The Villainess Refuses to Follow the Script-Chapter 71

The queen’s summons arrived in the form of a cream-colored scroll, delivered by the same trembling pageboy who’d fetched Beatrice from the stables.

Her presence was requested in the eastern receiving wing. No reason given, no hint of urgency. But the signature, elegant, looping, and unmistakably Queen Cecile’s, left little room for interpretation.

When Beatrice arrived, she was not alone.

Johanna was already seated by the open windows, her gown a delicate lilac trimmed with ivory ribbon. She offered a soft smile as Beatrice entered, warm as always.

Princess Lila, predictably, stood instead of sitting. She was dressed in a loosely tied court robe, half an inch of boot leather peeking beneath her hem, her arms folded like a soldier summoned to a duel.

"Lady Beatrice," Johanna greeted. "We were beginning to think you might not come."

Beatrice dipped her head, eyes sweeping the room.

"You know I would never defy a summons."

"No," said Queen Cecile as she stepped into view from behind one of the changing screens, "I imagine you wouldn’t. Not yet."

The queen wore frost-blue silk, her hair pinned with pearl combs, and her expression perfectly neutral. Behind her, a pair of attendants carried dress racks and sketchbooks, trailing the court seamstress, a wiry woman with thin spectacles and a measuring ribbon already clutched in one hand.

"Ladies," the queen said smoothly. "We are, of course, less than three weeks away from His Majesty’s birthday celebration. The final designs are nearly ready, and as you are among those expected to attend him closely that evening, I thought it best to see how the gowns wear before final embellishments."

Her gaze skimmed over each of them in turn.

"It is, after all, a celebration of power. One should look the part."

Johanna smiled. Lila did not.

Beatrice merely inclined her head.

"Will we be trying on the gowns today?" she asked.

The seamstress stepped forward. "Yes, my lady. And we’ll be making final fit adjustments. I’ve prepared something different for each of you, based on Her Majesty’s direction."

Lila raised an eyebrow. "And what, exactly, did Her Majesty direct for me?"

"Something subtle," the queen answered coolly. "To balance your nature."

Beatrice watched as the gowns were revealed.

Johanna’s was soft green, threaded with gold. Elegant and graceful. Almost pastoral in design, a quiet nod to her origins, perhaps.

Lila’s was midnight blue, severe in cut but striking in its shape, structured like a blade. Beatrice had to admit, it suited her.

Hers was crimson. Deep, jewel-toned, with black velvet accents and off-the-shoulder sleeves. A gown meant to command attention.

She reached for the fabric, fingers brushing the embroidery.

"Daring choice," Lila muttered beside her.

"I didn’t choose it."

"Exactly."

The seamstress herded them behind the partitioned dressing screens one by one. Attendants moved like shadows, tightening laces, adjusting hems, murmuring measurements.

When Beatrice stepped out in the gown, the room went quiet.

The queen was the first to speak. "You wear red well."

Beatrice didn’t reply.

Johanna’s smile faltered briefly. Lila watched with something like grudging amusement.

"The embroidery follows the Da Ville crest lines," the seamstress explained. "Her Majesty thought it would be fitting."

"Fitting," Beatrice echoed, dryly.

They stood together before the mirrors. The three of them, each a different weapon, polished and ready.

"You will be seated at the high table," Queen Cecile said suddenly.

The statement landed like a blade.

Beatrice blinked. "I’m sorry?"

"Beside His Majesty and I. It was your house’s counsel in the war room that prompted the revised strategy, was it not?"

Beatrice said nothing.

Lila crossed her arms. "So this is a reward."

"It’s an acknowledgment," the queen said coolly.

Johanna, ever gentle, glanced toward Beatrice. "Are you comfortable with that?"

"Comfort," Beatrice said, meeting the queen’s gaze in the mirror, "was never the goal."

"Good," Queen Cecile replied. "Because comfort makes people forget how sharp you are."

The rest of the fitting passed in near silence. But as Beatrice changed out of the crimson gown and into her day dress once more, she felt the weight of what had just been sewn into place.

She was being moved.

Not removed.

Positioned.

And when the crown began playing its endgame, it didn’t waste time pretending it wasn’t.

After the fitting, the queen dismissed them with the same dispassionate grace she always wielded, like sweeping pieces off a chessboard mid-match, not out of cruelty, but efficiency.

Beatrice was the last to leave the room.

As she stepped into the hallway, Lila was waiting. She leaned casually against the opposite wall, arms folded and eyes sharp.

"Did you enjoy your promotion?" she asked.

Beatrice didn’t stop walking. "It’s not a promotion."

"No?" Lila fell into step beside her. "You’re seated beside the king now. In red. Wearing your family’s name like it’s something holy. You looked like a queen in there."

"I’m not a queen."

"You’re not just a lady of the court anymore either."

They walked together through the marble corridor, neither speaking for a long moment.

Then Lila added, quietly, "Just be careful."

"Is that a threat?" Beatrice slowed.

Lila’s expression didn’t change. "It’s the closest thing to kindness I’m allowed to give."

And then she turned the corner and disappeared down the stairwell.

Beatrice stood still for a moment, the weight of the gown still lingering like heat against her ribs. She could still hear the queen’s voice in her head.

Because comfort makes people forget how sharp you are.

She continued down the corridor, alone this time, moving like the fabric hadn’t just changed everything.

But it had.

Not just the gown. Not just the table placement.

The message was clear.

Beatrice Da Ville was no longer simply tolerated.

She was being seen.

She made it halfway to her chambers before she realized her steps weren’t leading her there.

Instead, she found herself turning toward the west balcony, the one overlooking the barracks and training yards. The one far from the court’s daily performance.

The stone was warm under her hands as she leaned forward, letting the breeze tug loose strands of hair from her braid. From here, she could see the grounds moving in sharp, disciplined patterns. Guards on rotation. Couriers riding out. A world that kept spinning even while hers tilted slightly askew. 𝒻𝑟𝘦𝘦𝘸ℯ𝒷𝑛𝘰𝓋ℯ𝘭.𝘤𝘰𝘮

Footsteps behind her made her straighten, but she didn’t turn.

She didn’t have to.

"I wondered if you’d seek air or solitude," said Francois.

"Is there a difference anymore?"

He stopped beside her, gaze forward. "Sometimes. Not today."

She didn’t answer right away.

After a moment, she said, "The queen put me beside the king for his birthday."

"I heard."

"Of course you did."

He turned to her. "You’re not happy about it."

"I’m not naïve enough to mistake it for a gift."

Francois was quiet for a beat. "Then what do you think it is?"

"A warning shot," she said, voice low. "One aimed just high enough to miss, this time."

"You’re not alone in the crosshairs."

She looked at him, truly looked.

"Then why do you still stand beside me?"

He gave her a faint, unreadable smile. "Because I know what’s coming. And if they mean to tear you down, I’d rather be in the rubble than in the throne room applauding."

Beatrice inhaled slowly. The wind pulled harder now, like it wanted to sweep the words away before she could answer them.

But she didn’t answer. She only stood there, beside him, feeling the weight of too many things she still couldn’t name.

Below them, the guards changed post. The sun shifted a little higher.

And for a moment, she allowed herself this. To be quiet. To be still.

To not yet decide what kind of weapon she was willing to become.