From Villain to Virtual Sweetheart: The Fake Heir's Grand Scheme(BL) Chapter 260: Three At the Table

Darcy woke up with a jolt, a sharp pain shooting through his stomach like a knife slicing from the inside. He groaned, clutching his middle, his brows knitting tightly together. The pressure in his gut twisted violently.

He barely had ti to react before stumbling out of bed, his legs tangling in the blanket as he staggered toward the bathroom.

The second he reached the toilet, he collapsed to his knees and retched, his fingers clutching the rim with white-knuckled tension. The sound of vomiting echoed off the tiled walls.

His entire body trembled, cold sweat running down the back of his neck. After a few monts, the spasms stopped. He stayed there, panting, arms limp, head lowered.

He sat on the bathroom floor, feeling dazed. The pain dulled as quickly as it had co, like it had never been there in the first place.

He wiped his mouth and tried to get up. His movents were sluggish. Darcy forced himself to stand, grabbing the edge of the sink for support. His reflection stared back at him in the mirror, ssy black hair, damp with sweat, pale cheeks, eyes dark with the fog of sothing forgotten. He couldn’t recall the nightmare exactly, but the heaviness in his chest lingered.

He sighed and pushed his dark hair away from his forehead.

He turned on the tap and splashed cold water onto his face. He rinsed his mouth, wiped his face with a towel.

Back in the bedroom, he folded the blanket neatly, tidied the pillows, and stared at the pyjamas he was wearing.

He hesitated. No, he wouldn’t wear those in front of Clyde. He appeared childish.

He quickly put on the pantsuit with the black shirt. The only outfit he had.

When he stepped out of the room, the hallway was quiet. He walked toward the kitchen, thinking maybe he could make sothing light for Micah, a hangover soup, sothing warm and easy to digest.

But the mont he stepped through the doorway, he paused. Soone was already there. Clyde. The man stood at the kitchen counter, eyes locked on the coffee machine in a daze. His hands rested firmly on the marble surface. There was sothing tense about his posture, like he was lost in thought or haunted.

"Morning," Darcy said, clearing his throat lightly.

Clyde’s head jerked toward him. He blinked, snapping out of his daze. He paused, then replied. "Morning. Did you have a good night’s sleep?"

Darcy nodded. "Yes. Thank you."

Clyde turned on the coffee machine. The coffee began to drip into the pot. "Do you want so?" he asked.

Darcy shook his head. "No. I’m not really a fan," he said, shifting on his feet. "Would it be alright if I used your kitchen?"

Clyde raised an eyebrow. "For what?"

"I want to make sothing for Micah. His stomach... You know..," Darcy replied.

Clyde watched him for a mont. "Ah... you know how to cook," he said, pursing his lips. "Did you make that cake too?"

Darcy t Clyde’s eyes, calm and steady. "Yeah."

Clyde’s eyes flickered, but his expression remained unreadable. "So it was you," he mumbled. "Alright, then let help you."

Without waiting for an answer, Clyde stepped over to a cabinet and began pulling out ingredients, eggs, flour, broth base, and so vegetables. He placed everything neatly on the counter.

They worked together in complete silence.

The rhythmic sounds of chopping, sizzling, and whisking echoed in the kitchen. Clyde cracked the eggs, added seasoning with care. Darcy focused on his soup, occasionally glancing sideways to check the heat. Neither said a word, their movents were in sync.

The sll of warm broth and toasted bread began to drift through the kitchen.

Soft footsteps approached.

Micah stumbled into the room, still rubbing his eyes with one hand, hair an absolute ss. He squinted. Then reached for his glasses. He looked again and froze. His eyes widened. His jaw dropped slightly.

"What the fuck?" he blurted out, feeling mortified.

There, in front of him, was Darcy wearing an apron. Standing beside Clyde. Cooking. Together.

The sight he never thought he would see. For a mont, Micah thought he was still dreaming.

His mind couldn’t process the scene. Clyde, the person he had always assud was far removed from the plot, and that absurd novel was here cooperating with Darcy like they had done this a hundred tis before.

What the hell had he missed?

Seeing them in sync cooking made Micah uncomfortable.

His thoughts spiralled. Was Darcy here last night too? Had he heard them talk? Had he seen Micah blush and run away like an idiot?

Micah’s mind filled with chaotic thoughts.

The two at the counter turned their heads toward him.

"Morning to you, too. Not even eight and you’re already cursing." Clyde said with a faint smile.

Micah pointed accusingly at Darcy, eyes wide. "Wait...why are you here?"

Darcy, who had just picked up the ladle, hesitated.

"Why shouldn’t he? Did you want to leave him behind?" Clyde asked, leaning against the counter.

"No. I an..." Micah stamred. "Why didn’t you drop him off at his ho?"

Darcy’s eyes flicked to Micah, a faint shadow of hurt flashing across his face.

"You don’t know how much of a handful you are when you are drunk," Clyde said dryly, walking over to place a clean bowl on the table.

Micah flinched, his face burned.

Darcy said nothing. He turned back to the soup, stirred it once, and then poured a ladleful into the bowl. He placed it gently on the table. "Here. Eat this. I’ll leave right after."

Micah’s heart lurched. His breath caught. He jolted forward and clutched Darcy’s hand tightly. "Wait.. No.. I didn’t an it like that! Sorry! I was just a bit startled!"

Darcy studied Micah’s eyes, looking into his eyes. There was honesty there. Noticing he really ant what he had said.

For a mont, he had thought Micah wanted to be alone with Clyde and that was why he said that.

But now he knew it was one of those monts of Micah. The one he spoke before thinking. "Alright," he said and sat down.

Clyde placed the olette rolls on a plate, added so warm buns, and carried them over to the table. He took a seat across from Darcy, calm and collected.

Micah stood awkwardly. He glanced between the two, then slid into a chair beside Darcy.

He hunched forward, face pink. He picked up the spoon and took a sip from the soup. It was warm and comforting.

He peeked at the other two. Clyde was sipping coffee, completely at ease. Darcy was chewing slowly, neatly, and quietly.

They looked comfortable. Like this was normal.

Micah stared down into his bowl again. Why was he the only one who felt like sothing was very, very strange?