Too Lazy to be a Villainess-Chapter 105: The Emperor’s Anti-Cute Shield Failed

[Lavinia’s POV—The Royal Dining Table of Doom, Continued]

My brain was buffering harder than a crystal ball on dial-up.

Papa’s stare hadn’t budged. Not an inch. Not even a blink. At this point, I was 97% sure he’d trained with the Royal Statues on how to glare judgmentally without moving a single eyebrow hair.

And me?

Oh, I was spiraling. Dramatically. Elegantly. Like a doomed opera heroine in a gown made of bad decisions.

Was this the part where he’d pull out a scroll and start reciting my sins like a holy exorcist? Would fire rain from the chandeliers? Would a town crier burst in yelling, "Lavinia of House Dramatis, you stand ACCUSED!"?

I cleared my throat like a Very Innocent Princess™ and attempted the ancient art of Distraction Through Dessert.

"So... um... dessert?"

Nothing.

I offered a polite, hopefully-unbanishable smile. "Would you care for some royal plum pudding, Your Grumpiness? Or maybe a lovely bowl of ’please-don’t-ground-me-for-life’ forgiveness cookies?"

Still nothing.

He leaned back in his throne-like chair—probably carved from the bones of past misbehaving royals—and said, in a tone so regal it made my mashed potatoes rethink their existence:

"I received some news today. From Lionel."

Huh?

News? What kind of news? The ’your daughter has joined a crime syndicate’ kind? Or the ’Lavinia lit the library curtains on fire again’ kind?

And then...

Then he said the words that slapped my soul with a feather duster of horror:

"He told me you called Osric handsome. And—his exact words, not mine—your cheeks flushed pink."

. . .

. . .

. . .

I went full blue screen of death.

Like, no thoughts, head empty, just birds chirping and one lone unicorn tap dancing inside my skull.

EXCUSE ME?

I knew it. I knew Lionel was one of those nosy, drama-hungry palace aunties who could spread gossip faster than a sneeze in a throne room.

Forget 5G. Lionel runs on Witch Wi-Fi.

Papa narrowed his eyes and added with terrifying calm, "I hope... I hope your cheeks flushed because of heat, my dear daughter."

Why does ’my dear daughter’ sound ominous?

Then the STARE.

The SILENCE.

The holy pressure of ten ancestors judging me from heaven.

I swallowed hard. And then—I don’t know what demon possessed me—I decided to tell the TRUTH.

"...No. It’s true. Osric is really... growing handsome, Papa."

I had barely finished the sentence before Papa snapped his head toward Ravick and barked, "Tell Theon to ban Osric from entering the Imperial Palace."

WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAT. BAN? AGAIN?

I choked on my dignity. "WHAT?!"

W-H-Y.

Why would he ban Osric?! Who would I tease?! Who would I emotionally scar with awkward compliments and accidental flirting?!

I gasped, full Shakespeare mode. "Papa... don’t you think you’re going a bit too far?!"

He didn’t even blink. He just went full Final Boss voice and said, "No."

...

NO?!?

I glared at him. He glared back. This was now a Glare-Off. The floor was judging us. Even the mashed potatoes were tense.

UGH. I was such an idiot. I forgot that beneath all that fatherly love and cuddly arms, Papa was also—oh right—the Crazy Tyrant of the Empire.

"But Papa," I tried again, in my most reasonable royal tone. "What’s wrong with praising someone who’s objectively—devastatingly—handsome?"

His jaw twitched. Dangerously. Like, volcano-about-to-erupt levels of twitch."Because," he growled, "that’s exactly how that stupid thing called love starts. And I don’t want my daughter getting involved in that nonsense."

Oh. My. THRONES.

Seriously?!

He was already auditioning for the role of Villain of My Love Life™ and I hadn’t even had my first romantic moment yet! Like—hello?! Not a stolen glance, not a dreamy montage, not even a single slow-motion hair flip! And when, may I ask, did I say I was in love with Osric?! All I did was praise his handsomeness! Which, for the record, is a public service!

That’s it. Desperate times call for the Ultimate Weapon.

The Adorabomb™.

I widened my eyes, dialed up the sparkle, and summoned my cutest, most sugar-drenched innocent face.

"But Papaaa... I only love you."

Cue: Sparkles. Star-shaped stars. Explosions of glitter.

"I’d never love Osric! You’re my number one, my only, my fluffy Emperor of the Universe~"

He looked at me.

Still not convinced.

His eye twitched suspiciously. "Don’t act innocent, Lavinia. Your puppy face doesn’t work on me."

