Chapter 133: Pluck Out His Sugars

Chapter 133: Pluck Out His Sugars [Lavinia’s Pov] [En Route to Everheart Mansion—Carriage of Royal Expectations and Flammable Tension] The wheels of the imperial carriage rolled over the cobbled road like the sound of fate slowly approaching. Outside the window, the world passed in a golden blur—sunlit trees, lazy hills, noble estates standing tall and elegant like they weren’t all secretly gossiping about one another and mentally competing for ’Best Curtain Color Scheme of the Year.’ But inside the carriage? Silence. Not just any silence. Royal silence. Heavy. Thick. Possibly forged in the underworld by grumpy ancestors. I sat poised—back straight, chin up, tiara perched like it was guarding the Empire’s GDP—and slowly, subtly... glanced at Papa. Sigh. There he was. Still. Silent. Eyes like twin glaciers with a personal vendetta. Arms crossed tight, like he was ready to wrestle the entire Everheart bloodline for daring to exist. Every five minutes, he sighed. Not the normal kind of sigh. No, no. Not the "Ugh, I forgot my schedule" sigh. But the "I am reconsidering diplomacy as a valid form of governance" kind of sigh. Finally—because I value sanity—I broke the ice. "Papa..." He turned to me slowly, like a warning bell had just rung. "Don’t smile too much." . . . . . . I blinked. "Pardon?" His jaw twitched. "At that idiot heir of Everheart. Don’t smile at him." My mouth twitched. "Ah. Yes. I’ll schedule my facial expressions accordingly." He wasn’t done. Oh no. He leaned back, eyes narrowed like thunderclouds were gathering behind them. "And if he tries to release any of those sugar-coated noble-boy compliments..." He paused dramatically. "Pluck out his sugars." . . . I choked. "Hahaha...Pluck out his—Papa!" I laughed—because what else do you do when the literal Emperor of Solstice goes full tyrant over poetic metaphors? "That’s not even a thing! You can’t just—pluck sugar." But Papa’s glare intensified like I’d personally declared war on logic. "I am not joking." Of course not. Of course he wasn’t joking. He was never joking when it came to "idiot heirs," "romance attempts," or anyone under the age of twenty with good hair and ambitions. Suppressing a smile, I slid closer to him, slipped my hand into his, and leaned my head against his arm. "Papa..." I said sweetly, "I love you so much." He didn’t respond for a beat. Then: "Those words should belong to me. And only me." I snorted. "You know, most fathers would cry tears of joy if their daughter said that." "I will cry tears of rage if anyone else makes you say it." "Papa—" He cut me off coldly. "I swear on the crown, if that Everheart boy so much as breathes in your direction with a fond expression—" "What will you do? Outlaw emotions?" I teased. "I’ll outlaw him." I giggled into his sleeve. "You know, for a cold-hearted tyrant, you’re kind of... adorable." He narrowed his eyes at me. "That word is banned." "What, adorable?" "Yes." "Hmm. Guess what you’re being right now?" He said nothing. But his crossed arms crossed harder. Outside, the tall ivory towers of the Everheart estate began to peek through the treetops, glittering in the sunlight like polished ambition. *** [Everheart Mansion—Grand Arrival Courtyard of Elegance and Emotional Ambushes] The imperial carriage came to a smooth stop, the wheels sighing against the polished marble driveway like they were relieved the royal tension inside had ended. A footman approached with military precision, opening the door with a bow so low, I wondered if his back had a second joint. Papa stepped down first—tall, cloaked in silver-trimmed black, with an aura so imperial the weather changed around him. Even the wind seemed to hesitate. I followed with practiced grace—gown flowing like moonlight, pearls shimmering like starlight, tiara balanced like political pressure. Every step was rehearsed, elegant, and weighed with the burden of being admired. The courtyard was already lined with nobles and staff from House Everheart. Trumpets blared somewhere. Flowers floated down like scripted snowfall. The mansion loomed ahead—grand, ancient, and gilded in pride. And then— He stepped forward. Grand Duke Gregor Everheart. Well—Ex-Grand Duke. But honestly? He still walked like the walls of the mansion respected him more than its current heir—Grand Duke Regis. Tall. Distinguished. Hair silvered with age and dignity. Eyes full of memory and storm. His uniform was still polished and still commendable. He bowed low. Deep. Formal. "Your Majesty," he said to Papa. "Your Highness." But before Papa could grunt something cold and diplomatic, I broke ranks. Because protocol is temporary. Grandpas are forever. Especially when you’re seeing him after ages—he usually stays at the borders, commanding distant legions and looking grumpy under snowfall. Letters arrive, and stories float through camp messengers, but this—this was the first time I’d seen him in forever. "GRANDPA!" I cried, skirts rustling as I rushed forward and practically threw my arms around him. Grandpa Gregor startled—blinking like someone had set off fireworks in his ceremonial silence. But then his arms came up, gentle, steady, and strong, and he returned the hug with a pat-pat-pat on my back. "My, my..." he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. "Little Princess... You’ve grown tall." I beamed. "Really?" I asked, like