Too Lazy to be a Villainess novel Chapter 109

Chapter 109: Of Poisoned Dreams and Imperial Bedtime Stories

[Chapter End—A Scene from the Novel Lavinia Transmigrated Into]

[Unknown POV—The Original "Lavinia"]

The garden was quiet.

Too quiet.

Dusk had spilled across the palace in violet shadows, painting the marble statues in hues of mourning. The moon hung low, swollen with secrets, watching like a silent witness. A cold breeze danced through the lavender bushes, their silver-tipped leaves rustling like whispered warnings.

And Lavinia?

She was dying.

She lay sprawled on the dewy grass, her once-rosy lips now trembling with each shallow breath, crimson blooming at the corner of her mouth like a cruel flower. Her fingers clawed weakly at the earth beneath her, trying—failing—to hold on.

"...Why...?" She rasped, her voice little more than a broken thread.

Across from her, Caelum stood frozen.

His face—always unreadable, always composed—now looked carved from marble, but not the calm kind. The cracked kind. The kind that’s about to shatter.

His hand—the one that had held the vial—trembled as he let it fall. The glass hit the stone path and exploded into a thousand glittering shards.

Lavinia flinched at the sound. Her eyes found his.

"You..." she choked, coughing violently. Blood smeared her chin. "You did this to me...?"

She tried to lift a hand to him, her fingers stained red, shaking violently.

"I trusted you... Caelum... You were the only one left. After everyone else... you were the only one I had left! Why?"

Caelum took a step back.

His lips parted. Then closed. Then parted again.

He didn’t move toward her. Didn’t kneel. Didn’t cry.

Only whispered, voice tight with guilt and steel, "I’m sorry, Princess. But you don’t deserve to live... Your death is the only way she—the Grand Duchess—can have peace."

For a moment, silence.

Then—Lavinia laughed.

It was soft. Bitter. And broken.

"So... it’s her again... Always her..."

Her laugh cracked into a cough. Her body twisted with pain.

Caelum looked like he might break.

But he said nothing.

Did nothing.

Her vision blurred. The stars above wavered like melting glass. Her heartbeat slowed—thump... thump... thump...

And then—

A shout.

"LAVINIA!!"

Her head turned, barely.

From the shadows, a man burst into the garden—long golden hair catching the moonlight, crimson eyes burning like wrath incarnate.

"ARREST HIM!" he roared, pointing at Caelum.

Guards surged from behind.

Caelum didn’t run.

He didn’t fight.

He just dropped to his knees, as if the weight of what he’d done had finally crushed him.

Lavinia blinked slowly. Her gaze drifted... and locked onto the figure charging toward her next—

A tall man in black robes. A crown glinting atop his head. A face twisted in panic.

"...Father...?" she whispered.

It was the Emperor.

The cold, distant man who had never once looked her way in all her life—he was running to her now. His eyes were wild. His voice cracking.

It was the first time Lavinia had seen her father run since she was born.

She smiled, faintly.

A tear slid down her cheek.

And then—

Black.

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[Lavinia’s POV—Present Day, The Royal Chamber—Night]

"—UGH!"

I jolted upright, gasping like I’d just drowned and come back from the dead.

Sweat drenched my nightgown. My heart thundered like a war drum, and my hands were clutching the silk bedsheets like they were the only thing keeping me from falling into the abyss.

That garden.That blood.That betrayal.

Why...?Why the hell did I remember that part of the novel out of nowhere?

And not just remember—live it.

It didn’t feel like a dream. It felt like I had been there. As if it was my body lying on the cold grass, my mouth spilling blood, and my heart breaking as the only person I trusted let me die.

My breath caught. I couldn’t move.

Then—

"What’s the matter?"

The voice was soft. Sleep-roughened. Concerned.

I turned, startled—and saw him.

Without thinking, I launched myself into his arms. "Papa..." My voice cracked, as fragile as glass on the edge of shattering.

I buried my face against his chest, squeezing my eyes shut. His heartbeat was steady, calm—real. And yet my mind wouldn’t stop spinning, chasing that nightmare that felt less like a dream and more like... a memory.

I hesitated. How could I tell him? That I watched myself die? That I remembered being someone else entirely? That the pain of betrayal still lingered in my chest like a fresh wound?

That wasn’t just a nightmare.

Of course.

"Once upon a time," Papa began, his voice as deep and serious as a royal decree, "in a kingdom—one not as great as mine—there lived a most radiant young maiden. Her hair shimmered like spun gold, her eyes sparkled like twilight stars, and her heart was purer than the first snow of winter."

I blinked.

That sounded suspiciously familiar.

"But alas," Papa continued, his tone now grim, "her fate was cruel. She was made to dwell among cinders, clothed in soot, surrounded by stepsisters uglier than broken treaties and louder than court jesters on sugar."

I narrowed my eyes. Why does this sound like Cinderella... but in Papa’s version?

"This poor child, whom we shall call... Lady Ashblossom—to preserve her dignity—was mistreated, overworked, and, most gravely, underfed. And she endured it because she was kind."

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