Too Lazy to be a Villainess novel Chapter 93

Chapter 93: Petal Court: A Garden for the Girl Who Tamed a Storm

[Lavinia’s Pov]

Ughhhhhhh...

...

Why is the sun in my face?

WHO let it in here?

I did not invite that fiery golden homewrecker to my nap party.

I was in the middle—the absolute, sparkly middle—of the most wonderful, fluffy, marshmallowy nap ever.

There were clouds made of glitter. A mountain made of marshmallows. A pancake with syrup wings flying through the sky, coming straight toward my mouth—AND I WAS JUST ABOUT TO CATCH IT—

When life said: "No snack for you, sucker."

My eyes fluttered open like a malfunctioning butterfly.

Huh?

Why is the ceiling moving?

Why does everything feel like it’s spinning?

Why am I flying?!

I blinked. I squinted. My brain was in lag mode, doing the click-click-click of a chicken trying to play chess. Everything inside me was buzzing like the time I accidentally drank fizzy wine instead of juice—don’t ask—and my soul was like, "HELLO?! SYSTEM REBOOTING!"

And then... I looked down.

Wait a minute.

I wasn’t flying.

I was being carried.

I turned my head slooowly like a sleepy owl and realized I was leaning against something solid... warm... and smelled like angry sandalwood dipped in cinnamon.

That’s when I saw it.

IT WAS PAPA~~~~~

My glorious, terrifying, blood-pressure-raising, unexpectedly handsome, scaaaaaaaaary Papa. Holding me in his arms.

Striding down the palace hallway like a royal thundercloud with a cute bundle of half-asleep chaos (a.k.a. me) tucked against his chest.

WHEN DID THIS HAPPEN?!

Was I yeeted across the universe while I was sleeping?! Did someone launch me like a bedtime cannonball into Papa’s arms?!

"Papa..." I whispered, still very confused about how I got here.

He looked down at me, and just like that—he smiled. Not the scary "someone’s-about-to-be-executed" smile.

The soft one. The gentle, I-love-you-more-than-I-love-conquering-kingdoms smile.

"Did my daughter have a good sleep?" he asked, his voice low and warm like melted chocolate.

I blinked. "Hmmm... I was having a great dream."

He raised an eyebrow. "Let me guess... about cakes and pudding?"

GASP.

"How did you knoooow?! Wait—WAIT—don’t tell me... do you have a mind-reading power?!" I squinted at him suspiciously. "Papa... are you secretly a dream thief?! Are you stealing my dessert dreams to create an imperial menu?!"

Papa chuckled. "A father can always read his daughter’s mind."

"Hmph," I pouted. "That sounds suspicious."

Papa chuckled, and I snuggled deeper into his chest because it was warm and smelled like scary safety. You know. Like being hugged by a thundercloud that wouldn’t strike you—just everyone else.

You know... sometimes I forget how much he’s changed.

From the first day I met him, Papa was like a walking war zone.

The kind of father who could command entire armies with a glare, silence ballrooms with just one breath, and make full-grown generals cry simply by existing.

He was less "dad" and more "living apocalypse in a royal cape."

But now?

Now he carries me around the palace like I’m the most precious cinnamon roll in the imperial oven. Like I’m made of stardust and bubble wrap. Like I’m some kind of limited-edition royal plushie.

He changed so. Freaking. Much.

And who did that?

ME!!!

HAAAAH.

Because only I, Lavinia Devereux, have witnessed the unholy evolution of His Imperial Highness Murder-Face Maximus into the glorious, snuggly, kiss-your-forehead-before-bedtime Papa Fluffington.

And let me tell you something very important—

I. DESERVE. A. DIAMOND. MEDAL.

No.

A crown.

No no no. A BIG. DIFFERENT-COLORED. SPARKLY. CUSTOM-DESIGNED. DIAMOND. CROWN.

I am the legend. I am the myth. I am the six-year-old beautiful miracle who tamed the most terrifying man in the empire!

I shall wear it with pride.

I stared at him with the seriousness of a philosopher princess. "I deserve a castle made of diamonds and gold."

A.K.A. Lavinia Devereux, Princess of the Palace.

***

[Petal Court]

As we turned the final corner, my eyeballs practically exploded with sparkles.

Petal Court.

My. Own. Garden.

MY. OWN. FREAKING. GARDEN.

Papa gently pushed open the tall, arched gates—made of twisty silver vines and roses carved so beautifully I half-suspected they whispered secrets to the moon—and a soft breeze came whooshing out like the entire garden had been holding its breath just for me.

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