Chapter 146: A Sack of Potatoes in His Arms

Words : 1521 Updated : Oct 3rd, 2025

Chapter 146: A Sack of Potatoes in His Arms [Lavinia’s POV—Emperor Cassius Chamber] I stood up, dusted off my skirts, and turned to Lady Evelyn, who looked like she was about to faint into a hydrangea bush. "Don’t worry, teacher," I said with a dramatic flip of my hair. "I’ll talk to him. I will make sure you get married." She nodded, clearly unconvinced, wringing her gloves like they’d personally betrayed her. Before I could take two steps, Theon popped in from absolutely nowhere like an emotional mushroom. "Please!" he whispered hoarsely, shoving a scroll at me. "Consider this appeal as... a part of her tuition fee. The teacher deserves her wedding. Her love story. Her moment!" I stared blankly at him. "Alright, alright—I get it. Just stop popping out of the hedges, you terrifying gnome." He sniffled and disappeared again. Honestly, he needed a leash. I turned on my heel and made my way toward Papa’s wing. Confident. Composed. Regal. ...Until the universe said no. My foot caught on the hem of my gown—because why wouldn’t it—and suddenly I was airborne. Not gracefully. Not like a leaf in the wind. No. I was headed face-first toward the stone path. "AAHH—MY PRETTY FACE!" I shrieked. "MY FACE IS GOING TO DIIII—" But I never hit the ground. Instead, I was... floating? No, not floating. Dangling. Strong arms were wrapped around my waist—one of them under my ribs, holding me like I was some kind of expensive vase. I blinked down at the large, gloved hand still holding me up. "Wha...?" My feet finally touched the ground again, and I stumbled upright, turning to look at— Osric. "Are you alright, Princess?" he asked, voice soft but firm. His brows furrowed in that endearing, heroic, knight-who-definitely-has-feelings way. I nodded mutely. And only then realized—he was still holding my hand. And I was still blushing like a dumb tomato in lace. "I—I’m fine," I mumbled. "Thank you for saving my face. It’s the most valuable part of me." He smiled faintly. Just a hint. Like a secret. "It is quite priceless," he said, thumb brushing my hand as he let go gently. "But... please be careful next time." Oh. That smile. That stupid, kind, male lead smile. I was melting. Like butter on a war horse. And then— SLAP. "OW!" I yelped, rubbing my hand. Standing beside us, Marshi glared at Osric with the intensity of ten thunder gods. And with his tail, he’d just smacked our intertwined hands apart like a furry mother catching her daughter holding hands behind the temple. He growled lowly, then dramatically snuggled into me like: Mine. MINE. STAY AWAY, SHINY MAN. I cleared my throat. "Okay! Right. Focus. I—uh—I was going to see Papa." I started speed-walking, flustered, until— "Please don’t run, Princess," Osric called gently behind me. "I’d rather not catch you midair again." I waved him off, cheeks still hot. "Alright." I dashed inside. Immediately regretted it. Because the image wouldn’t leave my head. I fell into his arms. Like some heroine in a ridiculous romance drama—except no, it wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t anything like the slow-motion scenes with fluttering veils and tragic violin music. Heroines fall face-first into the hero’s chest. With dramatic gasps. Eye contact. A moment where time stops. Me? I was dangling. Like a sack of confused potatoes. Arms flailing. Hair in my mouth. Skirt trying to eat my knees. And that man—Osric, that brick wall with a jawline—he caught me like I was a chicken trying to fly. "I was dangling," I muttered to myself, stomping past ancient tapestries like they were personally responsible for my embarrassment. Ugh. Focus. *** [Emperor Cassius’s Chamber—Later] KNOCK. KNOCK. I rapped twice on the massive doors of Papa’s chamber, peeked inside, and tried not to look too guilty. "Papa?" He glanced up as he was lying on the bed, holding a goblet of something deep red. Wine, no doubt. Classic tyrant vibes. Midday gloom and fancy alcohol. "Come in..." he said, voice gruff and distracted. I stepped in cautiously, then flopped beside him with the grace of a cat falling off a windowsill. I eyed the wine goblet. Smirked. "So..." I began sweetly, "why are you drinking this early, hmm? Could it be... you’re sad that Theon’s finally getting married?" Papa twitched. "I am not sad," he snapped. "Especially not about that idiot getting married. Why would I be sad about that shrieking, lace-waving disaster getting legally tied to another poor soul?" "Mm-hmm." I