Chapter 93: Petal Court: A Garden for the Girl Who Tamed a Storm

Chapter 93: Petal Court: A Garden for the Girl Who Tamed a Storm [Lavinia’s Pov] Ughhhhhhh... ... Why is the sun in my face? WHO let it in here? I did not invite that fiery golden homewrecker to my nap party. I was in the middle—the absolute, sparkly middle—of the most wonderful, fluffy, marshmallowy nap ever. There were clouds made of glitter. A mountain made of marshmallows. A pancake with syrup wings flying through the sky, coming straight toward my mouth—AND I WAS JUST ABOUT TO CATCH IT— When life said: "No snack for you, sucker." My eyes fluttered open like a malfunctioning butterfly. Huh? Why is the ceiling moving? Why does everything feel like it’s spinning? Why am I flying?! I blinked. I squinted. My brain was in lag mode, doing the click-click-click of a chicken trying to play chess. Everything inside me was buzzing like the time I accidentally drank fizzy wine instead of juice—don’t ask—and my soul was like, "HELLO?! SYSTEM REBOOTING!" And then... I looked down. Wait a minute. I wasn’t flying. I was being carried. I turned my head slooowly like a sleepy owl and realized I was leaning against something solid... warm... and smelled like angry sandalwood dipped in cinnamon. That’s when I saw it. IT WAS PAPA~~~~~ My glorious, terrifying, blood-pressure-raising, unexpectedly handsome, scaaaaaaaaary Papa. Holding me in his arms. Striding down the palace hallway like a royal thundercloud with a cute bundle of half-asleep chaos (a.k.a. me) tucked against his chest. WHEN DID THIS HAPPEN?! Was I yeeted across the universe while I was sleeping?! Did someone launch me like a bedtime cannonball into Papa’s arms?! "Papa..." I whispered, still very confused about how I got here. He looked down at me, and just like that—he smiled. Not the scary "someone’s-about-to-be-executed" smile. The soft one. The gentle, I-love-you-more-than-I-love-conquering-kingdoms smile. "Did my daughter have a good sleep?" he asked, his voice low and warm like melted chocolate. I blinked. "Hmmm... I was having a great dream." He raised an eyebrow. "Let me guess... about cakes and pudding?" GASP. "How did you knoooow?! Wait—WAIT—don’t tell me... do you have a mind-reading power?!" I squinted at him suspiciously. "Papa... are you secretly a dream thief?! Are you stealing my dessert dreams to create an imperial menu?!" Papa chuckled. "A father can always read his daughter’s mind." "Hmph," I pouted. "That sounds suspicious." Papa chuckled, and I snuggled deeper into his chest because it was warm and smelled like scary safety. You know. Like being hugged by a thundercloud that wouldn’t strike you—just everyone else. You know... sometimes I forget how much he’s changed. From the first day I met him, Papa was like a walking war zone. The kind of father who could command entire armies with a glare, silence ballrooms with just one breath, and make full-grown generals cry simply by existing. He was less "dad" and more "living apocalypse in a royal cape." But now? Now he carries me around the palace like I’m the most precious cinnamon roll in the imperial oven. Like I’m made of stardust and bubble wrap. Like I’m some kind of limited-edition royal plushie. He changed so. Freaking. Much. And who did that? ME!!! HAAAAH. Because only I, Lavinia Devereux, have witnessed the unholy evolution of His Imperial Highness Murder-Face Maximus into the glorious, snuggly, kiss-your-forehead-before-bedtime Papa Fluffington. And let me tell you something very important— I. DESERVE. A. DIAMOND. MEDAL. No. A crown. No no no. A BIG. DIFFERENT-COLORED. SPARKLY. CUSTOM-DESIGNED. DIAMOND. CROWN. I am the legend. I am the myth. I am the six-year-old beautiful miracle who tamed the most terrifying man in the empire! Yes. I shall wear it with pride. Papa must’ve sensed my intense, crown-worthy thoughts, because he looked down at me, one eyebrow doing the royal lift. "What are you thinking now, little one?" I stared at him with the seriousness of a philosopher princess. "I deserve a castle made of diamonds and gold." Papa blinked, saying, "I see." I snuggled against him with maximum fluff. Then I tilted my head, like a confused duckling who just waddled into a math exam. "Where are we going, Papa?" "The new garden was prepared," he said, as calm and majestic as ever. "We’re going to look at it." I flinched. Blinked. Then smiled wide enough to make my cheeks squeak. "Wow... so it’s already done?! For real?! Like, fully flowered and everything?" Papa gave a very royal, very proud nod—like he personally planted every petal with the emperor’s approval. I let out the most dramatic sigh in all six-year-old