Chapter 377: The Benchwarmer Billionaire
Outside the hospital room, Clyde paused, his hand hovered for a moment on the doorknob before he turned to Emile. His eyes softened just enough to mask the turmoil underneath. "Go back home for now. Let the kitchen prepare a porridge for tomorrow morning."
Emile tilted his head slightly and cautiously checked Clyde’s expression. "Alright," he said after noticing his uncle looked calm.
Clyde’s only response was a small nod.
Emile glanced once at the hospital door before turning away. His figure disappeared down the long corridor in seconds.
Clyde walked a few steps down and sank onto a bench in the hallway. He rested his elbows on his knees, fingers lacing together until his knuckles blanched. His eyes never wavered from Micah’s door as if the panel was the only thread tying him to the boy inside.
Micah was throwing a tantrum, Clyde thought with dismay. Throwing him out of the room, not letting him touch or get close, not speaking with him...
His heart ached, but he didn’t mind Micah showing his emotions. If he kept his disappointment in him bottled up for the sake of it, Clyde would have been far more worried. That kind of silence only festered, turning into something far worse. This messy display of hurt and anger at least proved Micah still trusted him enough to let it spill.
Clyde leaned back against the bench, head tipping until it rested against the cold wall. His eyes slipped shut. Micah... he was entitled to treat him however he wanted, even with sharp words and disdain.
The truth was... they were both fumbling. Two people clumsy in love, unsure when to advance and when to retreat. Clyde feared that the closer he got, the more likely he was to burn himself to ash. Micah, though, yearned for that closeness like sunlight after a winter storm.
Somewhere between those extremes, they had to find balance. Slowly, eventually, they would.
What worried him was the master’s words. During the journey back, Uncle Lin had explained to him what the chosen one meant, warning him to be more careful.
Clyde’s instincts told him Darcy was the one. If that was true, his path seemed clearer: help Micah protect Darcy, return him to the Ramsy family’s hands... and maybe then the rest would be resolved? Would it end his nightmares? Would his violent fluctuations finally stop?
Well, the future was a maze. No one knew what would happen before stepping into it.
Meanwhile, inside the room, Darcy poured water into a glass. His hands shook only slightly, though he forced them to steady before offering it. "Here," he said softly.
Taking a sip, Micah peered at him over the rim of his glasses. "That... Silas... He didn’t ask you anything, right?"
Darcy sat on the armrest of the couch, posture loose. "No. You don’t have to be worried about that."
Micah hummed.
A pause stretched between them before Darcy’s voice broke it, hesitant. "Micah... are you alright? You seem... different."
Micah’s hand drifted up to his bruised cheek, a mocking smile on his face. "What? I’m not handsome anymore?"
"I’m serious."
Micah’s smile vanished. His hand dropped in his lap. "I told you about the party, right? Something happened there." His throat bobbed, voice quieter. "And I felt powerless."
Darcy studied him with furrowed brows. "Why, you, the heir to the Ramsy family, would even think you are powerless? Do you not have money? Power? Family and friends who support you? Why are you always thinking you are by yourself? I don’t understand it."
Micah clenched the blanket. He wanted to say, ’Because I stole your life. none of this ever belonged to me.’ But he swallowed those words.
Instead, he said, "Since the moment I can remember, I was causing trouble for my family. You know my nickname in high society? Trash heir, Ramsy’s waste. Somewhere along the way, I tend to solve my problems on my own."
Darcy pushed himself off the couch and crossed the small space, sitting on the edge of the bed. He angled his body toward Micah, eyes intent. "You are such a genuine person. Kind when it matters. Passionate. Hardworking. Full of life. So what if your scores aren’t perfect? Or you don’t follow your parents’ career? You have talent in fashion. You have creativity. That’s not the meaning of trash."
Micah lifted his head slightly, his eyes glistening without joy. It hurt to hear these words coming out of Darcy’s mouth. He couldn’t feel delighted. Because...Darcy didn’t know compared to him, Micah was too far inferior. A true heir was like Darcy. Compassionate and reliable. A genius with charisma. One that people instinctively wanted to follow.
And worse, Darcy had no idea what he had lost, didn’t know what had been taken away from him by the very person sitting inches away. Micah wasn’t kind or passionate. He was a villain who stole every love and support from him. Who knew what Darcy could have become if he had grown up in the Ramsy family?
Darcy waited for a smirk, a comeback, sarcasm, for Micah to reply with humour like always. But none came. Instead, his words made the boy’s expression drop, looking sadder.
Confusion filled Darcy’s features. He couldn’t understand why his praise had only deepened the boy’s pain. "Micah... did something happen with him?" he asked in the end. Darcy didn’t want to bring Clyde’s name up at all, yet...
Micah glanced at the closed door. "No."
Darcy’s gut told him otherwise. He could see how Clyde’s eyes were glued to Micah, expression softening. He had seen the patience, the lack of anger even when Micah lashed out. That man didn’t hide his affection, not even slightly.
"He didn’t use his power to..." Darcy trailed off, unable to finish.
"I wish..." Micah mumbled to himself. Then he shook his head, replying. "I don’t know what impression you have of him. But he is just a coward. And a jerk. Ah... I don’t want to talk about him."
Darcy’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t press. Micah’s anger spoke volumes. "Fine."
He stood up and walked toward the door.
"Where are you going?" Micah asked, puzzled.
"Get some hot water and blankets," Darcy answered, hand already on the knob. He slipped out before Micah could argue.
The hallway smelled faintly of disinfectant and stale air. As the door clicked shut, Darcy immediately spotted Clyde sitting on the bench. He knew the man wouldn’t leave just like that. Better to talk to him about Micah.
"Hey," he called out.
Clyde opened his eyes the moment the door creaked. "Something’s wrong?" His tone was alert, ready.
"No," Darcy said, shaking his head. "It’s just...He is not himself. Do you think something happened with that doctor?"
"Your guess is as good as mine," Clyde replied, jaw tensed. "Well, you put him on that doctor’s radar."
"I’m sorry..." Darcy mumbled, flinching.
Clyde cursed under his breath. "That... I didn’t mean to snap at you." He exhaled hard, shoulders sagging. "It had been a long day, and now Micah has ended up like that... I’m on edge."
Darcy sat on the bench. "No...It’s really my fault. I shouldn’t have let Micah interfere."
Clyde glanced sideways. "You are just a kid like Micah. You are allowed to want to lean on someone. At that time, I misunderstood the whole situation. Don’t be hard on yourself." his tone firmed up. "And besides, I won’t let that man near Micah again."
Darcy looked at the ground, expression unreadable. Clyde’s assurance didn’t lift the weight. It only made him feel smaller, as though weakness was expected from him, natural. That it was normal for him to mess up.
Beside him, Clyde leaned back again, closing his eyes. "Go on. He will be worried."
Darcy hesitated. Then, without a word, he went to the lounge, picking up extra blankets, and he left one beside Clyde. Then he returned to the room.