Chapter 405: Doctor, It’s Not a Headache, It’s Plot
Micah returned to the Ramsy mansion with heavy steps. His heart was partially lighter than before; his grandfather’s words had eased some of the worst fears, but the dread of the truth being revealed to all was sucking his life out of him like a leech.
And Darcy...
His throat tightened just thinking about it. He couldn’t imagine what Darcy’s expression would be when the truth finally reached him. Would he glare with those sharp eyes of his, thinking Micah had manipulated him all along? Would he sneer, dismissing him as a coward? Or worse, would his face go blank, then fill with hurt from the betrayal?
That thought made his stomach twist.
He sighed, shoulders sagging, and pushed the front door open.
The mansion was quiet. He looked around and found the place empty. Micah thought it was better this way. No one to question him. No one to see the storm on his face.
Dragging himself upstairs, he entered his room and immediately began gathering his belongings. His movements were mechanical. He threw clothes into a suitcase without caring if they were folded, his sketchpads stacked neatly on top of them. Then he sat heavily on the edge of the bed, elbow braced on his knees, phone dangling loosely in one hand.
He glanced around his room. When he came back, this might not be his anymore. He didn’t know what his family’s reaction or Darcy’s would be. Should he leave the house? Emptying a space for Darcy to blend in with the family without his presence hovering over them?
Micah’s lips pressed together. He tapped on his phone and transferred the sum of money he had saved to Darcy’s account with a text.
RogueOverlord: I signed the contract. The money is in your account. I’m counting on you returning my investment tenfold. 🤑🤑
Even if Darcy wanted to break contact with him, this business-like relationship could serve as a bridge between them. His money would be doubled, and he had a reason to see him.
Micah smiled bitterly. He had trapped Darcy in a way; this business deal ensured Darcy couldn’t cut him off so easily.
DescendantoftheDarkOne: Great. Thanks. ☺️
Micah stared at Darcy’s response; his expression eased.
Then, he messaged Clyde, telling him what had happened. And he would be leaving. Minutes stretched, but there was no response.
Micah gritted his teeth, cursing the man. Didn’t he promise not to ghost him? What happened then?
He dialled his number with irritation. The phone rang and rang until Micah’s annoyance spiked high. He was ready to go back to the hospital and deal with that man when the line was connected and a tired voice answered. "Hello?"
Micah froze. His long list of scolding he had prepared stuck in his throat. "Are you alright?" he asked instead.
On the other end, Clyde cleared his throat. "Yeah. Just a headache."
Micah sat up straighter, brows furrowing. "Are you still in the hospital?"
"No, I was discharged."
Micah’s lips parted, then pressed together again. "Oh... did you see my texts?"
"No, my phone was silent. What is it?" Clyde asked.
Micah hesitated. He should tell him. He wanted to tell him. But hearing how tired Clyde sounded, how fragile his tone was, Micah couldn’t bring himself to say it. The man was not in good condition to hear the situation. He swallowed his words. "Nothing. When you get better, look at them. Just...Take care of yourself."
"Mmm." Clyde hummed faintly in acknowledgment.
The sound tugged at Micah’s chest. He bit the inside of his cheek, reluctant to end the call, but knowing he had to. "Rest well," he whispered, then pressed the screen, cutting off the connection before his voice could betray more.
For a long moment, he sat still, phone resting in his lap.
He forced himself to his feet, adding Clyde’s sketches to the stacks, thinking he should start making the clothes during this time. Making himself busy so as not to think about what might happen here.
He grabbed his bag and left the house. Outside a black car idled in the driveway. Micah put on a cap and a mask and sat beside his grandmother. The car pulled out and left for the airport.
******
Meanwhile, across the town, Clyde sat slumped in the dimly lit master bedroom of his apartment near the campus. Both of his arms were raised, hands clutching the sides of his head. His jaw tightened, breath coming out in a shallow gasp as another rush of images flashed across his mind.
Ever since he had lost consciousness at the hospital, the visions hadn’t left him alone. The doctors had run all sorts of tests on him and declared him normal. Healthy. Perfectly fine. They suggested it might be repressed memory surfacing. That his mind was struggling to piece together something he had forgotten.
They wanted to monitor him more, but Clyde had decided to leave the hospital. He knew they couldn’t find anything wrong with him.
Now, he was trying to sort out those pictures and make sense of them. He couldn’t grasp what was happening. But something in the back of his mind told him that it was crucial. He should focus on these images.
One image lingered longer than the rest: a place. He could see the cracked pavement, the peeling paint of old buildings, the dirt roads muddied with rain. It was abroad, far from here. He knew it. But why? Why would he ever go there? What business would he have in such a poor, desolate place?
He leaned back on the bed, sweat beading on his forehead. He closed his eyes and tried to relax, to let the images line up properly. But it didn’t help. It was as if his mind resisted revealing the next scene, holding it just out of reach.
His jaw clenched, a growl escaping from his lips.
"What was in there?" Clyde muttered in frustration.
His hand slid down from his temple to cover his eyes. The headache pulsed again, cruel and sharp, but deeper than pain... it felt like a warning.
And still, his mind urged him: Focus. Don’t let go. It’s important.