Too Lazy to be a Villainess novel Chapter 180

Chapter 180: Caught in His Net

[Lavinia’s POV—Imperial Palace—Grand Banquet Hall]

A pause. Silence thickened like smoke over the banquet hall.

Then my voice—sharp, steady, thunder wrapped in silk—split it apart: "BUT I WILL RAISE YOUR TAXES TO NINETY-FIVE PERCENT!"

The words crashed through the chamber like a war drum.

Gasps erupted. Fans fluttered and stilled. Golden goblets slipped from jeweled hands and clattered against marble. Faces blanched, powdered cheeks paling whiter than snow. Rings and silks that once gleamed with pride now weighed down trembling fingers.

I leaned forward slightly, a sweet smile curving my lips, though my crimson eyes gleamed with something far crueler.

"Consider it... a reminder. Next time, the cost will not be coin, but your heads."

The nobles recoiled, some swaying as though the air itself had turned poisonous.

Then—like a ripple in a pond—they folded. Robes rustled, knees bent, and crowns of arrogance dipped low.

"Princess... please reconsider the decision... Princess, mercy!"

"Princess... please... reconsider the decision..."

"Princess, mercy!"

"Reconsider?" My voice slid through the air, soft, almost curious. I tilted my head, letting the silence stretch until their own heartbeats became a thunder in the chamber. "You would rather I reconsider your coin... than your treachery?"

A ripple of unease shivered through the room. Their lips flapped like fish gasping on dry stone.

And then, from behind me, I heard Grand Duke Regis whisper to Papa, "I am realizing... you were more merciful than her."

Papa smirked, eyes glinting. "I suppose those people were right... your children surpass you in everything."

I turned slightly, lips curving into a smile that wasn’t a smile at all. "Papa, what are you saying? I am very merciful. Can you not see? I haven’t killed them yet. Is that not mercy enough?"

Papa blinked, taken aback, before smirking in return. "Ah. You’re right. This is... a far greater mercy."

A gasp rippled through the hall, the nobles clutching at one another like frightened sheep.

I stepped forward, heels clicking sharply against the marble, each step tightening the noose around their fear. My eyes swept across their bowed heads.

"But..." my voice softened, dangerous in its calm, "I am a good princess. And good rulers... give their subjects chances." I let the words hang like a blade above their necks.

"So I will grant you one chance. If the traitor among you has even a shred of courage... let them step forward now. Kneel before me—and I will erase what I have declared today."

Their eyes darted wildly from one face to another, desperate for someone—anyone—to move. No one dared.

I laughed—low, sharp, and merciless. "See? I gave you your chance. And you squandered it. So listen well: until the traitor kneels before me, your tax will remain at ninety-five percent. Your wealth will wither, your power will starve... until the guilty one crawls to my feet."

Gasps. Panic. Whispers, muffled sobs.

I turned, skirts sweeping, never once looking back. The weight of my words smoldered in the silence.

And then, without faltering, I declared:

"THE PARTY IS OVER."

***

[Next Morning—Elorian Empire, Capital City]

The city did not wake to birdsong.

It woke to the shrill cries of newspaper boys, their voices cutting through the morning fog like blades.

"NINETY-FIVE PERCENT TAX!""PRINCESS’S COMING-OF-AGE TURNS INTO NIGHTMARE!""CHILD OR TYRANT? THE PEOPLE DEMAND ANSWERS!"

Every stall, every café, every street corner trembled beneath the weight of black-ink headlines. Sheets fluttered in the air like storm-tossed wings.

"ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT ON THE EMPEROR’S BLOOD!""WHO DARED PUSH THE PRINCESS FROM THE BALCONY?"

Illustrations smeared in hurried ink filled the papers—her golden hair, her eyes like burning coals, her chin lifted above kneeling nobles. Some papers painted her as a savior, the people’s champion; others, as a silk-draped monster.

Merchants cheered over steaming mugs of bitter coffee, slamming their palms against wooden tables.

"About time someone bled those leeches dry!" one must’ve barked, laughter ringing as coins clinked in his fist.

But behind velvet curtains, the nobility seethed. Crystal shattered against marble floors. Letters were ripped apart, ink splattered like blood across polished desks. And in the shadows, hands began to move—plotting, whispering, sharpening knives that would not miss the next time.

That’s what is happening in the empire... according to sera--my new lady-in-waiting.

And meanwhile, me?

"Don’t you think you’re enjoying it a little too much, Lavi?"

The voice brushed against the shell of my ear like silk, so sudden and close that I gasped, nearly stumbling.

"There should be another headline tomorrow," he drawled, amusement glittering in his eyes. "The Tyrant Princess terrorized by hushed voices."

I narrowed my eyes at him, squinting. "Are you enjoying yourself?"

My pulse stuttered. Heat climbed up my cheeks—no, not a blush. Absolutely not. It was just hot. Very hot. Because this man was far too close. Far too daring. Far too... Osric.

Saints preserve me. WHY DOES THIS MAN LOOK HOTTER AFTER YESTERDAY?! Is there a curse that makes men more handsome and more annoying after they confess?

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