Too Lazy to be a Villainess novel Chapter 112

Chapter 112: Something’s Rotten in the Plotline (and It’s Not the Cheese)

[Lavinia’s Pov]

Since the plot was shifting like a moody monsoon with commitment issues, I made a decision. A firm, noble, princess-level decision.

I would watch Caelum Virell like a hawk.

A hawk in a silk dress.

With a tiara and a divine beast with a violent streak and a dramatic flair for rolling into flower beds.

Because this future traitor?

This emotionally constipated, plot-warping, sword-flipping, cheekbone-flexing disaster of a character?

He was not getting away with anything.

But... there was something else. Something that had been poking at the back of my brain like a child poking a sleeping dragon with a stick.

Marquess Everett was never meant to adopt Caelum.

Not in Chapter 3. Not in Chapter 57, nor in 98.

Not in this timeline. Not in this royal multiverse where I currently ruled the palace snack budget and public opinion.

In the original novel—the one I read, cried over, rage-annotated, and ultimately transmigrated into like some overachieving isekai heroine—Marquess Everett adopted the female lead.

Not Caelum.

Not this guy with the annoyingly beautiful yellow eyes and betrayal aura strong enough to fog up a prophecy mirror.

The FL—bless her tragic little heart—was supposed to be adopted later. Much later. Only after I got banished from the palace and lost my title and she was adopted because she could marry Osric easily.

Caelum’s story?

Totally different. He was meant to suffer.

Raised in the countryside. Dusty. Poor. Morally conflicted. Eventually recruited into the palace knights. Quiet. Loyal. Submissive. Angsty in a poetic way. Eventually became my personal knight with unresolved longing and five volumes of emotional repression.

BUT NEVER—NEVER—Was he supposed to be adopted by the Marquess.

This timeline?

Was illegal.

"I should sue the universe," I muttered darkly under my breath as I watched Caelum from behind a suspiciously large potted fern near the training grounds.

It had been exactly fourteen days since Caelum Virell first stepped foot inside the imperial palace, and I was already developing fourteen new stress wrinkles. (Don’t tell the royal beauticians. They’d panic and throw rosewater at me.)

Currently?

I was stalking him.

Ahem. Monitoring. I was monitoring him.

It’s TOTALLY different, okay?!

I had positioned myself like a professional spy—behind the fern, crouched low, notebook in hand, and Marshi beside me, doing his best impression of a crime-solving sidekick.

He was squinting at Caelum through the leaves.

I was holding his tail because he was way too excited and apparently thought we were playing some kind of royal detective game. (Which we were... I guess. Just with slightly higher stakes. Like treason. And betrayal. And possible sword-related drama.)

We were very professional.

Then—

"What exactly are you doing, Lavi?"

I gasped.

Marshi yelped.

And there stood Osric, holding his sword, eyebrows raised, his face very clearly stuck between concern and, Oh no, she’s doing something again.

I immediately pulled him down behind the fern with me like a totally rational person. "Shhh!" I hissed. "We’re on a mission!"

"A... mission?" he asked, blinking as he tried to right his now-askew breastplate.

"I’m collecting data," I whispered conspiratorially.

"Data?" he repeated slowly.

I nodded, eyes narrowed as I scribbled something in my tiny leather-bound notebook labeled in very aggressive cursive: "Caelum Virell: Suspicious Activities & Possible Weaknesses (Draft 3)"

"Suspicious behavior. Weak points. Possible allergies..." I grinned, tapping my chin. "...to torture him with later if needed."

Osric blinked.

Twice.

"Are you—are you making an assassination spreadsheet?"

"Don’t be ridiculous," I said, mildly offended.

Beat.

"It’s a full dossier."

I flipped the page to show him a color-coded pie chart titled "Likelihood of Betrayal vs. Degree of Handsomeness".

Papa always said, Be prepared.

He meant it for statecraft and treaties.

I took it to mean "track your enemies like a petty, over-caffeinated squirrel with a grudge."

Osric groaned and dropped his head into his hands. "You’re going to start a diplomatic incident."

"I’ll end it in style," I said cheerfully.

Caelum, meanwhile, was sparring like he’d never betrayed me in another life.

Which was insulting, frankly.

"Look at him," I hissed. "All ’look at me, I can flip a sword and control my emotions like a normal person.’ Disgusting."

"You know he’s just doing drills, right?"

"Drills of DECEIT."

Marshi growled in support.

I narrowed my eyes and resumed surveillance. Caelum was swinging his sword under Ravick’s supervision with far too much grace for someone I had mentally classified as Public Enemy #1. I scribbled something in my invisible notebook. Probably "Smirks too confidently = suspicious."

But then—A sting.

Right at the back of my neck.

I turned.

And there he was.

Osric.

Watching me.

Not glaring, exactly. But not... smiling, either.

His brows were drawn just slightly, arms crossed tighter than before. That vague teenage tension in his shoulders? Oh yeah. That wasn’t just the sun in his eyes.

"Wh—what happened?" I asked, blinking.

He looked away. Which was weird. Osric never looked away. Not from me. Not when I was plotting emotional revenge or practicing royal walkovers in the garden.

"Nothing," Osric said. Sharp. Clipped.

Then, a beat later—softly, and with the emotional subtlety of a thundercloud: "Just... I don’t like you watching him like that."

What does that even mean?

Why would he have all that, though?

"W-well..." I stammered. "He’s suspicious, that’s why! I’m doing royal surveillance! For the good of the empire!"

Damn it.

Caelum Virell.Future-traitor. Current smirking menace. Standing far too close, wearing imperial black training gear like a second skin, his hair tousled to strategic perfection, as if the wind itself worked part-time as his stylist.

That smirk had ulterior motives written in glitter ink and sealed with betrayal wax.

Tch.

Ah.

That ancient energy.The ancestral tension.Two teenage boys. One princess. Zero chill.

"I’m sure it does," Osric said, tone dry as the desert. Then, with the calm of someone placing a sword down blade-first, he added, "I look forward to dueling you soon."

Oh wow. We’re already threatening each other?

The plot hasn’t even reached page one!

And then—he turned to me. And turned up the charm to criminal levels.

Friend?

HAH.

I wouldn’t even let him hold my snack plate, let alone my trust.

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