Please get me out of this BL novel...I'm straight!-Chapter 298: ’Look At Me’

"I told you, I am just as surprised as you are," Lucius repeated evenly, his voice calm but weary.

But Delilah didn’t believe a single word of it.

How could she?

Lucius and Lancelot were the king’s most trusted confidants. His shadows. His right and left hands. If anyone in the entire palace knew of this sudden, baffling decision—it would be them.

Of course she wouldn’t believe him.

Of course they were keeping her in the dark again.

’Because I’m old? Is that it? Because my hair’s gone white and my bones creak when I walk?’ Her fists clenched tightly at her sides, knuckles whitening. ’They forget it was I who held this palace together when the king was still a boy crying over his dead mother.’

She should have been informed. She had earned that much.

"I am in no mood for lies, Lord Darkthorn," Delilah said, her tone sharp and unforgiving.

Lucius, clearly still uncomfortable around her—as he was with most women—shifted back a step, his expression twitching with restraint. He adjusted his glasses, a familiar nervous tic.

"Lady Delilah," he said, more formally now, "let me tell you plainly. His Majesty made this decision on his own. Even His Highness seemed just as shocked as the rest of us. Let’s not pretend otherwise—His Majesty may trust me, but he does not confide in anyone when it truly matters."

Delilah stared at him for a moment longer. There was something raw and genuine in his tone.

She sighed—sharp, tired, irritated.

So Lucius really didn’t know.

Still, it didn’t soothe the growing heat in her chest.

"If that truly is the case, then I have no choice but to believe you." Her voice was cool, restrained.

Lucius exhaled a breath of visible relief.

But Delilah wasn’t finished.

"But I doubt Prince Florian has nothing to do with it." She stepped forward slightly, gaze narrowing. "Have you heard the rumors that—"

"Lady Delilah, rumors are just that. Rumors," Lucius interrupted, voice rising as he pinched the bridge of his nose, already sounding exhausted.

Of course.

Of course Lucius was defending him.

Lucius and even Lancelot—anyone with a pair of eyes could see it. Both men were thoroughly, pathetically smitten with the delicate little vixen of a prince.

"Come now, Lord Darkthorn," she said, voice dripping with bitter amusement. "You’re better than this. You’re a smart man. Do you really believe that sniveling, tear-streaked brat no longer loves His Majesty? Who’s to say he hasn’t bewitched the king? Magic isn’t beyond him, and there are rumors about his kingdom—"

"Lady Delilah." This time, Lucius’s voice was cold. Firm. Final.

Delilah flinched.

Not visibly—but enough to feel the sting.

’What now? And how dare he use that tone with me?’ Her jaw tightened. ’The younger ones these days—no respect at all. Even my Drizelous dares to mock me now and then.’

Lucius continued, tone clipped but calm. "I know you only want what’s best for His Majesty, and the princesses as well. But let’s not forget—His Highness is still a prince, and still part of the harem. You may only dislike him because he is male, but that doesn’t give you the right to wage a war of complaints."

He turned on his heel, cloak swishing softly behind him, his departure unapologetic.

"If you must voice your discontent, take it to His Majesty. But we both know he will dismiss you, as he always has. So, I suggest you act accordingly."

Lucius walked away without another glance.

Delilah stood there, stiff with fury.

Seething.

’That damn prince...’

’The prince is like her.’

It wasn’t about gender. It never had been.

She didn’t give a damn that Florian was male.

What infuriated her—what terrified her—was how much he resembled her.

Anastasia.

The late queen.

The ghost that still haunted the palace walls. The woman who once held the king’s heart in a vice grip and ruled from behind the velvet curtains.

No one truly knew the horror Delilah and Heinz had endured at the hands of that woman.

No one remembered.

But Delilah did.

"My king... my love... please," Anastasia’s voice trembled as she lowered herself to her knees, the silken folds of her pale gown pooling on the marble floor. "Today is Heinz’s birthday. Won’t you spend time with us? With me?"

Delilah stood frozen beside her, clutching the young prince in her arms. They had only been walking the eastern corridor, the morning sun casting warm gold against the tall stained-glass windows—when fate had seen fit to place them before him.

King Henry Obsidian.

Anastasia’s husband. Heinz’s father.

He stood tall, proud, and as cold as the frost-laced mountains to the north. His sharp obsidian eyes bore down on Anastasia with disdain—no anger, no sorrow, only quiet contempt—as he glanced from her tear-streaked face to the boy in Delilah’s arms.

