CHAPTER 510: ’HANDMADE’

"Have you been looking for me, perhaps?"

Hendrix’s tone was teasing, touched with a kind of smug charm that made Florian want to groan. The faint tilt of his lips made it even worse—he looked flattered.

Florian’s jaw tensed, his fingers curling against his sleeves. He wanted to scowl, but the sheer audacity of Hendrix’s expression already had him grinding his teeth.

Hendrix chuckled, a low sound that grated against Florian’s nerves. "Now, don’t look at me like that, please. It’s going to hurt my poor, aching heart."

Florian’s arms crossed tight over his chest, the movement deliberate, defensive.

His voice sharpened as he cut back, "Seriously, I need answers. You suddenly appear in my life, telling me about a past life, and then you just vanish into thin air? Of course I’ll be looking for you."

’This is how the original Florian would probably react right?’

Though, frustration really did simmer beneath his ribs, heavy and hot. It wasn’t just Hendrix’s arrogance—it was the timing.

Hendrix always seemed to show up when Florian least expected him, tugging at threads he had barely begun to understand.

And then—gone. Like smoke slipping through his fingers.

And what infuriated him most was that Hendrix had been useful. The moment Florian realized that, the man had disappeared, as though fate itself was mocking him.

Still, Florian couldn’t deny the truth: Hendrix had done his job.

He had made Cashew forget everything about the "first life," about the truth that the original Florian had died. Because of that, Cashew had returned to being himself again—lighter, happier, free from that crushing burden of knowledge.

But that didn’t excuse everything.

Hendrix moved closer, his steps unhurried, deliberate, as though he knew Florian wouldn’t flee. The air seemed to tighten with every footfall, and yet Florian remained seated, spine stiff against the chair’s back.

He refused to give Hendrix the satisfaction of seeing him retreat.

When Hendrix finally lowered himself onto one knee before him, the sight was jarring—regal poise bent low, his expression softened in apology.

"My apologies," Hendrix murmured, voice low, steady. "I didn’t mean to disappear all of a sudden. But I know my brother can be... sensitive, since his return."

Florian’s eyes narrowed, suspicion flickering in the depths of his gaze. "...Do you know where he has been all this time?"

Hendrix’s shoulders lifted in a lazy shrug, but his eyes gleamed knowingly. "I have no idea. But judging by how he looked... doesn’t seem good, does it? The fact that he didn’t kill me, nor attack me on the spot—didn’t that trigger warning alarms?"

Florian’s breath stilled for a moment.

That was true.

Heinz’s lack of reaction that day had unsettled him, even more so because Heinz had never hidden his hatred toward Hendrix.

The silence, the restraint—it was almost worse than an open strike.

’Now that just makes me more curious about where he was all this time.’

Hendrix leaned just slightly closer, his words heavy with implication.

"And besides," he added, "I had to return to my manor to fetch my mother. She’s here now, in the palace, for your birthday. She’s actually looking forward to meeting you."

Florian froze, every muscle locking in place.

’Monica’s here? He brought Monica?’

His stomach dropped.

Is Hendrix insane?

"In this palace?" His voice cracked with disbelief. "Y-Your mother... your mother?"

The repetition spilled out unbidden, shock stealing his composure.

Monica had never appeared in the novel—not once. Not even mentioned during Hendrix’s execution.

She was a ghost in the story, absent, untouchable.

Besides Anastasia, Monica only haunted the narrative.

And now... she was here?

Hendrix’s smile didn’t waver; in fact, it softened. He nodded. "Considering her brother is attending, I thought it proper to bring her as well. And of course, I wanted her to meet you, since I’ve told her so much about you."

Florian’s fingers curled into his lap, fighting the urge to bury his face in his hands.

’Seriously? He’s out of his mind.’

As much as he wanted to appreciate Hendrix’s unwavering loyalty to the original Florian, wasn’t this going way too far?

And yet... it was almost fitting. Hendrix’s obsession bordered on a devotion that matched the original Florian’s eccentricities.

Perhaps that was why they fit together in a twisted kind of way.

Florian drew in a long breath, forcing calm. "And does His Majesty know?" He caught Hendrix’s gaze firmly. "Look, Prince Hendrix—" he stopped, then corrected with more urgency, "Hendrix. I think we’re both aware that His Majesty... detests your mother."