leaned my chin on my hand, grinning. "Then why are you drinking like it’s the tragic finale of your favorite opera?" He scowled into the goblet. "Because I felt like it. That’s why. And stop grinning. It’s suspicious." I turned my eyes back to the wine. It shimmered dark and dramatic in the sunlight. Regal. Mysterious. Probably tasted like ancient oak and bad decisions. I leaned closer, eyeing it like a scientist. "...Can I—" "NO." I blinked. Papa didn’t even look at me. Just raised a hand like a prophet delivering divine denial. "I didn’t even say anything!" "You were thinking it. Loudly." He picked up the goblet and moved it further away, like I was some kind of wine-thirsty gremlin. "You are not drinking wine. Not today. Not ever. Not even when you’re eighty." I narrowed my eyes. "That feels excessive." He set the glass down and gave me a look. The kind that made generals run, armies tremble, and me—personally—roll my eyes. "Because," he said slowly, "wine is pathetic. It makes people say things. Stupid things. Emotional things. Things I do not want to hear from my very dramatic daughter." My mouth fell open. "Dramatic?!" He raised an eyebrow. "You just fake-cried in the corridor because your hair got tangled in a flowerpot." "That was one time! And it was a very aggressive flowerpot." He ignored me and leaned back, arms crossed. "I don’t even trust you sober." "Papa!" And then... I huffed and crossed my arms like a girl denied her crown. "Fine. But if I end up being the only girl in the empire who’s never tasted wine, I’m blaming you for my eternal emotional repression." Papa snorted—an actual, honest-to-gods snort. "You? Emotionally repressed? That’ll be the day." I puffed my cheeks, muttered something highly intelligent about tyrants and hypocrisy, and slumped deeper onto the bed with all the dramatic flair of a wilted flower. Then, I glanced sideways at him. He looked... a little more relaxed now. The tension in his shoulders had eased. The ever-present scowl softened just a little. And that’s when I took my shot. "So... why do you really hate marriages, Papa?" His goblet stilled midair. Silence. He sighed, raking a hand through his hair like he was combing through old memories. Then he muttered under his breath: "I don’t hate marriages. I hate love." My brain did a double take. Wait. What? "Huh?! You hate love?" He nodded without looking at me. "But why?" I asked, leaning forward. "It’s not like you ever fell in love... You didn’t even marry anyone!" That’s when he turned to look at me. Really look. And for a moment—just a flicker—I saw something in his eyes. A crack. A memory. A wound that hadn’t fully healed. He didn’t say anything right away. Then finally, in a voice softer than I’d ever heard from him, he said, "I already lost my most precious one because of love." My breath caught. He reached out and gently rubbed my cheek with his thumb, eyes still far away. "I don’t want it to happen again." I blinked. Wait. Lost someone? Because of love? Then... ...Don’t tell me... Someone broke my Papa’s heart?!?! SCANDALOUS. But... I’m the only precious person in his life. He says that all the time. And he’s always been single. A legendary broody bachelor! A one-man storm! A romance-scorning menace! I know all that! So who he lose because of love? I was still spiraling when Papa reached for his wine again. I slapped a pillow dramatically and collapsed onto it with a groan. "Papa, just because you hate love doesn’t mean everyone has to. Let other people fall in love. Break their hearts. Cry dramatically into cake. That’s their right." He raised an eyebrow. "Cake?" "Metaphorical cake," I snapped. "Anyway, if Theon wants to marry Teacher Evelyn, and she’s okay with being stuck with that overgrown toddler for life, then let them! It’s their funeral—I mean wedding." Papa stared at me. Long. Deep. Thoughtful. Then finally, he sighed and muttered the unthinkable: "...Alright." I blinked. "Wait, really?" He nodded once. My heart soared. In two seconds flat, I launched myself into his arms and hugged him tight. "Awwww! My papa is so easy to convince! How do people even call you a broody tyrant?! You’re a cinnamon roll!" He twitched. "I am not a cinnamon roll." "You are," I giggled. "A very grumpy one. With frosting made of sarcasm." He let out the longest sigh in history—but he still patted my head, fingers gentle, his face unreadable but... calm. Maybe even... relieved.

Chapter 146: A Sack of Potatoes in His Arms

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