was a faint tension in his expression, as though the pain had not fully released its hold on him.

Clyde’s chest tightened. He did not need to ask what had happened.

Seeing those men earlier, those four wretched individuals, had been enough to reopen wounds that had never truly healed. It would not have taken much for the past to come rushing back, unrelenting and merciless. And Darcy... Darcy would have avoided the conversation if not for Ilyas. The situation surrounding him was too similar to the past Darcy had experienced. There was no way he could remain indifferent when he noticed Micah’s guilt.

It had been inevitable. Two people burdened with shared pain, forced into confrontation with memories they would rather forget, it could only end one way.

Clyde exhaled slowly. Perhaps... perhaps this had been necessary. Painful, yes. Unbearable, even. But necessary.

Maybe, after this, Micah would feel lighter. Maybe the weight that had been pressing down on him for so long would begin to ease, even if only slightly. Perhaps the shadows that lingered in his eyes would fade, replaced by something softer, something freer. Or perhaps that was wishful thinking. Still, Clyde chose to believe it.

Carefully, he lowered himself onto the bed, leaning back against the headrest. He adjusted his hold on Micah, ensuring that he remained comfortable, secure, sheltered. One hand came up to support Micah’s head, fingers brushing lightly against damp strands of hair.

He closed his eyes. Only then did he allow himself to acknowledge his own exhaustion.

The day had not been kind to him either. It had been long, demanding, filled with tension that never seemed to fully dissipate. His body ached with fatigue, every muscle weighed down by the strain he had been ignoring.

And yet, even as he drifted toward sleep, his hold on Micah did not loosen. If anything, it tightened.

******

Meanwhile, Darcy moved through the hallway with quiet determination, his earlier stiffness gradually giving way to controlled movement. His destination was clear: Ilyas’s room.

The fabric of his shirt clung uncomfortably to his skin. It was damp, wrinkled, and carrying the unmistakable evidence of Micah’s earlier breakdown. At some point, amidst everything, they had completely forgotten about food, about time, about anything beyond the immediate storm of emotions.

Darcy exhaled, running a hand through his dark hair in an attempt to steady himself.

His thoughts shifted briefly toward practical matters. Should he go to the cafeteria first? Or change his clothes?

The question lingered only for a moment before it was interrupted. One of the bodyguards stepped forward, his posture respectful yet firm. "Young master," he began, extending something toward Darcy, "Boss asked us to give this to you."

Darcy’s gaze dropped. A packed food container. And a bag.

His eyelid twitched, just slightly. Had Clyde put someone there to watch them? The possibility was not far-fetched.

Still, Darcy did not voice his suspicion. His expression remained neutral as he accepted the items without comment. If there was irritation, it was buried beneath layers of composure.

Without another word, he turned and continued toward Ilyas’s room.

When he entered, he was met with silence. He set the bag and the container down on the table before moving further inside, his steps quiet but purposeful. As he approached the inner room, Patric came into view.

The man stood almost immediately upon seeing Darcy, his expression troubled.

"He is taking a shower," Patric said, his voice carrying a note of frustration. "He refused to let me help..." He trailed off, sighing deeply. "Anyway, I’m not comfortable leaving him, but... ah..." His shoulders slumped slightly, the conflict evident.

Darcy observed him for a moment. Then he spoke, his tone calm, measured. "Chief Assistant Harper, you can trust me. I’ll take care of him. I’m good at it."

He paused briefly before continuing, his words taking on a subtle, intentional edge. "Go and help my older sister. I am sure Ilyas would feel more at ease that way."

The implication was not hidden. Darcy did not need to say more. Anyone with eyes could see Patric had feelings for Willow.

Patric scratched the back of his head, clearly aware of what had just been pointed out. His hesitation lingered for only a moment longer before he nodded. 𝙛𝒓𝓮𝒆𝔀𝒆𝙗𝓷𝒐𝙫𝒆𝙡.𝒄𝓸𝓶

In the end, he relented. He cast one last glance toward the closed bathroom door before turning and leaving.

Once he was gone, Darcy allowed himself a small exhale.