The Villainess Refuses to Follow the Script-Chapter 36

Beatrice sat in the quiet of the royal library, ink smudging the side of her hand as she scribbled furiously in her notebook. The pages were filling up faster than she expected, each line carefully detailing the novel’s key events. At least, the ones that hadn’t been ruined by her interference.

She had to get everything down before she forgot. Before things changed again.

Her candle flickered slightly, casting shifting shadows across the desk. The library was mostly empty at this hour, save for the occasional servant passing by. It was the perfect place to write without interruption.

Or so she thought.

Footsteps echoed against the marble floors. Steady. Purposeful. Familiar.

Beatrice stiffened.

She barely had time to shove the notebook under a larger tome before Francois stepped into view, dressed as impeccably as ever, his sharp gaze immediately landing on her.

"You’re here late," he noted.

Beatrice forced a casual shrug. "So are you."

Francois didn’t acknowledge that. Instead, he glanced at the mess of books around her.

"What exactly are you working on?"

Beatrice smiled. Too wide, too unnatural.

"Oh, you know. Just... expanding my knowledge."

Francois raised an eyebrow. "Expanding your knowledge..."

"Yup."

"You’ve been acting strangely lately."

Beatrice scoffed. "Define strange."

Francois tilted his head slightly. "More secretive than usual."

Beatrice tapped her fingers against the desk, stalling. "I prefer mysterious."

Francois sighed, clearly unimpressed. "What are you hiding?"

"Wow, you really think I have something that interesting going on?"

"Yes."

Damn it.

Francois was too perceptive for his own good.

Beatrice knew she couldn’t let him see what she had been writing. If he read even a few lines, he’d start asking questions. Questions she couldn’t afford to answer.

So, she did the only thing she could think of.

"Wow. Look at the time. So late. I should really get some sleep." She yawned dramatically.

Francois crossed his arms. "You’re not leaving until you tell me what’s in that book."

Beatrice’s eye twitched. "You can’t keep me here."

He pulled out the chair across from her and sat down.

"I have nowhere else to be."

Beatrice exhaled. "Do you interrogate everyone in the library, or am I just special?"

He studied her, his blue eyes unwavering, as if he was peeling back the layers of her words, searching for something beneath them. Beatrice could handle being questioned. She had spent her whole life dodging barbed words and fake smiles. But Francois wasn’t just throwing empty accusations at her.

He was waiting. Watching.

Like he already knew there was something worth uncovering.

"You’re unusually dedicated to your studies," he mused. "And yet, I never see you discuss them with anyone."

Beatrice gave a dramatic sigh, leaning back in her chair.

"Oh, forgive me, Your Highness, for not publicly announcing my every intellectual pursuit."

Francois didn’t rise to the bait. He just tilted his head slightly.

"What exactly are you trying to understand?"

Beatrice hesitated. There were a hundred ways to answer that question.

The political climate? The court’s shifting alliances? The novel she was desperately trying to stay ahead of?

Or, more honestly, herself?

"Does it matter?" she finally said, keeping her voice light.

Francois hummed, resting a hand against the back of the chair across from her.

"It does if you plan to act on what you’ve learned."

Something about the way he said it made her stomach twist.

"Maybe I just enjoy learning," she countered. "Is that such a crime?"

Francois didn’t reply immediately. Instead, his gaze flickered toward the candlelight, the way the wax dripped slowly onto the polished wood. He was thinking. Calculating.

"Knowledge is power," he murmured. "And power, Lady Beatrice, has never been something you pursued quietly."

A chill ran down her spine.

He wasn’t outright accusing her of anything. Not yet. But it was enough of a warning to make her grip tighten beneath the table.

She forced a smirk. "Are you complimenting me, Your Highness? Careful, someone might think you actually respect me."

Francois exhaled through his nose, clearly unimpressed. "Respect is earned."

"Yes, yes. And you’re the sole authority on who deserves it, I suppose?" Beatrice rolled her eyes.

This time, something flickered in his expression. A ghost of amusement.

"Something like that."

"You know," she mused, tapping her fingers against the table, "for someone who claims to be busy with state affairs, you certainly have a lot of time to corner me in libraries."

"I go where I need to."

"And I assume that means keeping an eye on me?"

He didn’t answer. And somehow, that was worse.

Beatrice groaned, dragging a hand down her face. This was going to be a long night.

She exhaled, carefully choosing her words.

"It’s just a journal. I write down my thoughts, things I notice... it helps me make sense of everything."

Francois studied her, his gaze sharp but not unkind.

"Everything?"

Beatrice hesitated, then nodded. "Yes. Life at court, the things I observe... sometimes, even memories."

It wasn’t a lie, not really. She just wasn’t specifying which memories.

"You guard it closely."

"Of course. Writing is personal." Beatrice forced a light chuckle.

Francois tilted his head slightly, considering her. "Then I won’t pry any further. For now."

Beatrice kept her expression neutral as Francois finally rose to his feet, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer than necessary. The weight of his scrutiny made her grip tighten around the edges of her notebook.

"If you have nothing to hide," he said smoothly, "then you won’t mind if I ask about it again sometime."

Beatrice forced a smile. "Oh, I’d mind very much."

Francois hummed, like he was amused by her defiance. "Then I suppose I’ll have to be patient."

Beatrice watched as he stepped away, his movements unhurried, calculated. He wasn’t leaving because he believed her; he was leaving because he had learned enough for now.

The moment the door closed behind him, she let out a slow breath, tension draining from her shoulders. She ran a hand over her face, exhaling sharply.

That had been too close.

Beatrice pulled the notebook out from under the larger tome, flipping through the pages. The words she had written, the story she was piecing together, felt heavier now. Each line held more than just memories. It was proof of something unnatural. Something she wasn’t ready to face.

Her hands trembled slightly as she shut the book.

She needed to be more careful.