Please get me out of this BL novel...I'm straight! novel Chapter 539

"Let's sit down." Monica's voice was smooth, almost inviting, as she gestured toward one of the pristine couches draped in silver embroidery. Without hesitation, she moved with grace and settled herself elegantly onto another across from it.

Florian followed, his steps hesitant. His mind kept replaying her earlier words.

"I believe, if King Heinz saw you wanted for comfort, he would have brought you here as well. So…"

The sentence gnawed at him like a riddle. 'What did that even mean? Why bring up Heinz like that? Was it just politeness, or something else?'

He sat down carefully, the plush cushion dipping beneath him. The room was quiet now, the laughter and music of the ballroom muted behind closed doors. It felt strangely too intimate.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Monica sat with perfect poise, her hands folded neatly over her thigh, her smile steady—unchanging, unreadable. She looked at him like she was waiting, or perhaps studying him, and the silence stretched long enough to make Florian's chest feel tight.

He didn't want to drag this out. Not when Heinz was waiting for him at the balcony. Not when he was still rattled from memories he couldn't shake.

"So… uhm… Lady Monica," Florian began, his voice carefully polite, though his hands fidgeted slightly in his lap. "What was the story you wanted to tell me?"

Monica tilted her head, her eyes softening. She nodded once. "Right. Yes. The story." She cleared her throat, then chuckled lightly, the sound graceful but strangely hollow. "My apologies—it has been some time since I've thought about this. And this is… the first time I've ever told it aloud to anyone. Not even my son has heard this story."

Florian blinked. Oh.

'What kind of story could this be… if even Hendrix doesn't know it?' His unease deepened, but curiosity pressed forward, keeping him quiet.

Monica inhaled slowly, her gaze drifting upward as though the ceiling itself carried memories she couldn't bear to look at directly. Her voice softened, almost reverent.

"This story," she began, "is about a princess."

Florian's eyes widened slightly.

'A… princess?'

His mind scrambled. Was this supposed to be some kind of fairytale? A storybook tale parents told children before bed?

But the tone in Monica's voice was too heavy, too real.

"This princess was from a humble kingdom," Monica continued. "Her land was not like the others. They did not hold grand balls every season. They were not wealthy. They did not live lives of excess. But…"

She paused, her lips curving faintly before faltering. "…they were happy. She was happy. Her people had little, but they had joy. And yet, she wished—she prayed—for more. For their sake, not hers."

No.

This wasn't a storybook.

Florian's stomach knotted. 'This is…' His eyes widened as the realization began to sink in.

"Things continued as they always had," Monica went on, her tone like distant bells echoing through memory.

"The princess wished, and prayed, and longed for her kingdom's future. And then—something did change. A king from another land came to visit, hoping to forge ties, to build connections…" She turned her gaze back to Florian, locking eyes with him, and the weight of that look made his heart lurch.

"The king saw her. And he said he loved her at first sight. So he offered her a proposition."

Florian's throat went dry. '…Her story?'

His chest tightened with surprise. Why was she telling him this? Why him?

"However," Monica continued, her voice dipping lower, "that king was already married. And the princess… she did not love him. She had no wish to be a concubine, nor a consort."

Florian's breath hitched.

'Monica didn't… like Henry?'

That alone was shocking. He had never imagined it. But the way she spoke—flat but trembling beneath—sounded more like confession than bitterness.

"The princess was ready to refuse," Monica said, her tone tinged with quiet shame. "But the king made her an offer she could not turn away from."

No court, no council, not even the servants. Only she saw it. He wept for the wife he had ignored, the wife he had neglected."

Her lips curled into a bitter smile. "And it made the princess resent him. Because why?" Her eyes flicked to Florian, sharp despite the sorrow.

"Why would he take in another woman, tear his wife's heart to pieces, only to weep when she was gone? If he loved her enough to grieve her, why neglect her in the first place? Why destroy her?"

Florian swallowed hard, his chest tight.

Monica lowered her gaze, her voice trembling. "But the princess… she knew better than to complain. Because she was part of it too. It was her fault as much as his. They shared the sin. They shared the grief."

Florian's fingers curled against his lap, his heart aching.

'They both grieved for Anastasia…' he thought, his brows furrowing. The image of Heinz—distant, stoic Heinz—crying alone in the dark felt unreal, and yet Monica's words left no room for disbelief.

Her voice cut through again, sharper now. "Years later, the first son—the queen's son—finally broke. He snapped. He killed his father. He banished the princess and her son. And then, he destroyed the kingdom she had sacrificed most of her life for."

The words landed like blows, one after another. Florian's breath faltered, a lump rising in his throat.

"And do you know what she thought, Prince Florian?"

Florian stiffened. His lips parted nervously, the word escaping without conviction. "W-What?"

He wasn't even sure if Monica expected an answer.

But then her eyes locked onto his—sharp, unwavering, piercing him straight through.

"I deserved it." she said.

Florian's breath caught.

"Oh."