The Villainess Refuses to Follow the Script-Chapter 59

The morning had worn on without mercy. The sun had climbed high into a cloudless sky, casting too much light onto things Beatrice would rather keep buried.

She spent the better part of the day buried in formalities. A brief meeting with the steward of the treasury, followed by an unbearable garden tea with visiting nobles who fawned over Johanna like she was a crowned saint. Beatrice played her part, lips curved, voice measured. But her mind was somewhere else.

It wasn’t until late afternoon that she finally slipped away, retreating into one of the smaller libraries on the third floor. A quiet, book-laden place rarely visited except by academics and people who needed to be forgotten.

She sank into the window seat, the glass warm against her back. Her hands rested in her lap, perfectly still.

Until a voice broke the silence.

"There you are."

Beatrice didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

Francois stood in the doorway, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. 𝑓𝑟𝑒𝘦𝓌𝑒𝑏𝑛𝑜𝘷𝑒𝘭.𝒸𝘰𝑚

"Have you taken to hiding in towers now?" he asked.

"It was this or pretend to enjoy rhubarb tarts with Countess Vellorin," she said, voice dry.

He stepped into the room, letting the door shut behind him with a soft click. The sound made her throat tighten, though she didn’t know why.

Francois didn’t sit. He stood opposite her, near the hearth, his presence grounding and sharp all at once.

"You’ve been distant."

"I’ve been busy." Beatrice looked out the window.

"You’re avoiding me."

"What do you want, Your Highness?"

The words came out colder than she meant.

Francois inhaled once, slow. "I want to understand what’s going on. With you. With Magnus. With whatever you’re circling so carefully it’s making you reckless."

She turned to him then, meeting his gaze fully. "If I said you were better off not knowing, would you believe me?"

"Not anymore."

Silence stretched. Heavy and charged.

Beatrice rose slowly, crossing the space between them. Not too close. Just enough.

"I’m not the person you think I am," she said.

His brow furrowed. "Then tell me who you are."

She hesitated. Then softly, "I can’t."

Something flickered across his face. Frustration. Hurt. Maybe both.

He reached out, gently brushing a stray piece of hair from her cheek. The gesture was quiet, almost reverent.

"Do you think I’m afraid of who you really are?" he asked.

Beatrice forced a breath past her lips. "You should be."

For a moment, it felt like something might tip. Like they stood on the edge of a line neither one wanted to cross, but neither could deny.

But then Beatrice stepped back.

"Don’t follow me if you’re not ready to lose things," she said, voice steadier now. "Because I’m already past that point."

Francois didn’t argue. Didn’t reach for her again. He only nodded once.

"Then let me walk beside you."

Beatrice looked at him, searching for the lie. But there wasn’t one.

She turned away before he could see the crack in her composure.

"The queen expects us at supper," she said.

"Then we shouldn’t be late."

They left the library together. But neither one said another word.

As they walked down the quiet corridor, Beatrice kept her eyes fixed ahead. The weight of his offer still hung between them, unsaid but undeniable.

Let me walk beside you. The words echoed in her head, louder than they should’ve.

She wasn’t sure if it was comfort or a warning.

The stairway turned, and the light from the upper windows spilled in gold along the stone walls. Somewhere down the hall, the low hum of court resumed. Laughter, footsteps, the muted trill of a harp being tuned in the music room. All of it too bright. Too normal.

They rounded the last corner before the dining hall when Beatrice slowed. Just for a second.

"Your Highness," she said without turning.

He stopped beside her. "Yes?"

She hesitated. "If the time comes... and I do something you don’t agree with, I need to know you won’t try to stop me."

"Is it the kind of thing that would hurt you?"

Beatrice didn’t answer.

Francois exhaled. "Then I won’t stop you. But I won’t pretend not to care."

She glanced at him then, just once. Long enough for their eyes to meet.

It was only a moment. But it felt like the first honest one they’d shared in weeks.

They moved forward again. The great doors of the supper hall loomed ahead, voices growing louder beyond the carved wood. Before they reached them, Beatrice slowed again, this time more deliberately.

She turned to him.

"Whatever happens next," she said quietly, "don’t defend me out of pity."

His expression didn’t change. "I never have."

Then the doors opened, and light swallowed them both.

Inside, the table was already half-full. Lila spotted them first, raising a brow from across the room. Johanna looked up a moment later, offering Beatrice a gentle nod that Beatrice didn’t return.

She couldn’t. Not tonight.

She moved to her seat, posture perfect, smile distant.

The performance continued. But under the table, her hands had started to tremble.

She clenched them together to still the shake, digging her nails into her palm until the sting grounded her. Across the table, Johanna was laughing at something Lord Everett said. The sound soft and pleasant, unaware of the storm brewing two seats down.

Francois sat beside her now. Not too close, but close enough that Beatrice could feel his presence like pressure against her ribs. He didn’t speak again, didn’t look her way. But every now and then, when no one was watching, his hand would brush the edge of the table, just barely grazing hers.

She didn’t pull away.

The meal dragged on.

Dishes were cleared, conversation ebbed and flowed, and still, Beatrice remained half-there. She answered when she had to, smiled when it was expected, but her thoughts were far from the wine and idle gossip.

When supper ended, she rose with the others, offering a final nod to the queen before slipping away through the hall’s side door.

Her footsteps were too quick, too quiet. She needed air. Space. Something that wasn’t carved marble and polished etiquette.

Francois caught up with her near the gallery corridor.

"You’re leaving already?" he asked.

"I have things to do."

"Like what?"

Beatrice stopped walking.

"You said you wouldn’t try to stop me."

He held up his hands. "I’m not. I’m just asking if you’re okay."

She hated how that question cracked something in her chest.

"I will be," she said. Then added, before he could press, "And I need to be alone tonight."

Francois nodded, slow. "Alright. But Beatrice..."

She turned, eyes wary.

"If it gets worse, if whatever you’re carrying becomes too heavy, you don’t have to do it alone."

Her jaw tightened. "Yes, I do."

Then she turned and walked away.

Her cloak flared behind her as she moved through the hall, every step sharper than the last. She didn’t look back.

She couldn’t.

Because if she did, she might fall apart.

And Beatrice Da Ville didn’t fall apart, not in public.

But behind her, Francois stood still for a long time, his expression unreadable. He hadn’t missed the way her hands trembled.

And he wasn’t going to pretend it meant nothing.