The Villainess Refuses to Follow the Script-Chapter 43

Beatrice barely had time to process her frustration before she heard the door click shut behind her.

She turned.

Francois stood there, his posture relaxed but his expression unreadable. He had arrived quietly, slipping into the room like a shadow.

Beatrice exhaled sharply. Here we go again!

"Your Highness," she greeted, her voice neutral.

Francois took a slow step forward, his gaze sweeping across the room, from the dim candlelight to the still-ruffled papers on her desk.

"You’re restless," he observed, his eyes watching her like a falcon.

Beatrice scoffed, crossing her arms. "You always assume so much."

"I assume what I can see," he replied simply. "And right now, I see someone who looks ready to break something."

Beatrice clicked her tongue. "Tempting, but no."

Francois didn’t react to her deflection. Instead, he took another step closer, his eyes sharp as they studied her.

"The court is talking."

Beatrice forced a smile. It was too obvious and sarcastic.

"Oh, wonderful. And here I thought they had forgotten about me."

Francois tilted his head slightly. "They’re saying you’re returning to your old ways."

The amusement drained from her expression.

She forced a light laugh. "And you? What do you think?"

Francois didn’t answer right away. He just kept watching her, searching for something beneath her facade.

Beatrice’s fingers twitched at her sides. She hated this. The scrutiny. The way he always managed to cut through the layers she carefully built around herself.

"The court will always have something to say," she muttered. "They get bored so easily. If it’s not me, it’ll be someone else."

"Except this time, they’re waiting for you to prove them right," Francois countered. "You’ve given them just enough to make them wonder."

Beatrice clenched her jaw.

Of course, he wasn’t wrong. She had felt the stares all day, the cautious glances, the way conversations shifted when she entered a room.

They were waiting. Watching.

And now, so was he.

"Why are you here, my prince?" She sighed, running a hand through her hair.

"Because I want to know the truth."

Beatrice stilled. She turned back to him, meeting his gaze fully this time.

"The truth?" she echoed.

Francois nodded. "Something is bothering you. And if you keep pushing people away, they will assume the worst."

Beatrice exhaled slowly. She could lie. She could dodge. She could twist her words into something meaningless, something he couldn’t pick apart.

But she was tired.

"I’m fine, Your Highness."

It wasn’t true. And judging by the way he looked at her, he knew it.

Francois didn’t move.

Beatrice could feel the weight of his gaze, patient and unrelenting. He was giving her a chance. To say something, to let him in, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to.

She had spent the entire day balancing on the edge of frustration, biting back words she couldn’t say, swallowing feelings she didn’t want to acknowledge. And now, with Francois standing here, steady and unshaken, it made something in her chest tighten unbearably.

She turned away, moving toward the desk just for something to do.

"You’re making a habit of checking up on me," she muttered.

Francois stepped closer. "Because I don’t like seeing you like this."

Beatrice’s hands stilled against the desk.

She forced a chuckle, shaking her head. "Careful, Your Highness. Someone might mistake that for concern."

"I am concerned."

Her breath caught.

He said it so simply, like it was obvious. Like it wasn’t something strange at all.

"You shouldn’t be." Beatrice swallowed.

"Why not?"

Because if you look too closely, you’ll see things you shouldn’t.

Because if I let you in, you’ll start asking the wrong questions.

Because I can’t afford for you to care.

Beatrice exhaled, turning back to face him. "Because I’m fine."

A lie.

He studied her for a long moment, his blue eyes sharp and searching.

Then finally, he sighed. "You are one stubborn woman."

They stood there for a bit, neither moving, neither speaking. Then, just as Francois turned to leave, he paused at the door.

"Whatever it is," he said without looking back, "I hope you figure it out."

Beatrice opened her mouth. But before she could speak, he was gone.

She let out a slow breath, her shoulders sagging slightly now that she was alone again.

Francois was paying too much attention. And if she wasn’t careful, he was going to start seeing cracks she didn’t want him to see.

Beatrice stayed frozen in place long after Francois had left.

The quiet of the room pressed in on her, the warmth of his presence lingering in the space he had occupied just moments ago.

Slowly, she turned back to her desk.

Her fingers hovered over the notebook she had shoved aside earlier, the one filled with words she had no business writing.

She had spent so much time documenting everything. Every event, every shift, every unraveling thread of the story as she once knew it. But for all the pages she had written, all the things she had tried to hold onto, she hadn’t stopped to ask herself the real question.

Did she actually know where this was all going anymore?

Her pulse thrummed unsteadily as she flipped through the pages. Her handwriting scrawled across them in hurried ink, detailing everything she remembered about the novel. But as she scanned through her notes, something gnawed at the back of her mind.

Somewhere along the way, she had stopped writing about Johanna.

Somewhere along the way, her words had become something else entirely.

Beatrice’s grip tightened around the edge of the notebook.

This wasn’t just a story anymore. And she was no longer just a character playing a role.

A faint chill crept up her spine.

Because for the first time since arriving in this world, she had the unsettling feeling that she wasn’t the only one rewriting fate.

The candle flickered.

The door creaked.

And Beatrice wasn’t sure if she was imagining it, but for a split second, she could have sworn she wasn’t alone.