Please get me out of this BL novel...I'm straight!
Chapter 330: ’Blessing In Disguise.’

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.

"Who are the maids you trust to enter and leave your workshop?" he asked without preamble, his eyes already sliding to the side, where Lucius stood silently—arms behind his back, the ever-watchful shadow.

Drizelous tilted his head, lips pursed in thought. "Well, there’s Mirabel—darling girl, very respectful, handles my silks like they’re spun from unicorn tears.

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."

Lancelot jotted the names down without even glancing up. "Is that all?"

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

Lancelot flicked his eyes to Lucius again, who gave the faintest nod. The list had been honestly given.

"Has something like this ever happened before?" Lancelot asked, his tone colder now—cutting through the dramatics like a blade.

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."

Another look to Lucius. Another shake of the head. Still truthful.

Lancelot’s brow twitched. "Alright," he murmured. He paused, his voice dropping a shade lower. "Before you discovered the damage—did anything strange happen? Anyone try to call you away? Distract you?"

Drizelous tilted his head again, lips puckering as he tapped a finger against his chin. "Hmm... Hmmmmm..."

Lancelot narrowed his eyes slightly, studying the tailor’s exaggerated thought process.

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

And then—Drizelous’s eyes lit up, the beginnings of a realization shining through—

"Oh—!"

—but just as quickly, it faded. The spark vanished. His expression went neutral, smile cool and composed.

"No. No, nothing. Just a normal day filled with artistic brilliance and fabric tantrums."

Lancelot’s jaw tensed. His grip on the pen tightened just a fraction.

He turned his head to Lucius, who was already watching with narrowed eyes. The stillness in his posture cracked ever so slightly—the smallest twitch of his jaw.

Lucius didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

He’s lying.

Lancelot felt a cold note of frustration settle in his gut.

’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.

Still, Lancelot pressed on.

"Do you know anyone who might have a motive to destroy Prince Florian’s clothing?"

The silence was immediate. Tense. Charged.

Drizelous’s hands moved subtly—he uncrossed and then recrossed his legs. His fingers fidgeted with the lace of his cuffs.

"I... don’t," he said finally. "Truly."

Lucius stepped forward. His voice, though soft, had an unmistakable steel to it.

"That’s a lie."

Drizelous flinched. Barely. A ripple across the surface.

But he didn’t argue.

The air shifted, heavy with what hadn’t been said.

Before Lancelot could probe further, the soft click of a door handle broke the tension like glass.

They turned. All of them. As one.

The walk-in closet opened—and Florian stepped out.

For a moment, no one moved. No one spoke.

He was... radiant.

Draped in the newly altered ensemble, Florian looked like a figure conjured from poetry. The dark silver fabric hugged his frame with artful precision, each embroidered detail catching the light in subtle, glimmering pulses. It was regal. Ethereal. And it rendered him untouchable.

A prince, yes—but he looked more like a ghost-wrapped monarch from a forgotten legend. A soul woven from moonlight and defiance.

Lancelot’s breath caught in his throat.

’He looks... incredible. Like a painting I don’t deserve to touch.’

Even Lucius, ever composed, inhaled sharply—a rare slip that did not go unnoticed.

Azure, curled on the vanity, let out a quiet, reverent chirp.

Drizelous placed a hand over his mouth, his eyes glossy with unspilled tears.

"Wow..." he whispered, almost dazed. "This incident... might’ve been a blessing in disguise."

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