CHAPTER 270: SOMETHING REAL, SOMETHING WARM

Micah’s neck was still flushed with a faint pink, the afterglow of his impulsive compliment stubbornly refusing to fade. He hated that the heat wouldn’t go away, hated even more the smirk he could feel from behind him, that damn amused look on Clyde’s face. He didn’t have to see it to know it was there. He could already picture it: that slight quirk at the corner of Clyde’s lips, the knowing glint in his eyes. Micah turned his back on him and tried to pretend the picturesque landscapes in front of them were suddenly the most fascinating thing on earth.

He cleared his throat, trying to reclaim some of the dignity he had clearly dropped somewhere between praising Clyde’s face and losing control of his mouth.

"Anyway," Micah began, lifting his chin as if he wasn’t the embarrassed one. "You didn’t answer me. Dean is your nephew, too?"

Clyde’s good mood dropped like HP running out in a losing game. He made a small sound of irritation and rubbed his temple, fingers pressing in small circles. "Yes, he is. But why are you so fixated on him?"

"Shit!" Micah straightened, eyes suddenly sharp with seriousness. "Who is the patriarch of the Du Pont family? Your father? Or grandfather?"

Clyde stared at him blankly. "Are you living under a rock?"

"Huh? No," Micah replied defensively. "It’s just...My grandpa always talks about the Du Pont Patriarch with this weird reverence, like he’s some mysterious sage or something. The man never shows up at the event. Ever. Even this time, they sent the invitation, and Dean and Emile came instead. So I thought maybe he’s like... sick, bedridden, maybe. You know. Hold up somewhere in a golden hospital bed."

Clyde leaned in and flicked Micah’s forehead with a sharp tap. "So you just assumed he is some old man?"

"Ow. What the hell was that for?" Micah yelped, rubbing his forehead. "Isn’t it? I mean, how could he be young and stay cooped up in his home all the time? It sounds like a title you only get once you’ve outlived your enemies and most of your hair."

Clyde sighed. "You... really..." he muttered, exasperated. "Dean’s uncle is the patriarch."

Micah blinked. "Yeah, so?"

"Meaning me, you idiot," Clyde said, pointing at himself.

Micah’s jaw hit the ground. He stood there, mouth hanging open like a broken hinge. His eyes rounded with disbelief. "You’re joking, right?"

"No. I’m serious," Clyde said plainly, watching him with mild satisfaction.

Micah gawked. His brain short-circuited. All this time, the little hints were laid bare before him: Clyde’s composure, his authority, the La Riviere pharmaceutical incident, the Sorkh factory mishap, the encounter in the charity gala, and even today’s hospital visit were all examples of someone with no ordinary power and influence.

Clyde was right. He was a complete idiot. The Du Pont Patriarch had been beside him for over a month, and he had been clowning around chasing Dean.

Clyde watched Micah’s reaction, pleased with the outcome. Micah’s face was a masterpiece of emotion: disbelief, outrage, embarrassment, the beginning of betrayal. It was all there.

He had tried to tell him, more than once. But conversations with Micah were like trying to catch a fish with your bare hands, slippery, chaotic, impossible to pin down. The boy’s thoughts were like word salad, jumping from one topic to another, impossible to follow.

So he tried to let him know in other ways. Then the birthday banquet came up out of nowhere. Clyde figured that would make everything obvious. A perfect opportunity for Micah to finally learn about himself.

Still, this reaction was far more entertaining than he had anticipated.

Micah’s mouth opened and closed, lost for words. His pupils were trembling in deep shock.

Clyde believed that at least now, Micah knew he had the Du Pont family as a backer. Surely his worries would be lessened.

Then a thought flashed in his mind.

Would Micah look at him differently? Like admiration? Or respect? Or... maybe fear... no Micah didn’t even know the patriarch was young. He couldn’t possibly know the rumours about him. That he was a beast. A cold man who made his parents die.

But what if he had heard?

Clyde stared at Micah, ready to see fear or disgust.

Contrary to his prediction, a heavy punch landed on his arm.

"You jerk! Why didn’t you tell me sooner?" Micah hit him out of the blue.

Clyde’s eyes went blank. He didn’t see that coming.

Micah punched him again. "You know I’ve been running around like a lunatic trying to get in touch with someone from the Du Pont family? All I had was Dean’s name. Man! How many days have I wasted!" he said, punching again.

Clyde just stared at him. He didn’t even bother to block it.

"Why would you be looking for us?" he asked finally.

Micah’s fist stopped mid-air. His expression shifted. He lowered his arm and backed up a step before wrapping his arms around himself.

"I need... help," he admitted, barely loud enough to hear.

Clyde didn’t move. His eyes stayed on him, but the teasing was gone, replaced by quiet alertness. "With what?"

Micah didn’t look at him. His fingers tightened together. His throat moved as he swallowed something heavy, a truth too insane to spit out easily.

He wanted to speak. He wanted to explain everything to Clyde. But the words wouldn’t come. He was scared. Scared of the outcome.

What if this changed everything?

He wasn’t who Clyde thought he was. He wasn’t the true Ramsy heir. He was the imposter. The switch. The mistake. And if Clyde knew, would he turn cold like the way he treated Darcy? Would that protective warmth vanish, just like everything else that would be lost when the truth was revealed?

Micah’s heart pounded painfully in his chest. He didn’t dare to look up.

He couldn’t handle that. Even though he had known Clyde for not long, he had been feeling safe with him. If he lost this one too...

Clyde watched the transformation in front of him. Just a moment ago, Micah had been all fire and fists, like a firecracker. The next, he stood there, slumped and hollow, like a withered tree.

It wasn’t hard to guess why. It would be devastating for anyone to talk about how their family looked down on them. Love them when they were useful. When they were enough. It was personal. It was heart-wrenching.

So Clyde didn’t pressure Micah to spill it out. Instead, he stepped closer and gently reached out. His palm came to rest atop Micah’s head. He ruffled the boy’s hair. "When you need something, just tell me. I’ll do it right away."

Micah looked up, a lump forming in his throat. Ah... Clyde was too kind.

It made him want to cling, to hold on to him for a little longer.

Would it really be wrong? To want something just for himself? Something that had nothing to do with the Ramsy family? To that cursed switch at birth case?

Something real, something warm... yeah, he wanted to have Clyde all for himself.