CHAPTER 180: CAUGHT IN HIS NET

[Lavinia’s POV—Imperial Palace—Grand Banquet Hall]

A pause. Silence thickened like smoke over the banquet hall.

Then my voice—sharp, steady, thunder wrapped in silk—split it apart: "BUT I WILL RAISE YOUR TAXES TO NINETY-FIVE PERCENT!"

The words crashed through the chamber like a war drum.

Gasps erupted. Fans fluttered and stilled. Golden goblets slipped from jeweled hands and clattered against marble. Faces blanched, powdered cheeks paling whiter than snow. Rings and silks that once gleamed with pride now weighed down trembling fingers.

I leaned forward slightly, a sweet smile curving my lips, though my crimson eyes gleamed with something far crueler.

"Consider it... a reminder. Next time, the cost will not be coin, but your heads."

The nobles recoiled, some swaying as though the air itself had turned poisonous.

Then—like a ripple in a pond—they folded. Robes rustled, knees bent, and crowns of arrogance dipped low.

"Princess... please reconsider the decision... Princess, mercy!"

"Princess... please... reconsider the decision..."

"Princess, mercy!"

"Reconsider?" My voice slid through the air, soft, almost curious. I tilted my head, letting the silence stretch until their own heartbeats became a thunder in the chamber. "You would rather I reconsider your coin... than your treachery?"

A ripple of unease shivered through the room. Their lips flapped like fish gasping on dry stone.

And then, from behind me, I heard Grand Duke Regis whisper to Papa, "I am realizing... you were more merciful than her."

Papa smirked, eyes glinting. "I suppose those people were right... your children surpass you in everything."

I turned slightly, lips curving into a smile that wasn’t a smile at all. "Papa, what are you saying? I am very merciful. Can you not see? I haven’t killed them yet. Is that not mercy enough?"

Papa blinked, taken aback, before smirking in return. "Ah. You’re right. This is... a far greater mercy."

A gasp rippled through the hall, the nobles clutching at one another like frightened sheep.

I stepped forward, heels clicking sharply against the marble, each step tightening the noose around their fear. My eyes swept across their bowed heads.

"But..." my voice softened, dangerous in its calm, "I am a good princess. And good rulers... give their subjects chances." I let the words hang like a blade above their necks.

"So I will grant you one chance. If the traitor among you has even a shred of courage... let them step forward now. Kneel before me—and I will erase what I have declared today."

Their eyes darted wildly from one face to another, desperate for someone—anyone—to move. No one dared.

I laughed—low, sharp, and merciless. "See? I gave you your chance. And you squandered it. So listen well: until the traitor kneels before me, your tax will remain at ninety-five percent. Your wealth will wither, your power will starve... until the guilty one crawls to my feet."

Gasps. Panic. Whispers, muffled sobs.

I turned, skirts sweeping, never once looking back. The weight of my words smoldered in the silence.

And then, without faltering, I declared:

"THE PARTY IS OVER."

***

[Next Morning—Elorian Empire, Capital City]

The city did not wake to birdsong.

It woke to the shrill cries of newspaper boys, their voices cutting through the morning fog like blades.

"NINETY-FIVE PERCENT TAX!""PRINCESS’S COMING-OF-AGE TURNS INTO NIGHTMARE!""CHILD OR TYRANT? THE PEOPLE DEMAND ANSWERS!"

Every stall, every café, every street corner trembled beneath the weight of black-ink headlines. Sheets fluttered in the air like storm-tossed wings.

"ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT ON THE EMPEROR’S BLOOD!"

"WHO DARED PUSH THE PRINCESS FROM THE BALCONY?"

Illustrations smeared in hurried ink filled the papers—her golden hair, her eyes like burning coals, her chin lifted above kneeling nobles. Some papers painted her as a savior, the people’s champion; others, as a silk-draped monster.

Merchants cheered over steaming mugs of bitter coffee, slamming their palms against wooden tables.

"About time someone bled those leeches dry!" one must’ve barked, laughter ringing as coins clinked in his fist.

But behind velvet curtains, the nobility seethed. Crystal shattered against marble floors. Letters were ripped apart, ink splattered like blood across polished desks. And in the shadows, hands began to move—plotting, whispering, sharpening knives that would not miss the next time.

That’s what is happening in the empire... according to sera--my new lady-in-waiting.

And meanwhile, me?