it was the highest compliment I’d ever received. He nodded with a soft chuckle, and I immediately turned to Papa like I’d won a personal battle. "Did you hear that, Papa?" Papa scoffed without missing a beat. "Still shorter than me." Right. It’s Papa. He would rather declare war on poetry than admit I’m growing up. Grandpa Gregor let out a rumbling laugh and looked at Papa, one brow raised. "She still throws herself into hugs, I see." Papa’s arms folded tighter. "She throws herself into many dangerous things. That’s why I’m here." Grandpa Gregor smiled. "Ah. I didn’t know affection was considered a political threat now." "It is," Papa said flatly. "Especially when she’s growing up too fast and smiling at too many Everhearts." I rolled my eyes and leaned into Grandpa, stage-whispering, "This is why Papa’s hair is always stressed." Grandpa smiled, patted my head like I was still five, and turned to Papa with mock solemnity. "It’s good to see you’ve grown up too, Your Majesty." Papa’s jaw twitched so hard, I think even the floor flinched. "Shall we go inside?" Grandpa asked smoothly, ever the diplomat with a wink tucked behind every word. I nodded eagerly. "Yes, please." And with that, the doors to Everheart’s grand banquet hall opened before us—gleaming with golden chandeliers, silk banners, and enough polished marble to make a statue cry. Let the chaos of high society... begin. *** [Everheart Estate – Grand Banquet Hall] I stood at the raised balcony area overlooking the grand banquet hall—the view was stunning: chandeliers like frozen stars, tables dripping in silver and roses, and noble families draped in silk and secrets. And girls. So. Many. Girls. All around Osric’s age... give or take a powdered eyelash. I narrowed my eyes, casually sipping from a crystal goblet of sparkling cider while silently judging every debutante scanning the ballroom for a tall, brooding heir in need of lifelong devotion. Honestly, the way they fluttered their fans and giggled behind gloves—were they here to celebrate Osric or audition for duchess? Papa stood beside me like a frozen monument of intimidation, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the crowd like he expected someone to throw a flirtation grenade. And then... "Well, well," a smooth voice slithered in. "I thought you wouldn’t come." I turned just in time to see Grand Duke Regis—emerging from behind a velvet-draped column like a smirking ghost of arrogance past. Papa didn’t even blink. Regis smiled wider. "At least... you’re here. At my son’s coming-of-age celebration. A little civil courtesy, no?" Papa’s voice was colder than the wine being served. "And yet... I am the Emperor. So don’t tell me what I should or should not attend." Oof. Classic Papa. If icy glares were an Olympic sport, he’d have five golds and a dictatorship. Theon awkwardly stepped forward with his usual too-bright grin. "Maybe, maybe... we can all not argue here?" he offered hopefully. Papa’s head turned. Slowly. Dangerously. "I thought I told you," he said, voice low, "to stay at least ten inches away from my daughter." "I—I am ten inches away from her!" Theon said, stepping back in panic. Papa squinted. Measured with his eyes like a hawk preparing to strike. "You’re eight inches away from her." "I—what?!" I sighed, folding my arms. "Sometimes, I wonder who’s the actual child here." Ravick chuckled behind me, and Grand Duke Regis turned toward Papa. "And what’s this? Why exactly must poor Theon stay away from the princess?" Papa’s eye twitched. Just a little. But it was the kind of twitch that meant doom. "He’s sick," Papa declared. Theon gasped. "I am not sick! I am in love!" Papa scoffed. "Exactly. That’s the same thing." Grand Duke Regis twinkled. Yes. Twinkled. Like someone had whispered a scandal into his wine glass. "Well, well," he said, practically glowing like he’d won a noble lottery. "Finally. The love fairies have landed on the cold marble of the Imperial Palace!" Love Fairies? Did I heard that right? What? What does that even mean? And why is he so excited? Papa turned his head slowly. I swear, the candlelight dimmed. "If I ever see those fairies," he said, voice dipped in menace, "I’ll behead them with my own hands." . . . I sighed, long and dramatic. Am I the only sane one here? I looked around the room. Apparently not. Because the nobles—every single one of them—were standing stiff as marble statues, clutching goblets, fans, and composure like lifelines. They weren’t just bearing this scene. They were surviving it. Visibly. Some looked confused. Most looked terrified. And then— A trumpet sounded. The massive golden doors at the far end of the hall swung open. Finally. Osric Everheart made his entrance. The chatter dropped to a hush. He walked in, poised, composed—dressed in royal navy with silver embroidery that shimmered like starlight stitched into cloth. His hair was neatly swept back, his expression calm—but his eyes? They looked tired for some reason. Quietly worn, like someone carrying a weight no one else could see. And for one breathless moment... they locked on mine. And in that exact instant—his eyes went cold. Too cold. Like winter shutters slamming shut. Like he recognized me... and wished he hadn’t. I didn’t breathe. Not even a blink. Because whatever that look was? It wasn’t royal. It was personal. "Did something happened?" I muttered to myself.