Please get me out of this BL novel...I'm straight! novel Chapter 465

Chapter 465: ’The Most Captivating Green Eyes.’

"What am I going to tell Mother...?"

Hendrix’s footsteps echoed softly through the gilded corridors of the Diamond Palace as he left the ballroom, each step feeling heavier than the last.

The weight in his chest refused to lift.

He’d expected resistance from Heinz—he always did—but some part of him, stubborn and foolish, had held on to the hope that after all these years, his brother’s hatred might have dulled. That maybe, just maybe, time had softened him.

But no.

He had been wrong.

Painfully wrong.

It was disappointing... crushing, even. But could he truly blame his brother?

He thought not.

Still, Hendrix didn’t want to give up—not when his mother’s kingdom still teetered on the edge of ruin. Yet choice had been ripped from him.

Heinz’s words were final, cold and sharp as a blade: If you come back, I will have you and your mother killed.

That left Hendrix with only one path—to find another way to save her people.

He stopped walking.

Something glistened on the marble floor beneath him, faint in the light spilling from the tall crystal windows.

Water.

He frowned at it in confusion—until the truth hit him.

"Oh..."

He was crying.

The realization almost startled him. Hendrix rarely cried; he’d always been the one to keep a straight face, even in pain. For most of his life, he had been happy. There had been no room for tears.

He hadn’t even cried at his father’s funeral. Perhaps he’d never had the chance to process it—not then, not in the whirlwind that followed, not even during the years of solitude in the manor with his mother.

But now... now it was different.

"Fuck." His voice cracked as he swiped at his cheeks, only to find the tears refusing to stop.

He remembered being a boy, tripping over his own feet while running in the palace gardens, scraping his knees and crying openly. His father had been there in an instant, lifting him into his arms with warm, steady hands.

"Hendrix, princes don’t cry. Crying is a sign of weakness, and it’s important people don’t see you as weak, so they don’t see you as an easy target."

Yet the lecture had always been softened—followed by afternoons where his father and mother would sit with him among the roses, pouring tea, laughing, giving him every one of his favorite treats.

That garden had been a place his father built just for them.

And now, it felt like a distant dream.

"Ah... really..." Hendrix’s shoulders shook as another sob broke free. His voice trembled. "How am I going to tell Mother this news...?"

The thought alone made his chest ache.

It would shatter her.

Hendrix felt his chest tighten at the thought—it was as if the very air around him pressed in. The idea alone was enough to make his heart ache, but there was nothing left for him to do.

This was their punishment.

Their repentance.

He drew in a long, steadying breath and wiped the last trace of tears from his cheeks. "I have to leave before he sees me again," he murmured, voice low, unwilling to risk giving Heinz even a second chance to make good on his threat.

But when he lifted his head, his steps faltered.

The gardens were close—just a turn away.

Hendrix blinked, teeth catching his lower lip in quiet hesitation.

’Perhaps stopping by the gardens for a bit... wouldn’t be bad...’

At least he could see them one last time before leaving for good.

He inhaled deeply, trying to calm the tightness in his chest, and began to walk again—this time toward the familiar path.

The cold night breeze brushed against his face as he moved, carrying with it the faint scent of roses and lilies.

’At least he didn’t have it destroyed.’

Stepping through the archway, Hendrix emerged into the palace gardens. Moonlight spilled over the cobblestone paths, casting silver shadows over the glowing blooms that lit up the night like scattered lanterns.

Above, the sky stretched wide and endless, jeweled with countless stars that gleamed like they were trying to comfort him.

It was quiet.

It was peaceful.

And for a moment, he let himself breathe.

Hendrix’s steps were slow, deliberate, as he wandered deeper into the gardens. His fingers trailed along the cool marble railing bordering the path, the texture grounding him as memories stirred in his mind.

He could almost hear laughter—his mother’s soft chuckles blending with his father’s deep, warm voice.

He remembered chasing butterflies between the hedges while his father pretended not to notice the way Hendrix snuck extra pastries from the picnic basket.

His mother would always catch him, pretending to scold him, but her smile gave her away every time.

’Those days... felt like they would last forever.’

But forever had been much shorter than he thought.

He exhaled slowly, closing his eyes for a moment, letting the cool wind push through his hair. The air here still carried traces of those afternoons—sweet, floral, and safe.

Crying.

Hendrix froze, head tilting slightly. ’Someone else is here?’

Prince Florian Thornfield.

’He thinks I’m my brother.’

’He’s drunk.’

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