I sat cross-legged on a chair, the morning breeze tugging lazily at my hair as I crushed a macaron between my teeth. Marshi lay sprawled across my lap, his soft ears twitching as I idly patted his head.

A faint smile curved my lips as another headline drifted through the window, carried by some frantic courtier rushing past.

"I must admit," I murmured, stroking Marshi as he wriggled deeper into my skirts, "our empire’s journals have a flair for drama. If I didn’t know better, I’d almost believe I was a demon queen feasting on noble blood."

Marshi thumped his foot against my leg, earning a laugh.

"Mm. Don’t look at me like that," I added, popping another sweet into my mouth. "If the nobles insist on painting me as a monster, I may as well enjoy the part."

And then...

"Don’t you think you’re enjoying it a little too much, Lavi?"

The voice brushed against the shell of my ear like silk, so sudden and close that I gasped, nearly stumbling.

Before I could fall, Osric’s hand caught mine, steady and warm. His lips curved into that infuriating half-smile.

"There should be another headline tomorrow," he drawled, amusement glittering in his eyes. "The Tyrant Princess terrorized by hushed voices."

I narrowed my eyes at him, squinting. "Are you enjoying yourself?"

His smirk deepened—dangerously so. "Very much."

And then, without hesitation, he slid an arm around my waist, pulling me flush against him. My breath hitched as the sweets I had just eaten turned to molten sugar in my chest.

"But..." his voice dropped softer, velvet and dangerous, "what I enjoy most is realizing—again and again—that I can’t seem to stop falling in love with you."

My pulse stuttered. Heat climbed up my cheeks—no, not a blush. Absolutely not. It was just hot. Very hot. Because this man was far too close. Far too daring. Far too... Osric.

"You—" I began, my voice catching as his thumb brushed a slow circle against my side, sending a shiver darting down my spine. "You’re...far too bold, Osric."

His smile deepened, the sort that burned hotter than any fire. "And yet...you haven’t pushed me away."

Saints preserve me. WHY DOES THIS MAN LOOK HOTTER AFTER YESTERDAY?! Is there a curse that makes men more handsome and more annoying after they confess?

I tried to wriggle free, spluttering, "Alright—alright, just let go of me." My voice cracked halfway through, which was completely unfair.

Instead of releasing me, his arms tightened. My heart gave a suicidal leap. "Osric!" I squeaked, glaring like an angry kitten. "Let me go!"

He didn’t. Of course he didn’t. He just looked down at me, smug and irritating and devastatingly gorgeous, as if I were some poor bird he’d netted.

I squirmed like a caterpillar trying to escape a very persistent gardener. Nothing. He was a wall. A warm, infuriating, dangerously attractive wall.

Marshi tilted his head, ears twitching, while Solena’s golden eyes narrowed from her perch. Both wore the same baffled expression, as if silently asking: What in the saints’ names are our humans doing now?

"What are you doing?" I hissed, lowering my voice in panic. "Do you have ANY idea what will happen if Papa sees this? He’ll bury you alive. Alive, Osric."

His smile sharpened, all teeth and danger. "I don’t mind a grave. Not if it gives me what I want first."

My squint narrowed into a death glare. "...And what exactly do you want?"

He leaned closer—far too close, his breath ghosting my ear as if he were whispering sin itself. "One answer, Lavi."

I froze. "...What answer?"

His voice dropped to a near-growl, each word slow, deliberate, and lethal. "Who. Was. That. Man. Behind you. Yesterday?"

I blinked. "...Man?"

He nodded once, deadly serious. "Tall. Brown hair. Black eyes. Staring at you like he knew you."

... Wow. WOW. The audacity. Is this what we call jealousy? Also—how does he remember Rey down to the hair shade? Did he memorize the poor man like a police sketch?

"It was Rey Morvan," I said flatly, folding my arms with all the dignity I could muster while still half-trapped.

Osric’s brows crashed together. "Rey Morvan? That useless guild master?"

"Yes," I huffed. "The same. The very one. Now kindly remove your octopus arms."

At last, he let me go, saving my poor heart from exploding like a firecracker in my chest. I slumped back into my chair with all the grace of a deflated pillow.

He didn’t look even remotely appeased. "Why was he here?"

"I don’t know," I muttered, resisting the urge to kick him. "But he’s the one who saved me after someone thought it’d be funny to shove me off a balcony."

He only nodded, murmuring, "I see."

... But seriously—why the hell am I giving an explanation to him?