From Villain to Virtual Sweetheart: The Fake Heir's Grand Scheme(BL) Chapter 747: Filling What Was Broken

As Micah stepped inside the hospital room, Darcy closed the door without hesitation. Clyde remained where he stood. The four n were still there. But now, the atmosphere had changed.

Clyde did not look at them. Instead, he reached into his pocket, retrieving his phone, his attention shifting entirely to the screen as his fingers moved across it with quiet efficiency.

The four n didn’t speak or move, their scorching gazes fixed on Clyde’s profile.

Minutes passed. The silence grew heavier.

Finally, Clyde spoke. "Instead of standing here wasting ti," he said calmly, his gaze still fixed on his phone, "and making those two boys uncomfortable..."

He paused briefly. "You’d be better off doing sothing useful with it."

His tone remained even, but there was an unmistakable edge beneath it. "That man," he continued, "is still on the loose within the capital."

The implication was clear. If they truly felt anything, regret, guilt, or responsibility, then they should act on it.

The four n did not respond.

But he could feel the way their eyes on him had changed into sothing else, lingering and heavy.

Then, without a word, they turned. One by one. And left.

Clyde remained still for a mont longer. Then, slowly, he exhaled. His jaw tightened slightly as he closed his eyes.

Because despite everything... Despite Micah’s harsh words. Despite the cold indifference he had displayed...

Clyde had felt it. The tremor in his body. The tension he could not fully suppress. The pain that had not yet faded.

Micah could claim indifference as many tis as he wished. Saying that he didn’t care about them, that there wasn’t even hate in him, just pure indifference and disgust... But Clyde knew better.

He had experienced the taste of betrayal from his adopted father himself. It didn’t matter how many tis he had experienced it, how numb his feelings had beco with every lifeti passing, the grievance in his heart never diminished. Why did he torture him? Why instead of cherishing him as his lover’s son, as his wife’s son, as the boy he had raised himself... he had treated him with pure disgust, wanting to take revenge on him.

A boy who was only fourteen.

Clyde could understand Micah. He had lived through it himself. The betrayal. The confusion. The unanswered questions that lingered long after the damage had been done.

No matter how often it happened... no matter how much ti passed or how much one tried to bury it... That bitterness never completely disappeared.

It remained. A quiet, persistent ache.

And for Micah... It would be no different.

Clyde pressed his fingers lightly against his temple, his expression darkening with quiet resolve. If that was the case...

Then he would simply have to love him more. Protect him more. Give him everything that had once been taken from him. Without hesitation. Without restraint.

He had to fill that hole in Micah’s heart, even if it took many years.

*****

Inside the VIP suite reserved for Ilyas, the atmosphere carried a fragile tension, as though every individual present was deliberately restraining themselves from disturbing the delicate balance that had settled over the room. The lighting was soft, carefully adjusted to avoid harshness, yet even that gentle illumination did little to ease the unease that hung in the air.

Micah stepped forward with urgency, his pace quicker than usual, his long strides betraying the anxiety that boiled tightly within his chest.

On one hand, he was truly worried about Ilyas, that those creeps might have given him sothing shady. What if there was a side effect? No one knew what they had used and what the consequences were.

On the other hand, Micah was so rattled by what happened outside that he was pulling his hair inwardly in frustration. The sudden appearance of those four n combined with the nature of Ilyas’ assault, a reminder of Darcy’s past trauma, had thrown Micah’s mind into disarray. He was worried sick about how this might affect Darcy.

His thoughts had been spiralling ever since Darcy opened the door and said that Ilyas had regained consciousness without a mont of pause. And now that he stood just outside the inner room, that unease only intensified. He didn’t even have the courage to glance back as Darcy followed him.

His sweaty hand clenched the hem of his T-shirt, trying to remain calm. He knew right now was not the ti for losing his shit.

As he approached, he noticed that Jacob, Willow, and Patric were all positioned just outside the doorway rather than inside the room itself. Their bodies were angled toward the interior, their gazes fixed on sothing beyond the fra, their expressions heavy with concern and restrained anticipation.

Micah slowed his steps, his brows knitting together slightly at the sight.

Why were they not inside?

His curiosity and concern compelled him forward. He tilted his head slightly, craning his neck in an attempt to peer past them and into the room beyond.

From where he stood, he could just make out the figure of Ilyas.

The young man was seated upright on the hospital bed, his back supported by several neatly arranged pillows. His posture was slightly stiff, as though he was uncertain of how to position himself comfortably. His eyes, though open, carried a distinct confusion, unfocused and distant, as if he were still struggling to fully orient himself after regaining consciousness.

A doctor stood beside him, leaning in slightly as he conducted a thorough examination.

Their conversation was quiet, voices deliberately lowered, the words indistinct from where Micah stood. The doctor appeared to be asking questions, likely routine ones, while Ilyas responded in short, asured replies. There was sothing restrained about his deanour, sothing that suggested he was choosing his words carefully rather than speaking freely.

Micah’s lips pressed together as he withdrew slightly, stepping back beside Willow.

"Big sister..." he murmured under his breath, his voice lowered instinctively so as not to disrupt the ongoing examination. "How is he?"

Willow turned her head toward him, her expression soft yet still touched with concern.

"When he woke up, he was a little nauseous," she replied in an equally quiet tone. "And sowhat disoriented. The effects of the drug have not completely worn off yet."

Micah’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. His hand, which had been resting loosely at the hem of his T-shirt, slowly curled into a fist, the tension in his fingers reflecting the unease that continued to gnaw at him.

"Then why are all of you standing outside?" he asked, his voice still low but edged with confusion.

Willow glanced briefly toward the room before answering.

"The doctor advised us to remain out here for the ti being," she explained patiently. "In situations like this, the patient needs to feel safe and unpressured in order to speak honestly. Having too many people present might make him feel overwheld or even frightened."

Micah considered her words for a mont before giving a small nod. That made sense.

Reluctantly, he shifted his weight and remained where he stood, forcing himself into stillness despite the persistent urge to step inside and confirm with his own eyes that Ilyas was truly alright.

The minutes that followed felt longer than they should have.

Every subtle movent Darcy made seed amplified in Micah’s eyes. The faint rustle of fabric as he shifted, the soft murmur of his voice when talking to Jacob, the occasional shift of his position, all of it drew Micah’s attention, yet provided no real clue to Darcy’s mindset.

Was he upset? Was he angry? Was he disappointed in him? Was he going to lash out at him?

Micah bit his bottom lip, dropping his head. He had no idea how to comfort Darcy. No, in this vast world, was there even soone capable of doing it?