Too Lazy to be a Villainess novel Chapter 133

Chapter 133: Pluck Out His Sugars

[Lavinia’s Pov]

[En Route to Everheart Mansion—Carriage of Royal Expectations and Flammable Tension]

The wheels of the imperial carriage rolled over the cobbled road like the sound of fate slowly approaching.

Outside the window, the world passed in a golden blur—sunlit trees, lazy hills, noble estates standing tall and elegant like they weren’t all secretly gossiping about one another and mentally competing for ’Best Curtain Color Scheme of the Year.’

But inside the carriage?

Silence.

Not just any silence.

Royal silence.

Heavy. Thick. Possibly forged in the underworld by grumpy ancestors.

I sat poised—back straight, chin up, tiara perched like it was guarding the Empire’s GDP—and slowly, subtly... glanced at Papa.

Sigh.

There he was. Still. Silent. Eyes like twin glaciers with a personal vendetta. Arms crossed tight, like he was ready to wrestle the entire Everheart bloodline for daring to exist.

Every five minutes, he sighed.

Not the normal kind of sigh. No, no.

Not the "Ugh, I forgot my schedule" sigh.

But the "I am reconsidering diplomacy as a valid form of governance" kind of sigh.

Finally—because I value sanity—I broke the ice.

"Papa..."

He turned to me slowly, like a warning bell had just rung. "Don’t smile too much."

. . .

. . .

I blinked. "Pardon?"

His jaw twitched. "At that idiot heir of Everheart. Don’t smile at him."

My mouth twitched. "Ah. Yes. I’ll schedule my facial expressions accordingly."

He wasn’t done. Oh no. He leaned back, eyes narrowed like thunderclouds were gathering behind them. "And if he tries to release any of those sugar-coated noble-boy compliments..." He paused dramatically. "Pluck out his sugars."

. . .

I choked. "Hahaha...Pluck out his—Papa!"

I laughed—because what else do you do when the literal Emperor of Solstice goes full tyrant over poetic metaphors? "That’s not even a thing! You can’t just—pluck sugar."

But Papa’s glare intensified like I’d personally declared war on logic.

"I am not joking."

Of course not.

Of course he wasn’t joking.

He was never joking when it came to "idiot heirs," "romance attempts," or anyone under the age of twenty with good hair and ambitions.

Suppressing a smile, I slid closer to him, slipped my hand into his, and leaned my head against his arm.

"Papa..." I said sweetly, "I love you so much."

He didn’t respond for a beat.

Then: "Those words should belong to me. And only me."

I snorted. "You know, most fathers would cry tears of joy if their daughter said that."

"I will cry tears of rage if anyone else makes you say it."

"Papa—"

He cut me off coldly. "I swear on the crown, if that Everheart boy so much as breathes in your direction with a fond expression—"

"What will you do? Outlaw emotions?" I teased.

"I’ll outlaw him."

I giggled into his sleeve. "You know, for a cold-hearted tyrant, you’re kind of... adorable."

He narrowed his eyes at me. "That word is banned."

"What, adorable?"

"Yes."

"Hmm. Guess what you’re being right now?"

He said nothing. But his crossed arms crossed harder.

Outside, the tall ivory towers of the Everheart estate began to peek through the treetops, glittering in the sunlight like polished ambition.

***

[Everheart Mansion—Grand Arrival Courtyard of Elegance and Emotional Ambushes]

The imperial carriage came to a smooth stop, the wheels sighing against the polished marble driveway like they were relieved the royal tension inside had ended. A footman approached with military precision, opening the door with a bow so low, I wondered if his back had a second joint.

Papa stepped down first—tall, cloaked in silver-trimmed black, with an aura so imperial the weather changed around him. Even the wind seemed to hesitate.

I followed with practiced grace—gown flowing like moonlight, pearls shimmering like starlight, tiara balanced like political pressure. Every step was rehearsed, elegant, and weighed with the burden of being admired.

The courtyard was already lined with nobles and staff from House Everheart. Trumpets blared somewhere. Flowers floated down like scripted snowfall. The mansion loomed ahead—grand, ancient, and gilded in pride.

And then—

He stepped forward.

Grand Duke Gregor Everheart.

Well—Ex-Grand Duke. But honestly? He still walked like the walls of the mansion respected him more than its current heir—Grand Duke Regis.

Tall. Distinguished. Hair silvered with age and dignity. Eyes full of memory and storm. His uniform was still polished and still commendable.

He bowed low. Deep. Formal.

"Your Majesty," he said to Papa. "Your Highness."

But before Papa could grunt something cold and diplomatic, I broke ranks.

Because protocol is temporary. Grandpas are forever. Especially when you’re seeing him after ages—he usually stays at the borders, commanding distant legions and looking grumpy under snowfall. Letters arrive, and stories float through camp messengers, but this—this was the first time I’d seen him in forever.

"GRANDPA!" I cried, skirts rustling as I rushed forward and practically threw my arms around him.

Grandpa Gregor startled—blinking like someone had set off fireworks in his ceremonial silence. But then his arms came up, gentle, steady, and strong, and he returned the hug with a pat-pat-pat on my back.

"My, my..." he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. "Little Princess... You’ve grown tall."

I beamed. "Really?" I asked, like it was the highest compliment I’d ever received.

He nodded with a soft chuckle, and I immediately turned to Papa like I’d won a personal battle. "Did you hear that, Papa?"

Papa scoffed without missing a beat. "Still shorter than me."

Right. It’s Papa. He would rather declare war on poetry than admit I’m growing up.

***

[Everheart Estate – Grand Banquet Hall]

Oof. Classic Papa.

"I—I am ten inches away from her!" Theon said, stepping back in panic.

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