Please get me out of this BL novel...I'm straight!-Chapter 267: ’I Know What I’m Doing’

"I knew you would return right away."

Heinz set the papers in his hands down with practiced care.

"Delilah."

His voice was calm—measured—but there was a slight edge to it. He looked up, meeting the gaze of the elderly maid who stood just beyond his desk, a crease of concern deepening on her forehead.

It hadn’t even been ten minutes since she left with Florian. Ten minutes, and she was already back, lips pressed tight, hands folded too neatly at her waist.

He wasn’t surprised.

Only the Obsidian family—currently, only he—was permitted direct contact with Drizelous. The eccentric tailor didn’t work for just anyone.

"Your Majesty, I do not understand," Delilah began, her voice carefully composed but firm. "Surely you are aware of the implications? The princesses will catch wind of this. They’re already on edge about who you plan to choose as queen—and now, you’re giving Prince Florian special attention. Is he... is he your choice?"

Heinz’s expression didn’t change. He leaned back slightly, folding his hands in front of him. "Florian is my representative for the upcoming Sovereign Summit. It’s the first one I’ll host as king. The proposal we’ll present—was his idea. He needs to wear the colors of the Obsidian family."

Delilah’s brows furrowed. "But that could’ve been done through his own tailor. There was no need for him to meet Drizelous."

Of course she saw through it. Delilah always did. She had known him long before the crown ever touched his head—when he was still just a sharp-eyed boy mourning his mother. She had served the Queen with loyalty and remained with Heinz ever since.

He didn’t expect this conversation to be easy.

The truth was, Heinz wasn’t entirely sure of his own motives either.

At first, he justified it with logic: Florian was being targeted. By the so-called "savior."

But... that wasn’t quite right.

The "savior" wasn’t trying to hurt Florian.

The kidnapping... the aphrodisiac incident... the villagers from Forgotten Waters—all of them had one common thread.

They were trying to take Florian.

Not kill him. Not destroy him.

Just... remove him from Heinz.

’They’re trying to pull him away from me.’

He needed Florian to be visible. To be known—connected to the Obsidian name. To solidify his place beside him.

Why?

Because he needed Florian.

Because Florian was the only one who could actually help him.

And maybe—just maybe—he wanted to see what the "savior" would do when faced with that truth.

This was no small move.

And Delilah knew it.

That was why she looked like that—like the weight of an entire court rested on her shoulders.

The most obvious interpretation, after all, was dangerous.

That Florian... might be the next queen.

’And I’m sure he doesn’t even get it.’ Heinz thought, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly. ’He’s probably scowling right now, wondering why he needs six outfits just to sit around and do paperwork.’

"Your Majesty," Delilah said, tightening her fingers, "how can you smile at a time like this? Don’t... tell me you truly intend to make him your queen?"

He didn’t answer right away.

Delilah took that as a sign to continue. freēwēbηovel.c૦m

"We’ve seen how he behaved before. We don’t even know if this change is genuine—or if it’s just to curry favor with you—"

Heinz raised a hand.

The gesture was subtle but firm.

Delilah fell silent.

"Do you really think I’m that easily manipulated, Delilah?"

Her eyes widened slightly. The words had landed harder than she expected. But she composed herself again, bowing her head just a little. "No, Your Majesty. Of course not."

Heinz exhaled slowly. "I understand your concerns. You’re right. There is no one more fitting than my mother. And I know you only wish the best for me."

He looked up at her again—direct, steady.

"But I know what I’m doing."

Delilah didn’t respond immediately. She just looked at him—looked like she was searching his face for a crack in his resolve. Then finally, she sighed.

"If you say so, Your Majesty... Just... please. At the very least, proceed with the next trial for the princesses. Or spend more time with them. They’re growing anxious. If word spreads that the prince is wearing the Obsidian colors..."

"I’m busy."

Delilah’s voice turned sharper. "Your Majesty, you and I both know what a broken heart can do to a woman. And you have multiple."

