Please get me out of this BL novel...I'm straight! novel Chapter 324

Chapter 324: ’Lancelot’s Choice.’

"What do you want?" Lancelot’s voice came out low, controlled, but every syllable dripped with venom.

He stood in the doorway of his quarters, one arm braced against the frame, the other crossed over his chest like armor. His posture was relaxed on the surface, but his muscles were tense—ready to react. His golden-orange eyes narrowed sharply at the man standing before him.

Alexandrius.

His father.

Lancelot hadn’t seen him—hadn’t spoken to him—since the infamous ball. The same night his father tried to publicly humiliate him, sneering about his choices, mocking his failure to become the man Alexandrius envisioned. It wasn’t a confrontation; it had been an execution of character.

So seeing the Duke standing here, now, unannounced and uninvited, set his teeth on edge.

’What does he want now? More insults? A reminder that I’ll never be good enough?’

The familiar sneer was gone, though. Alexandrius was calm. Controlled. That made it worse.

"Your mother is dying."

The words slammed into Lancelot like a blade through his gut.

His breath hitched.

His heart—too fast a second ago—suddenly stuttered in his chest. For a moment, it felt like the entire hallway shifted under his feet.

His eyes widened, his body going rigid. "What?" The word cracked out of him, small and stunned.

He pushed off the doorframe, instinct pulling him upright—almost stumbling as the air seemed to thin around him.

’No. That’s not—he’s lying. He has to be. He’s always lying.’

But Alexandrius wasn’t smirking.

Not yet.

His expression was flat. Cold. Detached in that way only he could manage when delivering soul-crushing news as if it were casual gossip.

And despite every wall Lancelot had built up over the years, despite all the rage and bitterness he carried toward the man in front of him—

That name—"mother"—ripped right through him.

He hadn’t seen her in years.

Not really.

He remembered soft hands brushing through his hair. Remembered lullabies sung too quietly. Remembered the way she used to sneak sugar cubes into his pockets when he was little, smiling behind closed lips so Alexandrius wouldn’t see.

She loved him.

She always had.

But she was powerless. Powerless against her husband, powerless to stop what had been done to Lancelot over the years. She had watched her son be torn apart, and all she could do was cry in silence and look away.

Still—he loved her.

Always had.

"What do you mean by... dying?" Lancelot asked, his voice lower now, rougher. There was no masking the edge of desperation curling beneath the words. "What happened?"

And that’s when Alexandrius finally smiled.

That cruel, familiar smirk returned like a ghost.

"Now you’re willing to hear me out."

Lancelot’s jaw clenched.

His fists followed. He could feel his fingernails biting into his palms.

"Father, I am in no mood for your—"

"For my what?" Alexandrius cut in, voice sharper, louder. "For my theatrics? My cruelty? You forget your place, boy. You do not have the upper hand here."

The cold glint in his eyes was unmistakable now. The same glint Lancelot had seen all throughout his childhood. The one that meant Alexandrius was enjoying himself.

"Like I said—your mother is dying." He stepped forward slightly, arms clasped behind his back, as if this were a business meeting and not the unraveling of Lancelot’s world. "Do you not want to know the details? Or will your pride keep you from even that?"

’He enjoys this. He always has. Even now, with her involved, he still finds a way to make it a game.’

But even Lancelot’s fury couldn’t drown out the pounding fear in his chest.

His mother was dying.

And Alexandrius knew just how to twist the knife.

Lancelot didn’t have a choice.

Not really.

Even as every part of him—his pride, his anger, his entire sense of self—screamed not to engage, not to give in, he stayed rooted to the spot. A statue carved from fury and helplessness.

His jaw clenched so tight it ached. His shoulders were stiff with tension. Yet still, he listened—because beneath all that steel, there was a son begging for a reason to hope.

Alexandrius, ever the master of cruelty, spoke with all the emotion of a man discussing the weather.

"She’s contracted a disease of the blood," he said, like it meant nothing. Like she meant nothing. "The best doctors in the Empire have examined her. The best healers. All useless."

He let the silence stretch, savoring it. Then, with the finality of a hammer striking down on stone, he added:

"They say she has two months. Three, at most. Then—she’s gone."

They crushed him.

’Two months? That’s... that’s not enough. That’s no time at all.’

It felt like the floor had vanished from beneath him, and he was just falling, endlessly, into something dark and cold and wrong.

For her, he would kneel.

For her, he would beg.

That twisted smile stretched across his face, not out of kindness or shared grief, but out of triumph. The joy of a predator who had finally cornered his prey.

’Bastard. He planned this.’

’Here it is. The real reason. The price.’

Lancelot blinked, stunned. "What?" he repeated, voice rising. "No. That’s not my decision. That’s the king’s authority—his alone."

"Then convince him," he said sharply. "You’re the prince’s pet, aren’t you? Use that silver tongue of yours."

The insult didn’t hurt—not really. He’d heard worse. But the command? The audacity?

"Then learn to persuade," Alexandrius snapped back. "Or do you want to explain to your dying mother why you never came to see her?"