DARN IT.

He’d built immunity!

"But... but... puppy face? What is that, Papa?" I batted my lashes so violently, a nearby candle gave up and flickered out.

Even Marshi—who had been happily licking his plate clean and swishing his tail like a culinary critic in heaven—paused mid-lick to squint at me. His fluffy expression practically screamed: She is guilty, Your Majesty. A sinner. An adorable, fluttering-lashed sinner.

Ravick and Nanny were behind him, visibly struggling—not with duty, but with the monumental effort of not bursting into laughter. Ravick had his fist pressed to his mouth like he was mourning a fallen soldier, while Nanny’s shoulders were shaking so hard she looked like a teapot about to whistle.

Meanwhile, Papa?

He sliced through the air like he was dodging anime sparkles with a royal butter knife. Completely immune. Level 999 Anti-Cuteness Shield.

UGH! WHY WAS HE DODGING MY LOVE MISSILES?!

Time for the final nuke.

"Papa...It’s true," I whispered, clutching my heart dramatically. "I don’t love Osric. I love you the most in the whole world—no, the whole galaxy—no, wait, the entire unicorn multiverse! I’m gonna marry you when I grow up!"

And just like that... Papa paused.

The tyrant melted.

He looked smug. Smugger than a cat on a throne of cream. He raised one brow and smirked. "I see."

Then, as if he’d just unlocked the secret to the universe, he muttered under his breath, "I forgot... My daughter doesn’t even know what love and marriage are yet."

Tch.

Excuse me?

I know everything, thank you very much.

I’ve read five and a half romance scrolls and two forbidden storybooks in my past life, and I once overheard Marella sobbing to her teacup about a man named Lupert. I’m practically an expert.

But still...

This was the only way.

The only method strong enough to crack through the royal titanium that is Papa’s overprotective skull.

So yes.

I had to do it.

I had to throw the ultimate weapon.

Mission: Adorabomb?

Status: Nuclear Success.

Target hit. Ego disarmed. Emperor melting.

I should’ve thrown confetti. Lit fireworks. Declared a national holiday in the name of "Lavinia’s Supreme Tactical Cuteness Victory." Because clearly the bomb had landed, and Papa’s walls had crumbled like soggy royal pastries.

And just look at him now—smirking like he’d conquered the Northern Tribes single-handedly with a butter knife and a grudge. I mean, excuse me? Who let my father be this handsome, this powerful, and this completely whipped by a single pout? fгeewёbnoѵel.cσm

He was a tyrant emperor—feared across continents, the kind who made generals shiver and poets cry—and yet, the moment his daughter called some other guy "handsome," he pulled a full-on soap opera spiral and banned the poor boy from the palace.

Who does that?

Whose father does that?

Oh, right. Mine.

Only my papa could be this gloriously dramatic.

It was strange, wasn’t it? At first, when I landed in this world and became this Lavinia, I braced myself to live like the original one—forgotten, ignored, poisoned by the third act. The typical tragic daughter in a royal tragedy. I never expected attention, let alone affection. I didn’t come here to win his heart.

And yet—he gave it freely.

Despite his stone-carved scowl and scary warlord aura, Papa never once hesitated to be there for me. He didn’t just do the father thing—he lived it. Fiercely. Like he was trying to rewrite the script of his own dark, twisted family history, just so I wouldn’t have to suffer the same.

And now... I get it.

I get what it means to be loved.

In my past life, when I used to stare at other people’s families like they were rare butterflies I’d never be allowed to catch. I used to wonder—what does it feel like to be protected? To be spoiled? To be adored just because you exist?

And now?

Now I know.

And maybe—just maybe—I am a little spoiled. Maybe I’m the universe’s favorite daughter, gifted a grumpy, overprotective emperor for a dad with zero chill and a scary scowl.

And I wouldn’t trade him for anything.

So, without a second thought, I jumped off the chair like a human firework and ran straight to him.

"I LOVE YOU SOOOO MUCH, PAPA!" I squealed, squeezing like my life depended on it.

He blinked—stunned, probably expecting another bribe or pudding request—but then his expression softened into that rare, melt-your-heart smile.

He ruffled my hair like he was trying to mess it into next week and said with all the warmth in the world,

"I love you more, my little monster," he muttered, eyes soft and voice deep.

I giggled like a happy gremlin and buried my face in his robes. The great tyrant of the empire had been defeated—by love, affection, and one dangerously adorable daughter.

He may be a tyrant. But more importantly—he was my papa.

My home.

My world.