Heinz froze.

The silence after her words felt heavier than anything else said in the room.

He slowly raised a hand to cover his face. His voice dropped, quiet and low.

"Delilah."

He let the word hang in the air, coated with something colder now—something final.

"Out of respect for the fact that you were my mother’s lady-in-waiting—and for everything you’ve done for her and for me—I allow you to speak freely."

His hand lowered just enough to reveal his eyes.

"But understand that there is a line."

His voice had an edge now. Bitter. Sharp.

Delilah froze, eyes widening.

She took a step back, then another, and bowed low.

"I... understand, Your Majesty. I overstepped. My sincerest apologies."

Heinz sighed again, pressing his fingers to his temple.

"If you do, then leave me. I have work to finish."

Delilah remained bowed for a beat longer before straightening and turning to leave. As she reached the door, she paused—just briefly—glancing back over her shoulder.

But Heinz didn’t look up.

He picked up the papers once more, expression unreadable.

He liked Delilah. She had been faithful—had loved his mother fiercely. That loyalty had earned her much.

But to speak of his mother so lightly?

To compare her—her—with the princesses?

That crossed a line.

And no one, not even Delilah, was allowed to cross it.

Once Delilah stepped out and the door clicked shut behind her, the silence in the room stretched—heavy and suffocating.

Heinz lowered the papers onto his desk again, more carefully this time, though his hands were tight with tension. He let out a long, tired sigh, one that came from deep in his chest.

"I do know she means well..." he muttered under his breath. His fingers pinched the bridge of his nose. "She’s seen everything. And even after all the old servants left when I killed my father..."

He paused.

His voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible over the stillness.

"...she still stayed."

Delilah had been the only one who hadn’t turned away from him after that day. The only one who hadn’t flinched when blood stained the royal halls and whispers swelled in the corridors.

He owed her more than he’d ever admit.

She had tried to save his mother—desperately. She had fought, pleaded, and even disobeyed orders. But in the end, she failed. They all did.

And after that... she gave everything she had left to Heinz.

Even more than she gave to her own son.

He remembered the sound first.

Ceramics shattering against the floor—sharp, thunderous, one after another. The shrieks of panicked maids. The frantic shuffle of feet. Voices clashing, desperate to calm a storm that refused to be stilled.

And then—

The sound of his mother screaming.

"He chose her again!" Queen Anastasia’s voice cracked through the chaos like a shattered bell—raw, furious, almost feral. "Her! That harlot! That wench and her son!" Another vase flew, whistling past a maid’s head and crashing into the wall. "It’s his birthday! His birthday! And he’s with her!"

Heinz, small and shaking, stood just behind the thick velvet curtain. His fists were balled so tightly at his sides that his nails had started to dig crescent moons into his palms. His eyes were red, his nose running. But he didn’t move. He didn’t even flinch.

’She’s mad again,’ he thought, biting his lower lip until he tasted iron. ’Because he didn’t come. Because he’s with Hendrix and her.’

He had turned seven that week.

There was no celebration.

No feast. No song. No father. No gift.

Only silence—and this.

Still, he stepped into the room anyway. He always did.

"Mother..." His voice was a thread of sound, too thin to cut through the crashing. "Mother, please don’t cry..."

Anastasia whirled.

Her long, dark hair had come undone, curling in wild, knotted strands around her face and shoulders. Her eyes—usually so cold, so calculating—were rimmed with smeared kohl and fever-bright with rage. She was beautiful, in the way royalty always was. Regal. Untouchable. But in that moment, grief twisted her beauty into something monstrous.

"You," she hissed, pointing a trembling finger at him like a curse. "Why weren’t you his favorite, huh?! Why weren’t you enough?!"

Heinz flinched, just barely. His lip trembled. "I—I don’t know..."

She took a step forward—fast, uneven, almost stumbling. Her hand shot out, pale and shaking, fingers curled like claws around nothing.

