The Villainess Refuses to Follow the Script-Chapter 60

Beatrice closed the door to her chambers with more care than usual.

The corridor outside was still faintly buzzing with distant voices from supper. Laughter, footsteps, servants clearing dishes, but none of it reached her here.

Inside, the air was still. Orderly. Too clean.

She didn’t light the fire. She preferred the cold tonight.

Her chambers were spacious by design, lavish by necessity. Polished floors. Velvet curtains. A writing desk that had never seen true work. Cushions arranged like they were waiting for guests who never came. It was all as she left it that morning, untouched and pristine.

She dropped her gloves on the small side table, then removed her cloak and folded it over the arm of a chair. Her shoes followed, careful and quiet, left beside the wardrobe.

Finally, she sat at the edge of her bed, hands clasped together in her lap. The room should have comforted her. Instead, it felt like being observed.

Her gaze drifted to the top drawer of the writing desk.

She didn’t move for several seconds. Then she stood and crossed to it.

Inside was her journal. Leather-bound, worn soft around the edges. She pulled it out gently, almost hesitantly, and returned to the small table beside the armchair by the window. The pen she always used was still resting between the pages where she’d last left it.

She opened to a blank page. Her pen hovered, steady.

But no words came.

Beatrice stared at the empty page for a long time. Her thoughts pressed against the inside of her skull, restless, tangled. There was plenty to write. Plenty to name. But the moment she tried, everything lost shape.

She couldn’t tell when it had started happening, when her own emotions had begun slipping out of focus.

She still remembered Bea Elisha Park. Her thoughts. Her fears. Her rationality.

But every day, it became harder to distinguish which part of her recoiled at Johanna’s kindness, or why her throat tightened when Lila smirked like she knew a secret. The fury she felt sometimes wasn’t hers. The bitterness, the envy, those belonged to someone else.

She was still herself. She had to be.

Beatrice touched the page with the tip of the pen and wrote a single sentence.

I don’t know if the guilt I feel belongs to the girl I used to be... or the monster I’m becoming.

Then she stopped.

A quiet knock broke the silence.

She closed the notebook slowly. "Yes?"

The door opened with practiced ease. Lily stepped inside, carrying a folded shawl over one arm and a tray in the other.

"I brought warm cider, my lady," she said. "You didn’t touch the wine at supper."

Beatrice didn’t look up right away. "So I’m being monitored now?"

Lily didn’t blink. "Only by those paid to do so."

That earned the faintest lift of Beatrice’s brow.

Lily crossed to the table, set the tray down without fuss, and poured the cider into a waiting cup.

"Would you like the window closed? There’s a draft."

"No. Leave it."

Lily nodded. "Of course, my lady."

She stepped back, folding her hands at her waist.

Beatrice reached for the cup and took a careful sip. The warmth did little to cut through the cold in her chest, but she welcomed the gesture. Her gaze flicked once to Lily.

"You don’t usually come in this late."

"You don’t usually leave early," Lily replied.

Beatrice didn’t answer. She took another sip.

Lily glanced toward the journal, then back to her.

"Shall I prepare the room for the night?"

"Not yet."

Lily hesitated. "Would you prefer I return in the morning?"

"I would."

She dipped her head. "Then I’ll take my leave."

Lily moved toward the door but paused just before opening it.

"My lady?"

Beatrice looked up.

"If you intend to burn the candle at both ends again... you might consider letting someone know which end you’re holding."

"Is that advice or criticism?" Beatrice tilted her head slightly.

"Neither. Just an observation."

Beatrice gave a quiet breath of amusement.

"Duly noted."

The door closed behind her with a soft click.

Alone again, Beatrice returned her eyes to the journal. The sentence she’d written stared back at her, stark and unfinished.

I don’t know if the guilt I feel belongs to the girl I used to be... or the monster I’m becoming.

She didn’t cross it out. But she didn’t add to it either.

She turned the page, leaving it behind. Then she rose, crossed the room, and opened the balcony doors just enough to let in the wind.

The cold brushed against her skin like an old memory. It helped.

She sat again, the journal still open in her lap. But her pen never touched the page.

Instead, her fingers drifted back a few sheets, thumbing lightly through the earlier entries. Scattered notes in neat, efficient strokes. Names. Dates. Shifts in court behavior. Mentions of Johanna, of the novel’s pacing, of things that hadn’t happened yet but would soon.

Then halfway through, her hand paused.

A passage stood out. Not because of the words, but because of the tone. Her handwriting was the same, but the voice...

She read it once. Then again.

Francois was colder today. I’d hoped he would’ve softened after yesterday’s audience, but his eyes held the same guarded edge. He’s too proud to admit he doesn’t trust me. He never did. I don’t know why I keep expecting him to look at me the way he did with Johanna. I’d settle for silence, if it meant the bitterness would ease.

Her brows drew together slightly. She didn’t remember writing that.

The phrasing was too personal. Too familiar. There was no mention of plot points or divergence from the novel. No observations about where this moment fit in the original storyline.

It wasn’t Bea Elisha Park documenting the script.

It was Beatrice Da Ville, yearning for something already lost.

She flipped the page again, more slowly this time. Another line. Less polished. Almost raw.

He looked at her again. He always does. I should’ve gotten used to it by now, but something in me twists each time. It’s always her. It’s always going to be her.

A beat passed.

Her throat felt tight. Not with panic, not with grief. Just unease. A quiet flicker of something she couldn’t name.

Beatrice closed the journal without another glance. She set it on the small table beside her chair, the leather cover facing down.

A breeze from the open balcony stirred the loose corner of the last page. She didn’t move to stop it.

Instead, she stood and walked slowly to the balcony, letting the wind slip past her. Somewhere in the city below, bells chimed the hour. Ninth bell. Late. The court would be winding down by now.

Beatrice pressed a hand to the railing, letting the cold iron steady her.

She didn’t feel like a villain tonight. She didn’t feel like a heroine either.

Just something in between. Something slowly unraveling.

Behind her, the journal lay still. Open just enough for the page to flutter once more. Words half-exposed, scrawled in her own hand, written by someone she might be becoming.