He said nothing for a moment.

Then—

"D-Delilah," a small whisper broke from the child in her embrace. "Why is Mommy crying?"

His grip around Delilah’s neck tightened, small fingers trembling with confusion and fear.

Delilah’s breath hitched, but she kept her voice soft. Steady. "Do not mind them, sweet prince. Her Majesty is just... is just..." Her words faltered. ’What can I say? That she feels unloved? Just wants the attention of her husband?’

She didn’t know how to explain the ache blooming in her chest.

The King’s lips barely moved as he finally spoke, voice cold and clipped. "I’ve already sent the boy his gift. But if you keep insisting, then... I shall allow him to dine with me tonight."

Heinz’s face lit up with a hesitant smile. His little heart, too innocent to understand, began to flutter with hope.

But Delilah felt no relief.

Because Anastasia’s face...

Her face crumpled like paper set to flame.

Tears—hot and endless—began to spill down her cheeks anew. She let out a shuddering breath and reached for the king’s leg with shaking hands.

"W-What do you mean... what..." her voice cracked, barely above a whisper, "What about me? What about me?"

The king looked down at her—unmoved.

"What about you?" he asked, voice flat. Empty.

"I am his mother!!!" Anastasia screamed, her voice reverberating down the corridor. She clung to his leg now, desperation turning her into something feral. "I am his mother!"

Henry clicked his tongue in irritation. Without a shred of hesitation, he glanced sideways at the guards posted nearby and gave a curt nod.

The knights moved.

"Wait—!" Delilah instinctively stepped forward, but Heinz whimpered and curled tighter into her chest. She stopped, torn. ’I can’t—he’s too afraid. I can’t let him see more than he already has.’

The guards seized Anastasia’s arms, trying to pull her back. But she kicked. Screamed. Fought with the fury of a heart too long denied love.

"Take her from here," the king said, already turning away, his velvet cloak trailing behind him. "And make sure she never enters this wing again. God knows what she’ll do if she sees Monica and Hendrix."

Monica. Hendrix.

’Always them. Always those two. The favorites.’

Anastasia thrashed wildly, her voice rising into a broken, inhuman shriek.

"NO! NO! IT’S ALWAYS MONICA, MONICA, MONICA! ALWAYS HENDRIX!" Her eyes were wild, wet with agony. Her hair stuck to her face as she struggled against the guards. "WHY?! WHY?!"

But Henry never looked back.

He kept walking, his boots echoing on marble like death knells.

"HENRY!" she wailed. "PLEASE! PLEASE! WHY CAN’T YOU JUST LOVE ME?! LOOK AT ME, HENRY!"

"M-Momm—" Heinz whimpered.

"LOOK AT ME!"

"Look at me," Delilah mumbled under her breath, the words barely more than a whisper, but sharp and heavy like old rusted iron. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her, the tips of her gloves crumpled in her clenched fingers.

Those words.

They haunted her still.

They were the same ones Anastasia used to scream at the king—over and over again, like a broken record left playing in a forgotten room.

’Look at me.’

’Love me.’

Begging. Pleading. Always with tears streaming down her face and her voice breaking like glass on stone.

Now, years later, those same words had started pouring from another mouth. Florian.

Delilah narrowed her eyes.

Florian, the soft-spoken, sweet-faced prince with his trembling hands and too-bright eyes. He had once yelled at Heinz with the same desperation. The same shattered cries. Almost every day since his arrival, the palace walls bore silent witness to his shrill demands, his voice cracking with need and rage.

"Look at me!"

"Why won’t you love me. Heinz?!"

Words soaked in something poisonous—familiar, too familiar.

Only recently had he stopped. The yelling, the tears. It had all gone silent.

But Delilah wasn’t naive.

’He may have stopped... but who’s to say it’s over?’

’It could all be part of the act. A performance tailored just enough to earn sympathy, to weasel his way deeper into the king’s trust.’

She didn’t buy it.

Not for a second.

’He’s like her. Gods help us, he’s too much like her.’

But where Anastasia was fire and fragility—a woman broken by rejection—Florian had something else beneath the surface. Something slippery. Calculated. Dangerous.

Delilah’s expression hardened.

’No matter what, I am not letting that boy trick the king.’

She owed it to Anastasia. To the woman who had once clawed at a man’s leg, begging for even the smallest scrap of affection. To the woman who was cast aside, forgotten, silenced.