From Villain to Virtual Sweetheart: The Fake Heir's Grand Scheme(BL)-Chapter 753: Unwanted Reactions (part one)

Darcy pushed the door shut with more force than necessary, the quiet click of the lock echoing in his ears as though it offered the sanctuary he needed most. He leaned back, pressing his body firmly against the surface. He needed the solid presence of it to keep himself upright, otherwise, his body might give out and crumple to the floor. His breathing was uneven, shallow at first before deepening in irregular intervals, and his forehead was damp with sweat that had gathered far too quickly for comfort. He raised his hand and tapped it repeatedly against his own forehead, not enough to hurt, but not gentle either, the motion carrying a clear note of self-reproach as he silently scolded himself for what had just transpired.

From the outside, he had maintained an image of composure so convincing that it might have fooled anyone, including Ilyas, into believing that nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, that everything had been handled with clinical detachment and calm rationality; however, beneath that carefully constructed exterior, his thoughts had been unraveling at an alarming pace, spiraling into confusion and disbelief that refused to settle into any coherent explanation. The contrast between his outward demeanour and his internal state was so stark that it left him momentarily disoriented, like he was inhabiting two entirely separate selves at once.

He could not comprehend why he had allowed himself to act in such a manner, because for as long as he could remember, he had always felt a quiet aversion whenever physical intimacy came up, a subtle but persistent discomfort that prevented him from seeking or even accepting unnecessary contact with others. Aside from Micah, whose presence had always felt natural and unthreatening, he had never possessed the inclination to reach out, to embrace, or even to hold hands with someone outside the small circle of people he considered family.

Yet despite that deeply ingrained reluctance, only moments earlier he had crossed a boundary so significant that it left him questioning not only his actions but also his own sense of self. He had touched Ilyas in a way that could not be dismissed as accidental or incidental, a gesture that embarked into territory he had never willingly approached before, and what unsettled him even further was the absence of the revulsion he had always expected would accompany such an act. There had been no instinctive recoil, no surge of disgust that would compel him to withdraw immediately; instead, there had been something else, something far more troubling because he could not name it.

And then there was the detail that lingered most vividly in his mind, refusing to fade no matter how forcefully he attempted to push it aside, the small mole at the back of Ilyas’s neck, positioned just at the base where skin met hair. The memory of it was disturbingly clear, etched into his thoughts with a sharpness that felt almost deliberate, and to his utter disbelief, he had found it... appealing. The realisation hit him again with full force, and he exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face in frustration.

What was wrong with him?

The thought popped into his mind. For a fleeting moment, he even questioned whether he had been the one affected by aphrodisiac instead of Ilyas, whether somehow the roles had been reversed without his knowledge, because his reactions made no sense within the framework of everything he understood about himself.

And the kiss. His hand stilled as that particular memory surfaced, vivid and unmistakable.

Why had he leaned forward? Why had he allowed that moment to unfold instead of stepping back?

There had been no necessity for it, no logical reasoning that could justify such an action, and yet he had done it without hesitation, as though guided by an impulse that had overridden all conscious restraint.

Unable to endure the relentless loop of thoughts any longer, Darcy pushed himself away from the door and moved quickly across the room toward the secondary bathroom within the VIP area. His steps were brisk, almost hurried, as though putting physical distance between himself and the previous location might somehow lessen the intensity of his recollections. He gathered a fresh set of clothes mechanically before slipping inside and closing the door behind him.

Once alone, he wasted no time in removing the damp garments clinging uncomfortably to his skin, his movements sharp and deliberate. However, even as he attempted to focus on the simple, practical task of changing, his mind refused to quiet. The events replayed again and again, each detail surfacing with unwelcome clarity, and no matter how he tried to rationalise them, he could not escape the undeniable truth that he had crossed a line that had never needed to be approached.

It had not been required.

That realisation settled heavily within him, accompanied by a growing sense of unease.

