From Villain to Virtual Sweetheart: The Fake Heir's Grand Scheme(BL)-Chapter 636: He Didn’t Look Back

Inside the limousine, the world felt sealed off, as if the rain and darkness outside had wrapped the vehicle in a suffocating cocoon.

The windows were fogged slightly from the difference in temperature, streaked with thin trails of rain that slid downward and vanished into the rubber seals. Streetlights passed in dull blurs, their reflections smearing across the glass like dying embers. The steady patter of rain against the roof and windows filled the silence, rhythmic and relentless, making the space inside feel even smaller than it already was.

Micah sat on Clyde’s lap.

No...sat wasn’t quite right. He was curled there, knees drawn slightly inward, body stiff and unsteady, as if he didn’t quite know where to place himself anymore. The slit of his qipao rode higher than it should have because of the angle, the fabric wrinkled and damp at the hem from earlier. Good thing Clyde’s jacket was hiding him from view, otherwise his sorry appearance would give away his unease.

His ankle throbbed, a dull ache that pulsed in time with his heartbeat. But the pain in his chest was worse.

Micah dropped his head forward, forehead pressing lightly against Clyde’s chest. His fingers tightened in Clyde’s jacket as though it were the only solid thing left in the world, knuckles whitening with the force of his grip.

"I’m sorry," he whispered.

The words came out small. Fragile. Almost swallowed by the hum of the engine.

Clyde didn’t respond.

That silence was far more terrifying than Darcy’s earlier nagging ever could be.

Darcy sat across from them, back straight, hands folded loosely in his lap, eyes darting between the two before finally settling on the floor. He wasn’t stupid. He could feel it too, the way the air had gone wrong, heavy and sharp, as if one wrong word would make it shatter.

Micah’s apology lingered unanswered.

Darcy shifted slightly, resting his elbow on the armrest and propping his chin on his hand, trying to look as nonintrusive as possible. His gaze slid briefly to Clyde’s face, searching for any hint of what the man was thinking, but Clyde’s expression was carved from stone. Too calm. Too restrained.

Was Micah apologising to him... or to Clyde?

Darcy couldn’t tell. That, somehow, made it worse.

In the end, Darcy turned his head toward the window, pretending to be absorbed by the rain-smeared city outside. Better to stay out of it. Whatever this was, it wasn’t something he could just butt in.

Micah lifted his head slowly, cautiously, as if afraid that even that small movement might provoke something. His line of sight stopped at Clyde’s jaw, the hard curve of it, tense beneath pale skin, and the rise and fall of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed.

Clyde wasn’t looking at him. Micah’s throat tightened.

"But..." Micah began, voice low, hesitant, "You know if I told you the plan, you guys wouldn’t have gone with me. You would’ve stopped me. You would’ve objected."

His fingers curled tighter into Clyde’s jacket, the fabric creasing beneath his grip.

"I’m sorry for hiding it," he continued, forcing himself to speak even though his chest felt tight. "I really am. But look...I’m fine. It’s just my ankle. It’ll heal in no time. I’ve had worse, right?"

Clyde remained silent.

Micah rushed on, afraid of the quiet. "And... and we have a reason now. A real one. We can go after the Lobart family without holding back."

Across from them, Darcy leaned back further into his seat, shrinking his presence as much as possible. He stared at the ceiling, counting the seconds between breaths.

Instead of calming Clyde, Micah’s words seemed to harden something in him.

The faint crease between Clyde’s brows deepened. His jaw tightened, muscles shifting beneath the skin, as if he were biting back something sharp and dangerous.

"We’ll talk about it later," Clyde said at last. His voice was controlled, restrained to the point of sounding almost distant. "I told you to stay put."

The words landed like a verdict.

Micah’s expression crumpled. His grip loosened. His shoulders sagged. Slowly, he dropped his head again, this time resting it against Clyde’s chest without speaking. His lashes trembled, eyes fixed on nothing.

He didn’t say another word for the rest of the drive.

The limousine pulled into the private hospital’s covered entrance, tyres hissing softly against the wet pavement. The rain had grown heavier, drumming against the roof like a warning. Cool air rushed in when the door opened, carrying the sharp scent of wet asphalt and disinfectant.

Darcy finally spoke as they stepped inside. "Will this be okay?" he asked quietly. "His identity...if it gets exposed..."

"I’ll have one of my lawyers handle the charges," Clyde interrupted, already lifting Micah into his arms. "There’s no reason for his identity to be exposed. I won’t allow it."

Darcy watched as Clyde carried Micah through the sliding doors, Micah’s arms instinctively curling around Clyde’s neck. His face was pale beneath the harsh hospital lighting, lips pressed into a thin line.

Darcy didn’t comment further. He simply followed.

The examination process was swift, almost eerily efficient. X-rays, scans, and brief murmured instructions. Forms were filled out. Information was checked. The medical staff paused for a fraction of a second when they saw the gender listed, exchanged quick glances, then continued as if nothing was amiss.

The awkward questions or embarrassing moments Micah dreaded never occurred.

By the time everything was done, his ankle was secured in a brace, medication neatly packed into a paper bag, and instructions given in calm, professional tones.

Darcy hovered until he was sure Micah was stable, then excused himself quickly, almost fleeing the building as if chased by the King of Hell himself.

That left Micah alone with Clyde.

The silence continued until they entered Clyde’s apartment.

Rain tapped softly against the windows, distant thunder rumbling like an echo of Micah’s unsettled thoughts. Clyde set Micah down carefully on the bed, adjusting the pillows behind him with precise, efficient movements.

Micah couldn’t take it anymore. "Say something."

Clyde sat down at the edge of the bed but didn’t turn around, fingers interlaced tightly in his lap.

The distance hurt. Micah pressed his lips together.

Clyde’s shoulders rose and fell with a slow breath. "You knew it, right?" Clyde asked calmly.

Micah blinked. "Huh? Knew what?"

Clyde paused, as if reconsidering, then shook his head slightly. "Nothing. Get some rest."

He stood.

Panic surged through Micah. It felt like Clyde was pulling away, step by step, slipping out of reach without explanation. His chest tightened, breath catching painfully.

Was it really that bad? Was this because of his recklessness? Because he disobeyed? Because he got hurt?

Yes, he knew he was wrong. But the coldness Clyde was showing...this...it frightened him.

"Wait," Micah said, reaching out and grabbing Clyde’s wrist.

Clyde froze.

"Where are you going?" Micah asked, voice unsteady.

"I need to take care of something."

"What is it?"

"I’m going to the police station," Clyde said, not turning back. "Sleep. I’ll be back soon."

Micah’s fingers slowly loosened. He watched Clyde leave the room without looking at him once.

The door closed softly.

Micah lay back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling. His heart ached, confusion twisting inside him until he couldn’t tell where one feeling ended and another began.

He turned onto his side and buried his face into the pillow, clenching the fabric as rain continued to fall outside, relentless and cold, mirroring the storm inside his chest.