The Villainess Refuses to Follow the Script-Chapter 73

Three days remained until the king’s birthday.

The palace shimmered with ceremony. Floral arrangements towering in crystal vases, gilded tapestries being inspected and re-hung by nervous attendants, and guest lists revised for the fifth time in as many days. Every corner of the court buzzed with nerves and silk.

Beatrice felt the pressure like a storm front pressing in against her ribs. She moved through it in silence, eyes sharp, steps sharper. At breakfast, she said nothing. At council, she observed. At dinner, she left early.

The letter from her father remained burned in her memory.

We expect you to perform adequately during the celebration. Do not embarrass the family. Do not draw suspicion. Everything has been arranged.

Not a word about safety. Not a hint of warning.

Everything has been arranged.

They wouldn’t arrive until the day before the banquet, just in time to be seen, but too late to be questioned. The Da Villes knew timing better than most generals. A performance didn’t need rehearsal when the outcome was already written.

Beatrice spent the morning reviewing her notes. Not the official ledgers, not the military reports left for her in the council room, those she skimmed without effort. But her own records, kept in her second journal, hidden beneath the floorboards.

The original novel had detailed the assassination attempt in spare, clean prose. A poisoned goblet. A servant scapegoated. The queen weeping beautifully at the high table.

But in this version, Beatrice would be seated with the king. She would see the moment it happened, and if she played her role wrong, she’d be blamed too.

She ran a finger along the margin of one of her earlier entries, half-faded now from repeated touch. 𝒇𝙧𝙚𝓮𝔀𝓮𝒃𝙣𝓸𝒗𝒆𝒍.𝙘𝒐𝒎

They will not hesitate to use me as their alibi.

There was a knock on her chamber door just before midday.

She expected Lily. Instead, it was Clarisse Edevane, clad in deep plum and polished emeralds, her expression polite and unreadable.

"Lady Beatrice," she said smoothly. "The queen has requested your presence in the drawing hall. She wishes to finalize seating details for the birthday banquet."

Beatrice nodded once. "Of course."

She dressed quickly. A slate-grey gown with delicate embroidery. Nothing too rich, and nothing too plain.

When she entered the queen’s drawing hall, she found Queen Cecile seated with a small group of senior court organizers, the birthday banquet layout spread in parchment and wax seals across the long table.

Beatrice bowed politely.

"Your Majesty."

Queen Cecile looked up and gestured to the empty chair across from her.

"Lady Beatrice. Just in time."

She took her seat without comment.

"The royal high table," the queen said, tapping her finger lightly to the head of the parchment, "will seat twelve. His Majesty, myself, Crown Prince Francois. Three foreign envoys. The Duke of Estienne. And you."

Beatrice nodded, keeping her face blank. "I understand."

"Do you?"

Beatrice didn’t rise to it. "It is an honor."

"It is a responsibility," the queen corrected. "Every guest will be watching the king. But half the room will be watching you."

Beatrice met her gaze. "Then I will give them something worth seeing."

That earned her the faintest flicker of something behind Queen Cecile’s eyes. Approval, maybe. Or a warning not to get too clever.

Afterward, she returned to the hallways with a tight coil of energy beneath her skin. Too much to sit still, too little to unravel.

She turned a corner near the east wing and stopped short.

Francois stood alone beneath a painted archway, reading a letter. When he saw her, he folded it neatly and tucked it into his coat.

"You look like someone who knows something they can’t say," he said.

Beatrice didn’t smile. "I look like someone with too much to lose."

"And yet, you keep moving forward."

"What else is there?"

He studied her. "You could run."

"And go where? They’d find me."

"I would find you," he said softly.

That silenced her more than it should have. Her mouth opened, then closed again.

She looked away. "They’ll be here soon."

"Your family?"

"Yes."

Francois took a step closer. "Do I need to prepare for a performance?"

"No," she said. "Just watch the edges."

He didn’t press. And somehow, that made it worse.

She left him standing there, and walked the long way back to her chambers.

The package was waiting on her writing desk when she returned to her chambers. Small, black-lacquered, tied with the same ivory ribbon from the dress parcel. She knew what it was before she even unwrapped it.

Inside, nestled in satin, lay a necklace.

Or rather, a collar.

Polished jet stones linked by silver thorns. Cold, elegant, and brutal.

A Da Ville signature, through and through.

Beatrice held it in her hands, running her fingers along the jagged settings. It was meant to match the gown, of course. To complete the image. To make her look like one of them.

She could already hear her mother’s voice behind its selection.

If they must see you, let them see power.

She stared at her reflection in the mirror, pressing the necklace lightly to her collarbone. The weight of it settled like a threat.

This wasn’t an accessory.

It was a leash.

And she would wear it anyway. Because that’s what the game required.

She lowered the necklace and set it back in the box, snapping the lid shut with a little more force than necessary.

Outside, the palace bells chimed for ninth bell.

Almost time for the evening session with the queen’s inner circle. A pre-celebration gathering under the guise of a cultural exhibition. Music, wine, foreign gifts to be presented. She would be expected there. With a smile, with grace. With every piece of the mask polished and uncracked.

She rose, and without a word, reached for the box again.

If they wanted her to wear the crown of her bloodline around her throat, then so be it.

But they’d regret believing it still controlled her.