From Villain to Virtual Sweetheart: The Fake Heir's Grand Scheme(BL)-Chapter 652: The Role He Never Asked For

Darcy stared at the plastic cup of iced coffee in his hand. The ice had already melted halfway, turning the drink watery, but he kept sipping anyway, as if the cold could press down the heat boiling under his skin. It didn’t help. Nothing helped.

The night before had torn him apart. He had not slept. Not even for a second.

Every time he closed his eyes, memories that did not belong to this life slammed into his mind like a train that had lost its brakes. Scenes overlapped, voices echoed, faces twisted in pain and obsession. It had felt like drowning in someone else’s life while still being trapped in his own body.

And the most ridiculous, most infuriating truth of all was that he was a character in a book.

Even now, sitting there under the pale morning light, the thought made his fingers curl tighter around the cup until the plastic cracked slightly.

What the actual hell kind of joke was that? His jaw tightened. His temples throbbed.

Why had he lived through the same things again and again? Why did fate keep dragging him back like a dog on a leash? And why...why of all people...had those four men shifted their twisted obsession from Micah to him?

The questions circled in his head like vultures. There were no answers, only the weight of emotions that did not belong to a single lifetime. Grief. Rage. Helplessness. A sense of loss with nowhere to land. Regret that had nowhere to die.

Last night, he had completely lost control. The moment the memories fully crashed in, something inside him snapped.

He had screamed until his throat burned raw. He had cursed at the empty room, at the ceiling, at the invisible "author," at fate itself. He had grabbed whatever his hands could reach and thrown them. A lamp had shattered against the wall. A glass vase had exploded on the floor, water and petals spreading like a mess. A picture frame had split in half, the crack sounding louder than a gunshot in the silent house.

Still, the storm inside him did not calm.

He had cried like someone grieving a funeral no one else could see. He had laughed in between, the sound broken and ugly. He had clawed at his own hair, his chest, as if he could rip the memories out of his body.

It was unfair. So Unfair! to the point his chest felt like it would burst.

In the end, his body gave up before his mind did. He had collapsed onto the floor among the mess, breath coming in harsh, uneven gasps. Sweat soaked his shirt, clinging coldly to his back. His heart had pounded so hard it hurt, like a fish thrown onto dry land, flapping desperately for water.

The commotion he had created had been lost in the soundproof apartment. No one heard him. No one got worried for him. Just like he had been trapped in the role of the protagonist shou in those countless timelines.

He had just lain there, staring at the ceiling, eyes wide and empty. The darkness in his pupils had swallowed the last bit of light.

It had taken a long, long time before the chaos in his head began to slow down. The memories stopped crashing randomly and started lining up, like pages of a book being sorted back into order. He could finally see the beginning. The middle. The endings.

Plural.

And once the timeline became clear, the truth behind everything was not hard to guess. Who had pushed the story to change. Who had silently handed him the "protagonist" role. Who had stepped away and let all the love, the protection, the attention that should have belonged to him shift onto someone else.

Darcy had laughed out loud when he realised. A sharp, hollow sound. But the laugh did not last. It broke in the middle and turned into something close to a sob.

He had laughed for himself. For that idiot Micah. And for that loyal, crazy man—Clyde.

They were all victims. Every single one of them. No one got a happy ending.

In those past lives, Clyde had turned into a mad dog, biting anyone who had dared hurt Micah, destroying everything in his path. In the end, when there was nothing left, he had ended his own life in despair.

Micah... Micah had died in a rundown apartment, giving up his stem cells to save Flora. A quiet, stupid, gentle death.

Darcy shut his eyes tightly now, his hand shaking slightly around the cup.

It was so obvious. Micah had been trying to atone. Trying to repay some imaginary sin from the first life, where Darcy had been the one wronged.

And now that Darcy was no longer blinded by resentment, no longer stuck inside the "court" of emotions and misunderstandings, he could see everything clearly.

Including Noas Lobart.

That smiling, polite young man had always been the one stirring trouble behind the scenes. Pushing, provoking, and adding fuel whenever things calmed down. He had a problem, and Micah had probably known it from the start.

Darcy had grabbed his phone last night, fingers trembling.

He had wanted to call Micah. To shout at him. To ask what he was thinking. Why would he do something so stupid? Why give him everything... his parents’ love, the devotion of those four men, the spotlight of fate itself? Why sacrifice himself for him and for Flora?

