The Villainess Refuses to Follow the Script-Chapter 64

The corridor outside the war room felt too bright.

Beatrice walked slowly, each footstep measured against the polished stone. She kept her expression blank, even as the tension in her shoulders refused to ease. Her words still echoed faintly in her ears, dulled by time but not gone.

Vigilance without provocation.

It had sounded clean. Neutral, even helpful. But she knew the truth better than any of them.

Her family didn’t want restraint.

The Da Villes profited from blood, not peace. It was written plainly in the novel. Contracts slipped across borders, forged names on weapons manifests, stolen supply lines.

They sold to both sides. Quietly. Consistently. And when the fighting escalated, they celebrated in private.

Beatrice had read it all. Watched it unfold from a reader’s distance.

And now she lived in it.

She turned the final corner toward her chambers, nodding briefly to the guard stationed outside. He opened the door for her without comment.

Inside, everything was exactly as she left it.

Too still. Too perfect.

She untied her outer coat with quick, clean movements and dropped it over the back of her armchair. Her gloves followed. She crossed to the writing desk, fingers brushing the journal that sat untouched from the night before.

She didn’t open it yet.

Instead, she poured herself a glass of water and stood by the window, watching as the palace grounds carried on without her. Guards rotated posts. Courtiers gossiped on marble benches. Somewhere below, a gardener adjusted the winter roses.

No one looking at her today would think she’d just sat at the king’s war table. And no one in that room would suspect her family was the reason the war might never end.

Beatrice took a slow sip. Her hands were steady.

She hated that.

She moved back to the desk, opened the journal, and turned to a fresh page. Her pen hovered.

She didn’t write about the council. She didn’t write about Francois, or the way his words still pressed at her like old bruises.

Instead, she wrote two names.

General Roenne.

Lady Clarisse Edevane.

Beside each, a small note.

Unshakable. Loyal. Dangerous.

Sharp. Proud. Pragmatic.

Then a third name.

King Marshall.

She didn’t add a note. She already knew what he was.

A quiet knock pulled her from the page.

She blinked once, surprised.

It wasn’t time for Lily’s return. And no one else usually came without sending word.

Beatrice closed the journal, slipped it into the drawer, and crossed the room.

"Yes?" she said.

A footman stood outside, expression politely blank.

"A delivery for you, my lady. From House Da Ville."

Beatrice’s stomach churned, but her face didn’t change.

"Set it there," she said, stepping aside.

He did, bowed, and left without waiting.

The package was modest. Wrapped in wine-colored silk, bound with a cord of gold thread. No note. No seal. Just her name, embroidered on the corner.

She stared at it for a long time. Then unwrapped it carefully.

Inside was a pair of gloves. Black leather, lined with sable. The stitching was exact. Expensive. Custom-made. Her size, of course.

Beneath them, a folded slip of parchment.

Only four words.

You spoke well today.

No signature. She didn’t need one.

Her fingers clenched around the gloves. The leather was soft. Supple. Easy to tear, if she wanted to.

Beatrice placed them gently back in the box, folded the silk over them, and tied the cord again.

Then she walked to the hearth, opened the grate, and fed the note into the fire.

It curled and blackened without protest.

She stood there until the last corner dissolved into ash.

You spoke well today.

Of course she had!

Because she hadn’t spoken truth.

She returned to the desk and opened the journal again. Her fingers hovered over the page she’d left open. The one with the names.

She wanted to add another.

Her own.

Lady Beatrice Da Ville.

Knows too much. Says too little.

But she didn’t write it.

She turned the page instead.

Let it stay blank. Let it breathe.

She closed the journal gently and blew out the nearest candle, letting the room dim.

Sometimes silence felt safer than honesty. Especially when the lies were written in her own blood.

She stayed at the desk longer than she meant to.

The light outside had softened, shadows crawling slowly across the floor. Somewhere in the west wing, bells chimed the hour, distant and deliberate. Another mark in a day spent performing.

Beatrice didn’t move.

She could still feel the leather of the gloves beneath her fingertips. The way they’d fit so perfectly, like the skin she was meant to wear. Like a promise.

Or a warning.

She wondered if her mother had chosen them, or if it had been her father’s idea. More likely one of the stewards. Some quiet, faceless man who knew exactly what message they wanted to send.

You’re one of us. You’ve proven it. Keep going.

The fire had nearly died. Only embers remained, pulsing dimly in the grate.

Beatrice stood, walked to the mirror across the room, and looked at herself for the first time that day.

She looked... fine.

Composed. Elegant. Beautiful, even.

But something behind her eyes felt dull. Like someone had lowered the volume on her soul and left it there.

She touched the side of her throat lightly, searching for a pulse. It was there.

She was still here.

Still Beatrice Da Ville.

Still Bea Elisha Park.

Still trapped between the two.

She let her hand fall away.

A knock came again, lighter this time. Predictable.

"Enter," she called.

Lily slipped in quietly, carrying a fresh tray of tea, bread, and something sweet she wouldn’t eat.

"The kitchens were late with the evening service," Lily said, moving with efficient grace.

Beatrice didn’t speak. She sat at the edge of the armchair, eyes on the flickering shadows.

Lily hesitated. "Shall I light the lamps?"

"No. Just the candles."

Lily obeyed. One, then two, then three small flames flickered to life. Pools of gold. No harsh light.

Beatrice watched them dance for a moment.

"Has there been word from my father?"

Lily looked up, surprised. "No, my lady. Not directly."

"Of course not."

Beatrice leaned back, resting her head against the cool velvet cushion. Her eyes drifted shut.

"I’ll be gone most of tomorrow morning," she said. "Make sure the balcony doors are kept shut. The winds are shifting."

"Yes, my lady."

"And Lily?"

"Yes?"

"If anyone else from House Da Ville sends another gift..." She opened her eyes. "...don’t bring it to me."

Lily blinked once, but nodded. "Understood."

The door clicked shut behind her a minute later.

Beatrice didn’t move again.

She simply watched the candlelight stretch across the floor, one breath at a time, and wondered...

How long she had before the gloves stopped being a gift.

And started fitting too well to take off.