[Lavinia’s Pov]
My life as Lavinia Devereux was going remarkably well.
Suspiciously well.
I an, for a girl who was originally ant to be ignored, poisoned, banished, and erased from royal history like a particularly inconvenient typo—I was thriving.
From "dustbin princess" to spoiled imperial treasure, from Reina Suzuki, tragic salarywoman, to Lavinia Devereux, heir apparent and national obsession—I had scaled the royal ladder, climbed over fate’s script, and kicked emotional trauma in the shins on the way up.
Sure, once upon a ti, I’d accepted my fate.
I looked the original plot square in its smug, cruel face and said, "Fine. Kill gently with poisoned tea; just don’t toss off a balcony or make die in an ugly dress."
But alas.
The plot?
It was spiraling.
Violently. Chaotically. Hilariously.
I, the character who should’ve been neglected, was now practically palace royalty wrapped in a silk bow. No, scratch that—I am royalty. People gossiped about like I was the empire’s most beloved scandal. I was on the cover of every noble gossip scroll.
Even I wanted to be .
And let’s be honest—I was thriving.
And the plot?
Oh, the plot was being roasted on a spit.
Take Osric, for example. The male lead was originally destined to lose his father—the Grand Duke Regis—at the age of eight and grow up broody and battle-scarred.
Reality: His father is still alive and giving unsolicited parenting advice to Papa. anwhile, Osric is glowing, handso, and on track to beco the empire’s most eligible war general (if a war even happens).
And then there’s Papa.
The original script described him as a terrifying, tyrannical, emotionally distant emperor.
Reality: Still terrifying. Still tyrannical. But now he has a soft spot the size of the empire for his adorable, clever, devastatingly beautiful daughter (). He installed a mini throne beside his. He has a dedicated "Lavinia snack budget." He once threatened to fire the palace chef because the custard wasn’t soft enough for my taste.
And as for my engagent to Osric?
Yeah... about that.
It was supposed to be politically arranged by now.
Current Status: Nonexistent. Zero talks. Zilch. Nada. I have more serious conversations with Marshi than I do about marriage. The palace avoids the M-word like it’s a cursed artifact. Papa glares at anyone who so much as breathes "betrothal."
So, yes. Things have changed.
I have power.
I have love.
I have snacks delivered hourly.
And yet...
WHY....WHY. THE. HELL. ARE CAELUM VIRELL AND MARQUESS EVERETT HERE?
Every ti I see them, my inner voice screams, Pluck their teeth out one by one and feed them to the palace ducks.
(We don’t have ducks yet. But we could. I might pass a decree.)
Marquess Everett = Plot’s favorite villain.
Caelum Virell = Future traitor.
= Their designated chew toy.
And now?
Now they were standing before in the throne room, like nothing was wrong. Like they won’t be trying to script my tragic ending.
Caelum, unfortunately, was still disgustingly divine-looking at this early age. All cheekbones, sharp jawline, and the kind of aura that made goddesses drop their scrolls.
Even the moonlight looked at him and went, "Ugh, fine, I’ll glow a little harder."
But I wasn’t swooning.
I was boiling.
He bowed low, his voice like silk soaked in venom. "Greetings to Her Highness."
Oh, he bows. How polite.
I didn’t respond.
I just squinted at him, sitting beside Papa on my honorary mini throne, sipping on peach juice with enough quiet nace to lt iron.
Marquess Everett stood beside him, trying to look neutral. Which, in his case, ant he looked like he was one minute away from hurling a chandelier at .
My fingers twitched.
Should I...order Marshi to jump on Caelum and use him as a mattress?
Or better—should I execute him? I wondered briefly.
I an, it’s not like I’d do it myself. That would be unladylike. But one tear. Just one—sparkly, well-tid sob, paired with a quiver of my lower lip, and Papa would personally catapult him into the sun before dessert.
But....
Unfortunately—and tragically—I couldn’t misuse my power.
Not that I hadn’t considered it. But alas, personal growth was a thing now. Gross.
Before I could indulge in further royal revenge fantasies, Papa spoke.
His voice was cold. So cold, the temperature in the throne room dropped a full three degrees.
"Why are you here, Marquess?" Papa asked, tone soft as silk and twice as dangerous. "Do you mistake the Imperial Palace for a museum you may wander into on a whim?"