It had felt almost as though something had compelled him forward, as though the moment Ilyas had looked at him with those unguarded, almost innocent eyes and asked for help, something within Darcy had responded instinctively, bypassing thought entirely. His body had moved before his mind had the opportunity to intervene, and by the time he became aware of it, the act had already been completed.

Fragments of the scene resurfaced again, flushed skin, the faint sheen of moisture along Ilyas’s shoulder, the subtle rise and fall of his breathing, and that small, unmistakable mole that had drawn his attention far more than it should have.

Then, the sound. A quiet, muffled gasp that seemed to echo far louder in retrospect than it had in the moment.

Darcy froze abruptly, his gaze dropping downward as realisation struck with startling clarity. For a brief second, he remained completely still, as though unwilling to accept what he was noticing, and then disbelief spread across his expression.

He had reacted.

The evidence glared at him with crushing force, leaving no room for denial.

In a sudden rush of mortification, he turned on the shower without hesitation, the sharp rush of cold water cascading down almost immediately. He stepped beneath it as though seeking refuge, the icy temperature shocking against his overheated skin, yet he welcomed it without resistance. If anything, he leaned into it, hoping it might wash away not only the physical remnants of the encounter but also the lingering embarrassment that now burned intensely within him.

For a fleeting moment, the thought crossed his mind that it would be far easier if he could simply disappear.

******

Within the room he had left behind, Ilyas was faring no better, though his distress manifested in an entirely different manner. He sat perched on the edge of the sofa, unable to remain still, his fingers fidgeting restlessly as he brought one hand up to his mouth and began absentmindedly biting at his nail, a habit that resurfaced whenever his thoughts became too tangled to manage.

His mind was filled with a single, pressing concern: how was he supposed to face Darcy after what had just occurred?

The question repeated itself endlessly, each iteration accompanied by a fresh wave of embarrassment that made his chest feel tight. He could not understand why he had asked for help in the first place, why he had placed both himself and Darcy in such an awkward, inescapable situation.

Had their interactions not already been complicated enough?

Had there not already been a lingering tension that neither of them seemed capable of addressing directly?

And yet, instead of allowing things to remain at their already fragile balance, he had somehow managed to make everything infinitely worse.

The memory of Darcy’s expression lingered in his mind, that calm, composed gaze that gave nothing away, and the thought of meeting those eyes again was enough to make him want to retreat entirely. Unable to bear the idea of another moment of direct interaction, he rose slowly from the sofa and made his way toward the bed, his movements hesitant yet purposeful.

Yes. This would work. If he pretended to be asleep, there would be no need for conversation, no need to confront what had happened or attempt to navigate the awkwardness that now hung heavily between them.

With that reasoning firmly in place, Ilyas climbed onto the bed and pulled the blanket over himself, drawing it up until it covered him completely, like the blanket could somehow block everything out.

He closed his eyes and attempted to will himself into sleep. However, his body had other priorities.

A low, unmistakable sound broke the silence, a quiet growl emanating from his stomach, startling him enough that his eyes snapped open beneath the blanket. He froze, pressing both hands against his abdomen as though he could somehow suppress the noise through sheer determination. 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝙚𝙬𝓮𝙗𝒏𝙤𝒗𝙚𝙡.𝒄𝒐𝓶

Hunger.

He had barely eaten during dinner, his appetite gone after hearing Micah speak so casually about his own relationship. At the time, the lack of interest in food had seemed inconsequential, but now the consequences had become impossible to ignore.

Another faint sound threatened to emerge, and he clenched his jaw, mortified.

What was he supposed to do now?

The logical solution would be to find something to eat, yet that would require leaving the safety of the bed, stepping out into the shared space, and potentially encountering Darcy.

The mere thought made him recoil. No, that was absolutely not an option.

He would rather endure the discomfort than face that level of embarrassment.

Yet even as he attempted to remain still, another memory surfaced unbidden, the warmth of Darcy’s touch, the unexpected gentleness of it. His heart skipped abruptly, the reaction so sudden that it left him momentarily breathless, and he buried his face deeper into the pillow as heat spread rapidly across his cheeks and ears, colouring them a deep shade of red.