history and slumped against his shoulder. A garden. A whole new garden. Just a month ago, I had dramatically declared—arms spread wide, hair tangled from wind and biscuits—"Papa, I wish we had moooore flowers." And what did Papa do? He destroyed. The. Pond. Yes. The very pond I slipped into like a clumsy potato and nearly became a soggy ghost in. Gone. Obliterated. And in its place? A private garden. Just for me. A.K.A. Lavinia Devereux, Princess of the Palace. *** [Petal Court] As we turned the final corner, my eyeballs practically exploded with sparkles. There it was. Petal Court. My. Own. Garden. Let me say that again in case the universe, the stars, the angels, and possibly the kitchen staff weren’t listening: MY. OWN. FREAKING. GARDEN. Papa gently pushed open the tall, arched gates—made of twisty silver vines and roses carved so beautifully I half-suspected they whispered secrets to the moon—and a soft breeze came whooshing out like the entire garden had been holding its breath just for me. I gasped. Then I gasped again. For drama. And then, a third gasp, just to make sure Papa understood this was a life-changing moment. Petal Court looked like someone had taken a candy shop, a princess’s dream diary, and a sprinkle of fairy glitter and smooshed it all together with love and very expensive landscaping. There were flower beds arranged in perfect little swirls—like candy art straight out of a dessert commercial. Soft pastel petals twirled through the air like nature was throwing confetti in my honor. A tiny waterfall giggled in the corner, with koi fish swimming dramatically, like "look at us, we’re fabulous and expensive!" The stone path twisted and turned like a lazy, daydreaming noodle, leading to a sparkling gazebo with velvet cushions and delicate silver trays holding exactly zero tea. I clutched Papa’s cloak, eyes round like teacups. "Woooowww...," I whispered. "Papa... this is... this is like heaven’s backyard!!" Papa smiled, that soft smile he saves just for me, and I immediately wiggled in his arms like a hyper raccoon so he’d put me down immediately for maximum spinning. He chuckled and set me down gently. The second my tiny boots hit the grass—BAM—I twirled like a ballerina on sugar. "I HAVE A GARDEN!! A PRIVATE. ROYAL. FLOWER ZONE!! A PETAL KINGDOM WHERE I REIGN AS SUPREME FLUFF QUEEN!!!" Just then, Marshi peeked in from behind the gate, his red eyes full of wonder. "Marshi! Come quickly!" I called, flapping my arms. "The fluff empire awaits you!" Marshi gave one mighty hop, his divine tail swishing like it was ready to file taxes, and zoomed inside with the excitement of an innocent tiger discovering a dessert buffet. And then for the next glorious while, Marshi and I peeked at every single flower bed like we were on a royal inspection tour. "Oooooh, this one looks like a fancy skirt!" "Marshi, this one smells like berry pie!" "What kind of flower do you think this is, Marshi?" I whispered seriously. Marshi tilted his head and gave a tiny, confused roar, as if to say: "Master. I am a divine beast. Not a florist." We kept at it. Flower after flower—judging, admiring, and ranking them silently like tiny garden critics. There were so many species that weren’t even in the royal gardens before. Like the pink one that smelled like strawberry. And the blue one that tried to eat my sleeve. (I named that one Gerald.) Then we reached the koi pond. I leaned over dramatically and squinted at the chubby, swishy fish doing underwater pirouettes. "Hmmm..." I whispered to Marshi. "That one’s definitely eating too many snacks." Marshi nodded gravely. We had, quite accidentally, begun fish-shaming. Meanwhile, Papa, who had the audacity to not be joining our flower quest, was lounging in a fancy garden chair under the gazebo. Sipping tea. Like some calm, collected royal dad. Watching me with the softest, proudest smile in the whole entire empire. Honestly? Best day ever. And thus, I, Lavinia Devereux—six years old, Supreme Fluff Queen, flower judge, fish critic, and official tyrant-tamer of the century—did hereby and most fabulously claim my Petal Court. My birthday is in exactly two months, but I guess... Papa went full dramatic mode and gave me a pre-birthday gift. Not that I’m complaining! A magical, swirly, sparkling secret garden? Absolutely the kind of gift a Supreme Fluff Queen deserves. Now, I just hope and pray to all the twinkly stars in the royal ceiling that Papa doesn’t get any more "creative" with my actual birthday present. Because, let’s be real—Papa already gave me a kingdom. And a whole knight squad that plays hide-and-seek with me and that pretends to sneak even when I can clearly see them.