Oof.
Direct hit.
I tried not to beam. Papa was in savage mode today. My favorite.
Marquess Everett, ever the political snake in embroidered brocade, pulled out that smile—the one that made his face cramp and everyone else’s stomachs churn.
"My sincerest apologies, Your Majesty," he said, his voice dripping with syrupy politeness that made my teeth ache. "I did not an to arrive unannounced. I rely wished to offer my deepest gratitude... on behalf of my son, Caelum."
I blinked.
Huh?
Gratitude?For what?
Was it for the trauma he inflicted on the original Lavinia?The betrayal arc?The poisoned tears?The—
"As you’ve graciously permitted," the Marquess continued, all smug sparkle and well-rehearsed charm, "Caelum will begin his sword training under the tutelage of the Imperial Swordmaster Ravick from this week."
...
...
I choked on my peach juice.
Did I hear that right? Training. Here. In my ho. Where I reign with snacks and sarcasm?
"He shall receive his instruction here," Marquess Everett added proudly, as if he’d just donated to an orphanage and not, you know, delivered the future traitor into our marble-floored.
I turned. Slowly. chanically. Like a wind-up doll possessed by fury.
Caelum was bowing.Elegant. Respectful.Like he hadn’t once watched die (fictionally) and walked away like he forgot to water a plant.
"I look forward to serving under the Imperial discipline, Your Majesty," Caelum said.
His voice was velvet—rich, calm, arrogant. Like he knew full well the number of fan clubs he probably had.
Then his eyes flicked up—to .
Just for a second.
And I swear on all things royal—He. Smirked.
THIS MAN.This perfectly sculpted, betrayal-scented, sharp-jawed disaster in human form—Was going to train.
HERE.
Oh no.No no no.Absolutely not.
I looked at Papa—silently begging.
Papa, please. He’s a walking red flag! An illustrated warning poster! Do you not feel the plot twist energy radiating off him?!
Papa didn’t look thrilled either. His fingers drumd once on the carved lion head of his throne—a sound that usually preceded war declarations and economic collapse.
"Very well," Papa said curtly. "But be warned, Marquess—my palace is not a playground. If your son missteps once—even slightly—"
He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to. Even the shadows in the room flinched.
Caelum only bowed lower, composed as ever. "Understood, Your Majesty."
Tch.Look at him.All respectful posture and stormy eyes.I bet he journals in the moonlight and writes passive-aggressive haikus about swords.
Then—Marquess Everett had the audacity to turn to .
Like he’d just rembered I existed. Which was hilarious, considering I was sitting literally next to the Emperor on a raised dais with fruit in my lap like a benevolent goddess of judgnt.
"And to Her Highness," he said, bowing again. "My son is honored to train under the sa roof. I’m certain you’ll find him... agreeable."
I narrowed my eyes.
That tone.
That fake-fond, overly polished diplomatic tone.
He was hiding sothing. There was politics behind that smile, and I didn’t like it. It slled like sches.
Suspicious. Very suspicious.
I smiled back. Tight. Sweet. With all the warmth of an ice dagger.
"Oh, I’m sure I’ll find him... sothing."
Caelum’s eyes t mine again. And this ti—I didn’t just glare.
No.
I weaponized it.
I threw a full-blown, maximum-capacity, death-glare-turned-laser-beam straight at his perfectly symtrical face.
KZZZAAAAKKKKKK.
That was the sound of my eyeball fury cannon firing.
Everyone else in the throne room saw an elegant princess sitting quietly on a velvet seat beside her emperor father.
But Caelum?Caelum saw war.He saw rage incarnate in tiara form.
You future-traitor-bastard, I scread silently in fluent Princess Rage Language internally, you make one wrong move—and I will personally launch you out of this palace like a confetti cannon on judgnt day.
He blinked.
And then—He smiled.
A small one. Barely there.
BUT I SAW IT.
Smug little drama prince.
Which only made lean forward just slightly on the throne, tilt my head, and channel the full force of my royal aura into one singular, unspoken promise:
You. Touch. A single. Thread of destiny—and I swear on my fruit platter, I will show you who the hell I am.
Silence settled in the throne room.
Even the guards looked tense, like they felt sothing cosmic shift. And Papa, he just glanced at and gave that look—the very specific one that said:
"What’s wrong with her again?"
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