Please get me out of this BL novel...I'm straight! novel Chapter 330

Chapter 330: ’Blessing In Disguise.’

"Your hair is getting longer again, Your Highness," Cashew whispered softly, his hands carefully parting and combing through the silken strands of lavender hair.

The boy’s touch was gentle—meticulous. The kind of delicate care only someone who truly admired Florian could give.

It had been a few hours since the chaos of the morning, and now only thirty minutes remained before Florian had to meet with Heinz. Time was slipping through his fingers, and though he sat there in front of the mirror, trying to appear composed, panic prickled beneath the surface of his skin.

’Calm down. Breathe. You’ve survived worse.’

Thankfully, Drizelous had been hard at work fixing the damaged outfit in the corner of the room. He was unusually silent, save for the occasional string of muttered praises to himself or curses directed at the fabric.

Meanwhile, Cashew was busy ensuring Florian looked presentable—brushing his hair, adjusting the angle of his collar, and patting powder gently on his face to dull the signs of stress and lost sleep.

Florian sat still, hands tightly clutched on his lap as he stared at his own reflection.

His eyes darted to the side, catching a glimpse of Lucius and Lancelot quietly exchanging thoughts in hushed voices, likely discussing potential suspects and outcomes. Neither of them looked relaxed. Their expressions were stern, focused.

Azure, on the other hand, lay curled up on the vanity counter, his gleaming blue tail flicking rhythmically. The little dragon watched Florian like a loyal guardian, eyes narrowing every time Florian so much as blinked too fast.

Florian smiled faintly. A fragile thing.

’So there were no signs of breaking in.’ He let out a soft sigh.

That didn’t surprise him. The man who had grabbed him—his voice, his hands, the suffocating sense of knowing—had vanished far too easily, like a shadow. Whoever it was hadn’t needed to break in.

’He walked in. Or was already here. That’s what’s terrifying.’

But he couldn’t say that. Not now. Not yet.

So instead, he let them theorize. Let them sift through the possibilities and people—maids with access to the workshop, suspicious behavior in Lucius’ daily logs, even the idea of interrogating Drizelous himself. But Florian had stopped them.

"Let him finish the outfit first," he had said, and they agreed. Begrudgingly.

And then—

"Magnifico!" Drizelous suddenly cried, arms dramatically raised to the heavens. "Thank the Obsidians, and the Gods, and my ancestors for my boundless, unrivaled talent!"

Everyone in the room turned.

Florian blinked, startled, watching as the flamboyant tailor held up the freshly remade top as if it were a holy artifact.

His eyes widened.

It was beautiful.

It shimmered subtly with dark silver thread, the details more intricate than before, almost ceremonial. It looked even better than the original, but... somehow more dramatic. Bolder. It made Florian’s stomach flutter with unease.

’He went all out... I’m going to stand out more than I already do.’

"Amazing, right? Fantastical?" Drizelous grinned wide, seeking validation.

Florian opened his mouth to speak, but didn’t get the chance.

"Wha—?"

"No time to waste, Dear Highness!" Drizelous interrupted, practically shoving the garment into Florian’s arms before grabbing his shoulders and spinning him around.

Before he could blink, Florian found himself being ushered—no, pushed—toward the walk-in closet.

"Drizelous—wait—!"

"Go, go, go! Transform into glory, my little cursed moonbeam!"

Lancelot laughed, giving Florian a lazy salute. "He’s right. There’s only a little time left, Your Highness. We’ll question Lord Drizelous while you’re changing."

Lucius didn’t speak, but his gaze lingered on Florian, steady and unreadable behind his glasses. There was something quietly intense in his eyes, and it made Florian falter for a second.

Cashew gave an encouraging nod. "Go on, Your Highness! You’ll look amazing!"

Florian exhaled slowly.

"Okay then..." he murmured, holding the outfit more securely as he stepped inside the closet.

Behind the door, his voice dropped into a whisper, almost too quiet to hear.

✧༺ ⏱︎ ༻✧

Lancelot’s eyes remained razor-sharp, arms crossed tightly over his chest. He stood just a few feet away from where Drizelous fluttered about, practically glowing with pride from the successful repair of Florian’s outfit.

But now was not the time for theatrics or self-congratulation.

"Lord Drizelous," Lancelot said firmly, his voice low and steady, but with the weight of command. "Please take a seat."

Drizelous blinked mid-flourish, one hand still frozen mid-air as if conducting an invisible orchestra. "A seat?" he echoed, blinking like a startled owl. "Darling, I don’t think sitting suits me right now—I’m in the flow! My muse is—"

"Please," Lancelot repeated, colder this time. The polite edge had been filed off. There was no room for protest.

Drizelous deflated theatrically, exhaling a long, dramatic sigh that somehow managed to sound both wounded and grandiose. "Oh, very well. But only because you said it with such conviction," he huffed.

He sauntered to a nearby cushioned stool and sat with the grace of a seasoned performer taking center stage. Legs crossed, hands folded. "Interrogate away, Sir Knight. I am your open book."

Lancelot didn’t respond to the flair. He pulled a small leather-bound notebook from the inner pocket of his coat and clicked his pen into place with a soft snap.

Jemine makes divine coffee and knows how to keep a secret. Viola and Hanette—those two clean the place like it’s their shrine and they never ever snoop. A rare breed, truly."

"Yes," Drizelous said, with a small sniff. "I don’t let just anyone near my genius. Inspiration is fragile. People carry such chaotic auras."

Drizelous pressed a hand to his chest, as if wounded by the mere suggestion. "Absolutely not! My designs have been adored, copied, even lusted after—but never defiled. To assault my art is to assault me."

’He’s actually trying to remember. Good. This might give us something.’

’He was cooperative until now. Why lie? What is he trying to hide?’

The deception didn’t feel malicious. It felt deliberate. Guarded. As if Drizelous wasn’t covering for himself—but perhaps for someone else.