Too Lazy to be a Villainess
Chapter 109: Of Poisoned Dreams and Imperial Bedtime Stories

Chapter 109: Of Poisoned Dreams and Imperial Bedtime Stories

[Chapter End—A Scene from the Novel Lavinia Transmigrated Into]

[Unknown POV—The Original "Lavinia"]

The garden was quiet.

Too quiet.

Dusk had spilled across the palace in violet shadows, painting the marble statues in hues of mourning. The moon hung low, swollen with secrets, watching like a silent witness. A cold breeze danced through the lavender bushes, their silver-tipped leaves rustling like whispered warnings.

And Lavinia?

She was dying.

She lay sprawled on the dewy grass, her once-rosy lips now trembling with each shallow breath, crimson blooming at the corner of her mouth like a cruel flower. Her fingers clawed weakly at the earth beneath her, trying—failing—to hold on.

"...Why...?" She rasped, her voice little more than a broken thread.

Across from her, Caelum stood frozen.

His face—always unreadable, always composed—now looked carved from marble, but not the calm kind. The cracked kind. The kind that’s about to shatter.

His hand—the one that had held the vial—trembled as he let it fall. The glass hit the stone path and exploded into a thousand glittering shards.

Lavinia flinched at the sound. Her eyes found his.

"You..." she choked, coughing violently. Blood smeared her chin. "You did this to me...?"

She tried to lift a hand to him, her fingers stained red, shaking violently.

"I trusted you... Caelum... You were the only one left. After everyone else... you were the only one I had left! Why?"

Caelum took a step back.

His lips parted. Then closed. Then parted again.

He didn’t move toward her. Didn’t kneel. Didn’t cry.

Only whispered, voice tight with guilt and steel, "I’m sorry, Princess. But you don’t deserve to live... Your death is the only way she—the Grand Duchess—can have peace."

For a moment, silence.

Then—Lavinia laughed.

It was soft. Bitter. And broken.

"So... it’s her again... Always her..."

Her laugh cracked into a cough. Her body twisted with pain.

Caelum looked like he might break.

But he said nothing.

Did nothing.

Her vision blurred. The stars above wavered like melting glass. Her heartbeat slowed—thump... thump... thump...

And then—

A shout.

"LAVINIA!!"

Her head turned, barely.

From the shadows, a man burst into the garden—long golden hair catching the moonlight, crimson eyes burning like wrath incarnate.

"ARREST HIM!" he roared, pointing at Caelum.

Guards surged from behind.

Caelum didn’t run.

He didn’t fight.

He just dropped to his knees, as if the weight of what he’d done had finally crushed him.

Lavinia blinked slowly. Her gaze drifted... and locked onto the figure charging toward her next—

A tall man in black robes. A crown glinting atop his head. A face twisted in panic.

"...Father...?" she whispered.

It was the Emperor.

The cold, distant man who had never once looked her way in all her life—he was running to her now. His eyes were wild. His voice cracking.

It was the first time Lavinia had seen her father run since she was born.

She smiled, faintly.

A tear slid down her cheek.

And then—

Black.

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[Lavinia’s POV—Present Day, The Royal Chamber—Night]

"—UGH!"

I jolted upright, gasping like I’d just drowned and come back from the dead.

Sweat drenched my nightgown. My heart thundered like a war drum, and my hands were clutching the silk bedsheets like they were the only thing keeping me from falling into the abyss.

That garden.That blood.That betrayal.

Why...?Why the hell did I remember that part of the novel out of nowhere?

And not just remember—live it.

It didn’t feel like a dream. It felt like I had been there. As if it was my body lying on the cold grass, my mouth spilling blood, and my heart breaking as the only person I trusted let me die.

My breath caught. I couldn’t move.

Then—

"What’s the matter?"

The voice was soft. Sleep-roughened. Concerned.

I turned, startled—and saw him.

Papa.

He sat up beside me, eyes blinking blearily, hair tousled from sleep. The moonlight cast a gentle glow on his features, illuminating the crease of worry between his brows.

Without thinking, I launched myself into his arms. "Papa..." My voice cracked, as fragile as glass on the edge of shattering.

He didn’t hesitate. His arms closed around me instantly, warm and firm, grounding me. He held me tight like he could feel the storm I was barely holding in.

His hand stroked gently through my hair, again and again. "Shh... it’s okay, sweetheart," he murmured. "It’s okay. I’ve got you."

I buried my face against his chest, squeezing my eyes shut. His heartbeat was steady, calm—real. And yet my mind wouldn’t stop spinning, chasing that nightmare that felt less like a dream and more like... a memory.

He whispered again, "Did you have a nightmare?"

I nodded slowly, not trusting my voice. "Yes... Papa," I finally managed, my voice small. "But... it didn’t feel like a normal dream. It felt... too real."

He leaned back slightly to look at me, brushing hair from my damp forehead. "What was it about?" he asked softly.

I hesitated. How could I tell him? That I watched myself die? That I remembered being someone else entirely? That the pain of betrayal still lingered in my chest like a fresh wound?

