Chapter 272: The Tyrant, The Fiancé, and The Strawberry Massacre

Chapter 272: The Tyrant, The Fiancé, and The Strawberry Massacre

[Lavinia’s POV — Outside the Training Hall—Some Days Later]

After successfully convincing Papa to accept my Osric as his son-in-law, I truly believed the universe was finally on my side.

I thought... finally... no more hiding behind the bushes just to steal a kiss. No more ducking behind the marble pillars to exchange secret glances. No more whispering sweet nothings like we were spies committing treason!

We could finally—finally!—love each other openly, freely, gloriously!

But... but... BUT—WHO WOULD HAVE THOUGHT PAPA WOULD SINGLE-HANDEDLY SHATTER EVERY ROMANTIC DREAM I EVER HAD!!!???

CLANG!!! CLANG!!! CLANG!!!

The deafening sound of swords clashing echoed from the training hall like thunderous heartbreak.

"...Tch. With that strength of yours, Osric..." Papa’s cold, tyrannical voice rang out between strikes: "...my daughter will have to protect herself."

My jaw dropped.

He said that after dueling Osric for the fourth time today. Fourth!!! The sun has set three times since he started "training" my poor fiancé, and he still wasn’t done!

And me? I stood outside the hall trembling—not with fear, oh no—but with rage. Boiling, princess-grade, volcanic rage.

My romance life... My beautifully planned, perfectly scripted romance life... Was dying a slow, sword-clashing death right in front of me.

"Let’s begin again," Papa said, stepping back with terrifying composure.

And Osric—my beloved, my gentle idiot—looked excited.

E X C I T E D.

"Of course, Your Majesty!" he said, sweat dripping, eyes shining like a man who just found his life’s purpose.

I almost fainted.

Since when did my sweet, romantic man decide that swordsmanship with my tyrant father was more important than holding hands with me under the moonlight!?

This... this wasn’t a romance anymore. It was a battlefield for my love life!

Every day since Papa accepted him, they’ve been dueling. Every. Single. Day. At first, I thought it was symbolic—some traditional fatherly approval ritual. But no! It became a daily event.

Papa calls it "training." Osric calls it "an honor."

I call it "THEFT OF MY FIANCÉ."

Honestly! I can’t believe this!

My papa didn’t just protect me... He stole my husband!

I glared at the two of them from the sidelines—Papa’s crimson cape billowing majestically, Osric’s hair sticking to his forehead, both men glowing like they were in some hero-versus-hero epic.

Ugh. My romance turned into an action novel.

When Papa disarmed Osric for the fifth time, I screamed,"PAPA!!! Stop breaking my boyfriend!!"

He didn’t even glance at me. "He’s still breathing, Lavinia. That means training isn’t over."

"BREATHING IS GOOD ENOUGH!!!" I yelled, stomping my foot like the mature adult I am.

Osric just smiled weakly between gasps. "It’s... fine... Lavi... I can handle—"

"YOU CAN’T HANDLE ME IF YOU’RE DEAD!" I snapped.

Papa raised his sword again, completely ignoring me. "If he dies, he’s unworthy anyway."

"PAPA!!!"

Theon, who was leaning by the door sipping tea, whispered to Ravick, "I give it two more duels before she storms the arena."

Ravick sighed. "I give it one."

I clenched my fists. Oh, they knew me too well.

"Your Highness," Sera’s soft voice came from behind me, calm as ever, "do you need... stress-remover cakes?"

I blinked. "Since when did we have such cakes?"

Sera’s lips curved with a faint smile. "Since this morning. The chef made strawberry cakes with extra strawberries—"

"I’ll have them," I interrupted before she could even finish.

Strawberries. Sweet, fluffy, comforting strawberries. If my love life was crumbling, at least my dessert life could still thrive.

She nodded obediently, and I sighed, pressing my palm to my forehead. "I’m going to the office. Bring the cake there."

"As you wish, Your Highness." She left swiftly, and I walked down the marble corridor, trying not to think about the sound of swords clashing behind me.

Papa and Osric could keep dueling all they wanted. I had actual imperial matters to attend to—like keeping the Empire running while my father terrorized my fiancé in the name of love.

Sir Haldor appeared at the corner, bowing deeply. "Your Highness."

I nodded. "Did you find something, Sir Haldor?"

He straightened, face grim. "Yes, Your Highness. Just as you suspected... there were mages reportedly performing forbidden magic."

My steps slowed. "And where are they now?"

His voice lowered. "Killed, Your Highness. Executed under royal decree. There are no known mages performing forbidden magic anymore."

I froze, my brow furrowing.Killed? All of them?

That didn’t make sense. If all the forbidden mages were gone... then who, in my previous life, had stolen my fate and given it to Eleania?

I stared down the dim hallway, my mind spinning. A cold unease coiled in my stomach like mist.Someone had twisted destiny itself once—and if they were dead now...