His voice lowered, tinged with real worry. "Aren’t you concerned he might hurt her in any way? And Athena—what about Athena? She clearly doesn’t know anything about this, I..."

His words trailed off with a sigh. It was too much. Too many strings tangled at once, and all of them ready to snap if pulled the wrong way. This is bringing a whole mess I really, really don’t want to deal with.

Yet Hendrix still smiled, like none of Florian’s dread mattered in the slightest.

"I appreciate your concern for them, Florian," Hendrix said smoothly. "Truly, you have not only a beautiful face, but a beautiful heart as well."

His head tilted slightly as he looked up at Florian, his gaze unwavering, warm to the point of disarming. "But I’m confident my brother won’t do anything."

Florian’s brows drew together. "...How are you so sure?"

Hendrix didn’t answer Florian’s question right away. Instead, his hand slipped into the folds of his coat, deliberate and unhurried, as though he wanted to savor the moment.

His fingers curled around something square and solid.

When he withdrew it, Florian’s heart gave a startled jolt.

A black box—sleek, unadorned, yet disturbingly familiar.

Florian’s breath caught in his throat. It looked almost identical to the one that had once carried the golden rings Heinz gave him.

Only this one was smaller, more intimate in size—like it was meant for something personal.

Something meant to be worn close.

Hendrix held it easily, his thumb brushing across its surface in a slow, thoughtful motion, as if he could feel the weight of what was inside.

"The reason I’m sure," he finally said, his voice smooth, "is because it’s your birthday. My brother won’t do anything today."

Florian blinked at him, incredulous. "That’s your reasoning? You seriously think that’s enough?" His voice cracked, disbelief mingling with anger.

"You said it yourself before—His Majesty doesn’t love me. You said I die because of him. Do you really think the date on a calendar is enough to stop that?"

’What is Hendrix’s game? Seriously? What is he even planning?’

But Hendrix didn’t argue. Didn’t flinch. He only let the silence stretch, heavy and suffocating, as though the truth he carried didn’t need to be spoken.

And then—he clicked the box open.

Florian’s breath stalled in his chest. His eyes went wide. Nestled inside the velvet were golden earrings, polished to a soft gleam, catching the faint light with a warmth that almost seemed alive.

"You..." Florian’s voice wavered, shock threading through every syllable. He knew instantly. Hendrix wasn’t merely showing them—he was gifting them.

Hendrix’s lips curved in that insufferably calm, teasing way. "I can’t believe Drizelous forgot about the earrings for you."

The tone, the way he said it, raised every alarm in Florian’s body. A chill slid down his spine, suspicion narrowing his gaze. His brow arched sharply.

"Wait. Did you... make him forget?"

For a long, loaded heartbeat, Hendrix only stared back at him, unreadable, like a predator waiting for his prey to catch on. And then, slowly—deliberately—his smile deepened.

"Yes."

Florian’s mouth went dry. "Why?"

"So I could give you a pair, of course," Hendrix replied lightly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "They might not be perfect though."

Florian’s eyes flickered back to the earrings. Now that he truly looked, they weren’t as finely crafted as he expected.

There was something... strange about them, something not quite polished, not quite human in their making.

Hendrix caught his look and chuckled softly. "I made them myself."

Florian froze. "No you did not."

"Yes, I did. There’s no reason for me to lie." Hendrix’s tone didn’t waver, and the smile that accompanied it was disarmingly genuine.

’He made them? With his own hands? What the hell kind of man does that?’

And a prince at that.

For the first time, Florian felt an odd flutter—unsettling, disarming. He wanted to reject it, to scoff, to shove the box back into Hendrix’s chest and demand he leave.

And yet... his hand moved, almost against his will, reaching toward the gift.

But Hendrix’s hand shot out, firm yet gentle, stopping him before he could touch it.

"Let me put them on you," Hendrix said softly. His voice wasn’t a command—it was a request, laced with sincerity. "May I?"

Florian froze, staring at him. That genuine tone again... it was the kind of sincerity Florian had always been weak against.

Pitiful, earnest people—he could never bring himself to deny them. And Hendrix, for all his strangeness and secrets, stood there offering a handmade gift like it meant the world.

Unable to summon a refusal, Florian found himself nodding.