"I... I don’t know," I lied. "It’s all jumbled... but I—I felt like I was really there. Like I was someone else... and I was dying."

Papa’s expression faltered. Just for a second. Then he kissed the top of my head.

"Nightmares feel like that sometimes," he said gently, though his voice was tighter than before. "The mind can play cruel tricks on us when we sleep."

I didn’t respond. I just clung to him tighter, pressing myself into his warmth like I could escape the chill of that garden and the feel of death on my skin.

I didn’t know why, but something deep inside me whispered—

That wasn’t just a nightmare.

Then, Papa smoothed the blanket over me gently, his expression carved with concern. "Shall I tell you a tale, my little one?" he asked in that deep, imperial voice.

"A tale?" I whispered, unsure if I had heard correctly.

"A bedtime tale," he clarified, with the dignified air of a man bestowing royal favors. "An old tale. One I rarely speak of."

I blinked. "You... know bedtime tales, Papa?"

"I am the Emperor," he replied gravely. "I know everything."

Of course.

He cleared his throat and began—as if issuing an official proclamation.

"Once upon a time," Papa began, his voice as deep and serious as a royal decree, "in a kingdom—one not as great as mine—there lived a most radiant young maiden. Her hair shimmered like spun gold, her eyes sparkled like twilight stars, and her heart was purer than the first snow of winter."

I blinked.

That sounded suspiciously familiar.

"But alas," Papa continued, his tone now grim, "her fate was cruel. She was made to dwell among cinders, clothed in soot, surrounded by stepsisters uglier than broken treaties and louder than court jesters on sugar."

Wait.

I narrowed my eyes. Why does this sound like Cinderella... but in Papa’s version?

Papa carried on, completely unaware of my growing suspicion. Or ignoring it.

"This poor child, whom we shall call... Lady Ashblossom—to preserve her dignity—was mistreated, overworked, and, most gravely, underfed. And she endured it because she was kind."

His voice curled around the word kind like it was a curse.

"One day, a royal ball was announced by a prince." He practically spat the word. "A soft-handed fool who believed true love could be found by staring at someone for three minutes and waltzing poorly."

"...Papa."

"Hush," he commanded gently, patting my head like I was a kitten interrupting a war council. "This prince, who clearly had no counsel, declared that whichever maiden caught his eye would become his bride. He sent out invitations without background checks. No bloodlines, no political alliance—just who looks prettiest in candlelight."

He exhaled. Cold. Imperial. Judging the prince across realms.

"Lady Ashblossom—our unfortunate maiden—was visited by a sorceress. Elderly. Dressed like a curse. But she gave the girl a gown, some impractical shoes made of glass, and a carriage grown from a vegetable."

His brow twitched. "A vegetable. They expected her to enter a royal court in produce."

I didn’t dare laugh. He looked genuinely offended on her behalf.

"She went to the palace. The prince saw her. And, as expected of a man led more by his hormones than his advisors, he declared her the one. Without learning her name."

Papa turned to me, voice low and dangerous. "Never trust a man who loves you without knowing what you’ve survived."

I swallowed. "Yes, Papa."

"At midnight she fled. Smart girl. But in her haste, she left behind a shoe. And what did the prince do?" His expression was thunderous. "He sent men to shove that shoe onto every woman’s foot in the land. No security. No questions. Just—try this on. As if the kingdom were a shoe store and he’d misplaced his favorite pair."

"...Papa—"

"Eventually," Papa continued, "Lady Ashblossom was found. But when the prince proposed, she looked him dead in the eyes and said—" he leaned forward, voice deep as thunder, "’You fell in love with a shoe. I shall not marry a man who sees me as an accessory.’ Then she turned around and walked away, barefoot, like a sovereign."

"...That’s not how the story goes," I whispered.

"It is now," Papa replied coldly. "I am the Emperor."

I blinked.

"...And what happened to her stepfamily?"

"Tried and convicted. Sentenced to ten years of hard labor and mandatory etiquette lessons."

"And the prince?"

"He was last seen weeping into a lace curtain and composing poetry about feet. I banned it from entering our libraries."

I blinked again. "Was there... no romance at all?"

Papa met my gaze, unblinking. "The only love a woman should trust is from her father. All else must be interrogated."

"...Papa, are you rewriting fairytales?"

"The end," Papa concluded grandly, he smiled proudly as though he’d just delivered a national address.

"...Wow," I whispered. "You really twisted the entire fairytale papa."

Papa nodded proudly. "I improved it."

I stared at him. Speechless.

"Sleep now," he whispered, voice like velvet wrapped around steel. "Dream not of foolish princes, but of your father’s kingdom — where none shall harm you, and no man shall come within ten feet without a written petition... and three background checks."

I closed my eyes, a smile tugging at my lips. Papa may not have been the best storyteller...But in that moment, wrapped in his arms, guarded by his impossible rules and tyrannical affection—

I had never felt safer.

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