But his thumb had hovered over the call button. And then he stopped.

Not because he was angry. Not because he was resentful. But because he was afraid.

Darcy lowered the cup, staring at the melting ice. He was scared Micah would look at him differently now that he knew. Scared that Micah would see the blood on his hands... the revenge, the things he had done in the last life. Scared that Micah would see his ugly side and that fear would show in his eyes, his voice, his expression.

Darcy didn’t want to see fear on Micah’s face when they met.

More than that, he was terrified of hurting Micah again. Now he understood how fragile that boy’s heart really was. If Micah realised Darcy knew everything, knew that his mistake had caused so much suffering in past lives, that fool would probably try to sacrifice himself all over again just to be forgiven.

Who could guarantee Micah would not do something extreme?

That boy had never known how to love himself. Then more thoughts had surfaced. Did Clyde remember too? What about the others? What had triggered the awakening of his memories? Was it connected to Noas? Or something else entirely?

The uncertainty was suffocating. So Darcy decided to hide it. To pretend nothing had changed. He would wait. Watch. See who else showed their cards.

Then morning came. And his phone rang. Zhou Ruyan wanted to see him.

Darcy had washed his face, changed his clothes, and carefully put on a calm mask before coming. No one from the Ramsy family saw the storm inside him. He had thought he had fooled everyone. But no... There was one person who had seen through him. Clyde Du Pont.

That cunning man had pulled him aside the moment their eyes met. His hand at Darcy’s back had been firm, his voice low and desperate as he pleaded with him not to let Micah notice anything. The look in his eyes had said enough.

He remembered too.

Now, sitting across from Clyde in the hospital café area, Darcy felt the weight of reality settle more heavily on his shoulders. Things were already slipping out of control. It was only a matter of time before more people woke up.

He looked up at Clyde, who sat straight-backed, his fingers clutched the edge of the table, his expression serious.

"When did you remember?" Darcy asked, his voice low but steady.

Clyde met his gaze. "Last night."

Darcy let out a dry breath and rubbed his temple. "Shit... same for me... What about Micah? Does he know?"

Clyde’s eyes lowered slightly. "He’s known for two days."

Darcy’s hanging heart settled down slowly in his chest. Micah knew... Micah had known before them, and yet he hadn’t changed the way he treated Darcy, the man who had killed four people. Micah was not disappointed in him.

But then something else occurred to him. His brows pulled together. "So... he did that last night because of this, right?"

Clyde gave a small nod. "Looks like it."

A tight feeling twisted in Darcy’s stomach. "Who else?" His voice grew tense. "It can’t be just us."

Clyde’s jaw tightened. "I’m sure there’s another."

Darcy straightened in his chair. "Who?"

"Silas Durant."

"Son of a bitch!" The words exploded out of Darcy. His hand slammed down on the table. Both cups jumped, liquid sloshing under the lids.

A few people nearby glanced over, startled.

"Why him?" Darcy’s eyes burned red with fury. "Ahh... That crazy bastard! I swear, if I see him, I’ll crush his throat and throw his worthless body to the dogs for a feast."

Clyde’s gaze sharpened when he saw the murderous flash in Darcy’s eyes. "Control yourself."

Darcy dragged a hand down his face, covering his eyes. His voice came out rough. "Damn it... this is hard."

Clyde stood, smoothing his pants calmly. "You’d better start acting like nothing’s changed. You don’t want Micah seeing you like this, do you?"

"Shut up, like I don’t know that," Darcy snapped. "Why do you think I’ve been pretending? If you hadn’t poked your nose in, we wouldn’t even be talking."

"I’m worried they’ll go to Micah one by one," Clyde said quietly. "I warned Silas, but there’s no guarantee he’ll stay away."

Darcy cursed under his breath, fingers digging into the cup.

Clyde looked at him, then jerked his chin toward the hallway. "Come on. Grab the smoothie. Let’s go back. We keep our guard up and protect him. After that, you can complain over drinks all you want."

Darcy closed his eyes for a moment and took several slow breaths. When he opened them again, the storm had not disappeared, but it was locked behind a door.

He picked up the smoothie. "Let’s go."

They walked side by side down the bright hospital corridor, footsteps echoing lightly on the clean floor.

Darcy hated to admit it. But Clyde was right. There was no time to be confused. No time to drown in the past. From this moment on, only one thing mattered: protecting Micah and shielding him from those four scumbags.