[Lavinia's Pov]
I lay on the royal carpet like a tragic fallen noble—stomach-down, arms stretched forward, legs in the air, dramatically swishing back and forth like I was summoning genius through foot motion alone.
A blank sheet of parchment stared up at me, full of potential. The quill in my hand? It felt like a nervous, twitchy dragon about to sneeze ink on my soul. One wrong move and I'd accidentally sign a declaration of war against grammar.
Across from me, Papa lounged on his oversized, throne-adjacent chair like the Supreme Emperor of Productivity. One leg crossed over the other. Arms folded. Face unreadable.
But oh—those eyes. Those intense, molten-core, laser-beam emperor eyes were locked on me like a sniper locked on a lazy child. I could practically feel their sizzling heat, silently shouting, "I'm watching you. If you run away or slack off, no snacks today, my dear daughter."