Then who was pulling the strings this time?

I sighed heavily, rubbing my temples. "I wish Rey was here..." I muttered under my breath. "At least that idiot would—"

"Hi there, Princess."

The voice was lazy. Familiar. Infuriatingly smug.

I froze mid-step. Slowly... very slowly... I turned toward my office door.

And there he was.

Rey.

Sitting casually on my chair, one leg crossed over the other, hands folded behind his head, grinning like he hadn’t just vanished for days.

My jaw dropped. "You—"

He raised a finger. "Ah-ah. No dramatic entrance speech, please. I’m fragile."

Before I could even start yelling, the door creaked open again. "Your Highness, I brought the cake—"

Sera froze mid-sentence. Her eyes landed on Rey. Her entire expression darkened like a brewing storm.

"YOU—" she hissed, voice rising an octave higher than I’d ever heard. "YOU SMUG, ARROGANT, VILE, BAT-EARED BASTARD!"

Rey blinked, taken aback. "Bat-eared—?"

"HOW DARE YOU SHOW YOUR ROTTING FACE HERE AFTER DISAPPEARING LIKE THAT!?" she screamed, and before I could even blink—

FWOP!!!

My beautiful cake—my strawberry-stress-remover-cake—soared through the air in a perfect, deadly arc—and splattered across Rey’s face.

Strawberries. Cream. Crumbs. Everywhere.

For a solid three seconds, no one moved.

Rey stood there, slowly blinking through the frosting dripping down his cheek. Sera was breathing like she’d just exorcised a demon. And I... I stared at the floor in mute horror.

"My... cake," I whispered.

The cream slid off his nose and hit the floor with a soft plop.

I pointed a trembling finger. "That... that was my cake..."

Rey wiped a bit of frosting from his chin and licked it. "Huh. Not bad."

Sera screamed again. "DON’T YOU LICK MY PRINCESS’S CAKE, YOU DEMON SPAWN!"

Rey only smirked, unrepentant. "But darling—" he spread his hands in mock innocence, frosting dripping off a knuckle, "—you threw it on my face first. I merely honored it. What’s wrong with a tasteful palate experience?"

Sir Haldor and I exchanged a look.

Sera raged in anger. "Sir Haldor... can I borrow your sword?"

He blinked once, and then without hesitation he gave it to her, saying, "Do not pull the sword. You will not need to; simply wield the will to kill and he will crumble like a stale biscuit."

I gave Sir Haldor an appreciative thumbs-up. He gave me a thumbs-up back. We were Allies of Good Taste and Domestic Order when some other couples were fighting.

Sera, queen of righteous fury and owner of a frying-pan patience threshold measured in centuries, stalked forward like a lady demon with a mission.

She crossed the room in three long, furious strides and planted her hands on her hips.

"I... waited for you for days," she hissed at Rey, every word vibrating with offended ferocity. "After your stupid confession I thought I was finally learning how to kiss you... how to—"

Rey’s eyes lit up, hope foolish and ridiculous on his face. "Kiss, darling? We can do that—"

"BUT TODAY... YOU’RE DEAD, REY MORVAN!!!!!!!" Sera shrieked.

And then the world descended into slapstick war.

Sera attacked like a very efficient storm. She wasn’t using her fists so much as a rapid, theatrical flurry of punishing affection—a flurry that involved wildly inaccurate karate chops, hair-tugging (gentle, dramatic), and a precise, highly personal brand of scolding that sounded like a marching band of angry swans.

Rey flailed spectacularly, arms windmilling, stagger-stepping like a man trying to do interpretive dance while being hugged by a tornado. Frosting smeared across his eyebrows, his hair, and suspiciously down the front of his tunic. He tried to defend himself with pathetic, breathless protests.

"Sera—!" he wheezed.

"You vanished!" she said, wheedling fists and fury combined. "You left without a note, a breadcrumb, or even a pitying postcard! You vanish and expect cake etiquette to be optional?!"

He spun, attempted what I think was meant to be a dramatic dodge—but it looked more like a drunk butterfly doing gymnastics—and ended up face-first in a pile of rug that had the misfortune of existing under Sera’s final, righteous swing.

There was a long, heavy silence. The kind that made you wonder if time itself had paused to whisper, "Yeah... he deserved that."

"I have decided," I said solemnly, folding my arms, "not to mess with Sera in this life."

Sir Haldor nodded gravely beside me. "A wise decision, Your Highness. A very wise one."

And just like that—Rey lay on the floor, covered in frosting and regret, Sera stood over him like a conquering war goddess, and Sir Haldor and I? We simply watched the chaos unfold with quiet satisfaction.

"The only thing missing," I sighed wistfully, "is popcorn."

Sir Haldor’s lips twitched. "Shall I ask the chef to prepare some for next time, Your Highness?"

"Yes," I said without hesitation. "There will be a next time."