Chapter 363: How to Boil a Turtle: A Love Story
By the time the limousine rolled to a halt before the tall iron gates of the Du Pont mansion, Driver Dan was drenched in sweat. The steering wheel felt slippery beneath his hands, and his shirt clung to his back despite the steady hum of the car’s air conditioning. He had been repeating prayers in his head for the past fifteen minutes, but with every inch the distance shortened, the knot in his stomach tightened more.
The madam’s warning echoed again in his ears: be extra careful. Do not, under any circumstances, offend a Du Pont.
He felt like crying inside. He had signed up to be the young master’s driver precisely to avoid this sort of risk. He wasn’t cut out for this kind of pressure. Serving the chairman or CEO meant constantly facing big shots head-on. Even Miss Willow was a no-no. But even in one million years, he never thought young master Micah would bring him to a place even most prominent figures had never dared enter. The pressure was suffocating.
He quickly got out of the car, his limbs stiff and jerky, and stood respectfully at the door, waiting for the young master’s next instruction.
Inside, Micah sat with one arm draped lazily over the seat, his head tilted toward the window. His expression was unreadable, eyes sharp as he took in the shadowed figures waiting near the grand entrance. When the door opened, he gestured to driver Dan.
Unlocking the door, Driver Dan bowed. Micah gracefully stepped outside, showing a full view of himself to the three Du Ponts members. The black suit clung to his frame, the collar open just enough to show the sharp line of his collarbone.
The three Du Ponts stopped in their tracks, eyes wide.
Emile was the first to react. His blue eyes lit up seeing Micah dressed like that. He had dressed to match the occasion, too. A fitted navy suit that brought out the ocean hue of his eyes, the crisp white shirt underneath brightened his complexion, while a slender tie in muted silver added a hint of refinement. The overall effect was polished yet lively, complementing his naturally boyish charm.
He fastened his steps and whistled loudly. "Wow," Emile said, his gaze sweeping Micah head to toe. "Nice."
Micah gave him a meaningful look, running a hand into his hair with an air of arrogance.
Behind Emile, Dean’s eyebrow twitched while Jacklin pinched the bridge of her nose, exhaling a long-suffering sigh. They knew Micah was trouble. Look, he even dressed up this brazenly to go to a mixer without shame. And he did it precisely the moment Little Uncle was out of the city.
They had been confused at first when Micah’s post appeared online earlier. It looked harmless enough. But then Clyde called Emile, his voice had been clipped, barking a series of cautions and precautions to Emile about tonight’s party. Only then, the realisation dawned on them. The boy had a rebellious streak against Clyde. And the reason? No one probably knew except Little Uncle.
Micah nodded to them in greeting. "Good evening, sister Jacklin, brother Dean."
Dean composed himself and walked toward Micah. "Good to see you again. I heard you are attending a mixer party. You wouldn’t mind if we tagged along, would you?" His tone was formal, but underneath it lingered the audacity of an invitation that was less a question and more a declaration.
Micah’s eyes flashed for a second before he shook his head. "I must apologise," he said, his voice edged with irony. "I, myself, am going to crash the party. Can you imagine? Even though we are soon to become a family, dear Miss Gu didn’t see fit to invite me. Heartless, don’t you think, for a soon-to-be relative?"
Jacklin and Dean both flinched. They felt Micah was taking a jab at them.
Jacklin masked her irritation and spoke. "In that case, we won’t impose on you," she said coolly. "Go on, have fun."
Micah inclined his head in a bow before turning back to the car. Sliding inside, he dropped lazily beside Emile. The door was closed, and they left the Du Pont family mansion.
As the limousine pulled away, Driver Dan’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. His palms were drenched, his heart hammering in his chest. He had nearly collapsed by the way young master Micah treated the Du Pont members. His legs still felt like jelly. What was the young master thinking?
He pleaded inwardly, Please, young master, just let this go this time. But no... Micah’s words became harsher.
He prayed desperately that they could get away from this mess unscathed. To his surprise, the Du Ponts hadn’t lashed out. Not even a frown, not a single rebuttal thrown Micah’s way.
What nice people! Driver Dan dared a glance in the rearview mirror. His gaze landed on Emile, who looked unbothered, even pleased. His eyes filled with appreciation. In his heart, he thanked the heavens that the young master had chosen such a friend instead of those rowdy, dangerous companions from before.
Emile caught the stare and blinked, puzzled, before the driver quickly offered a nod with warm eyes. He didn’t dwell on it and shifted closer toward Micah. "Hey, what exactly did my uncle do?" he whispered, lowering his voice as though the driver might overhear.
Micah leaned his cheek into the palm of his hand, elbow propped against the armrest. He turned his head, looking at him nonchalantly. "Are you curious?" he asked, voice filled with a dangerous sort of playfulness.
Emile nodded quickly, his curly hair bouncing.
Micah leaned closer, the distance between them narrowing until Emile could catch the faint spice of his cologne. The glint in Micah’s eyes was mischievous, like a cat about to toy with its prey. "You want to meddle? Aren’t you afraid of getting burned?"
Emile’s instincts screamed to stay the hell out of it this time. Micah seemed on edge, ready to unleash his temper on anybody.
"No, no. I’m good," he said hastily and leaned back in his seat.
Inside, though, a grimace twisted his thoughts. What had Uncle possibly done to wake up this Yama king from his slumber?
After the first time he saw Micah and they started on the wrong foot, Emile had never seen him this angry. Yeah, there were once or twice that Micah had lost his temper, mostly related to Darcy’s matters, but he had forgotten how sharp his tongue was originally.
He silently lit a candle for his uncle in his heart.
Beside him, Micah had retreated into silence, his gaze fixed on the blur of city lights flashing past the windows. His earlier anger had cooled, but not vanished. He had thought Clyde would call him the moment he posted that Moment. But no. There was nothing. Everyone in his contacts had reacted in some ways. Friends and family had liked the post, or commented on the flower, or asked what he meant, but not Clyde.
Even Darcy, who barely touched social media, had dropped an emoji on his post.
At first, Micah had reassured himself. Maybe Clyde had not seen his post yet. Maybe he was busy. But the moment he called Emile, he knew it was the other way around. Now, after meeting Dean and Jacklin, the way their nervous eyes landed on him, the way they wanted to tag along, it was obvious that bastard had seen his post. Micah’s teeth sank into his lower lip.
Alright. If he wanted to play the role of silent guardian or lover, he would’ve gladly shown him how troublesome he could be.
He chuckled softly, tapping his fingers against his knees. Tsk. Clyde was like a turtle, retreating into his shell at the sight of closeness.
Fine, if Clyde didn’t want to be an old cow eating tender grass, then Micah would boil this turtle slowly, gently, until the shell cracked and it was finally cooked, ready to be eaten.
Micah’s smirk grew wildly.
Emile shivered beside him. For a fleeting second, he could have sworn he saw a devilish tail swaying lazily in the air behind Micah.