"If you had just been better—just a little better—he wouldn’t need them! He’d be mine! Ours!" Her hand reached him, her fingers grazing his bangs. "Why couldn’t you be—?!"

"My Queen!"

Delilah’s voice sliced through the storm like a blade—steady, firm, commanding.

In the next heartbeat, she was between them. One arm outstretched, her back shielding Heinz like a wall. "My Queen, please. You must rest. You’re unwell."

Anastasia blinked. Her breathing was erratic, her chest rising and falling in jerking heaves. Her hand dropped, slow and unsteady, though her eyes still burned with something wild and hollow.

The maids moved quickly. They always knew when to act. Cool cloths pressed against the Queen’s flushed skin, soft whispers poured into her ears, and hesitant hands guided her toward the nearest couch. She didn’t fight them. Not really. Her fury had flared fast and violently—but already it was flickering out, replaced by sobs. Harsh, broken sobs that made her shoulders quake.

Delilah turned.

She crouched low and scooped Heinz into her arms without asking. He didn’t fight her.

He couldn’t.

He clung to her silently, his small body trembling as she carried him out of the room—out of the wreckage.

They sat in the hallway just beyond the Queen’s chambers. Dim. Still. A silence thick with breath and heartbreak.

Delilah rocked him slowly. Her fingers moved through his hair with the careful rhythm of someone who had done this many times before. She wiped his cheeks with her sleeves, murmuring nothing at all—just humming under her breath like a lullaby only she remembered.

"I... I don’t get it," Heinz whispered, voice hitching. "Why does she hate me?"

"She doesn’t hate you," Delilah said, her tone soft but certain. "She’s just... broken."

He looked up at her, his lashes clumped from tears, eyes swollen and confused. "But I didn’t do anything..."

"I know, sweetheart." She kissed the crown of his head. "It’s not your fault. She’s hurting. The King... he’s not a kind man. And heartbreak—it warps people. Makes them say things they don’t mean. Do things they can’t take back."

He sniffled. "She said I wasn’t good enough..."

"You are good enough," Delilah whispered fiercely, the words spilling out like a spell meant to banish all evil. "You are a prince. You are your mother’s only son. And you will grow into someone far greater than your father ever was. I know it."

He buried his face into her shoulder again.

And for a while, they just sat like that.

Then—

"Mother?"

A soft voice echoed from farther down the corridor.

Heinz turned his head, just slightly.

A boy stood near the corner. He was holding what looked like a cloth-covered mannequin torso. Taller than Heinz—maybe nine, ten. Thin arms. Wide, eager eyes behind crooked glasses that slid down his nose.

"Drizelous," Delilah said quietly, lifting her head.

The boy beamed. "Are you done working? I finished that new outfit I told you about! I wanted to show you—it has feathered cuffs and invisible stitches, I think it’s my best one yet!"

Delilah smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. "Not today, sweetheart," she said gently. "The Queen is... having a difficult evening. And the prince needs me right now."

Drizelous’s shoulders dropped. His mouth opened, like he might try to argue—but then his eyes fell on Heinz. The streaks on his face. The way he clung to Delilah like she was the only solid thing left in his world.

The boy hesitated.

"...Okay," he said softly after a moment. His voice smaller now. "Maybe next time."

He turned and walked back the way he came—quietly, carefully, like he didn’t want his footsteps to echo too loud.

"What a pathetic thing to remember," Heinz muttered under his breath, the words barely more than a breath of disdain.

It didn’t matter.None of it did.

The past—his past—was nothing more than the ashes of a first life already burned to the ground. Delilah. His mother. The palace. All of it buried beneath betrayal and blood.

What mattered now was finding the one who had killed him.

And nothing—not loyalty, not sentiment, not anyone—would stand in his way.

He’d tear through it all if he had to.

And Florian... Florian was the key.

’I should check on him later.’