The Villainess Refuses to Follow the Script-Chapter 74

By morning, the palace had begun its slow transformation into a stage.

The marble halls no longer echoed with mere footsteps, they carried the weight of velvet trains, the hush of whispered names, the click of foreign boots, and the carefully measured tones of greetings between houses long trained in subtle warfare.

Banners were unfurled from every upper balcony, bearing the crest of visiting nobility and trusted allies. The scent of waxed wood and citrus polish hung heavy in the air.

The gates were open now, and the guests were arriving.

Beatrice watched from the upper gallery, her hands resting lightly on the balustrade as the procession moved through the front court. Carriages gleamed in the winter sun. House banners fluttered. Names were announced by royal heralds with careful pomp.

She recognized many of them. House Feroux from the western provinces, House Calden from the riverlands, even Lord Marelen’s detestable cousin from Iverset, who had once tried to lecture her on the proper tone for noblewomen.

And then...

The House of Lockhart. Johanna’s family.

Their crest, a silver hart leaping over a scroll, was smaller than some of the others, but their carriage rolled in with the confidence of old, stable influence. Their seat of power lay far from the border conflict, untouched by war, untouched by scandal.

Safe. Sheltered. Respected.

Beatrice straightened slightly.

The carriage door opened, and out stepped a woman in rose-colored silk and gloves beaded with seed pearls. Johanna’s mother is tall, graceful and beautiful in the same soft way her daughter was, only more practiced. Her father followed. Blunt-faced and square-shouldered, his gray-streaked hair combed with military precision.

And then Johanna, greeting them with the smooth, practiced calm of someone who had never been rushed in her life.

Beatrice turned before they could look up.

She didn’t need to be caught watching. She had appearances to maintain, after all.

The east wing reception room had been set aside for private greetings. Nobles filtered in slowly throughout the day, many ushered directly to the royal hall for formal welcome, but others were received quietly, especially those whose standing came with nuance.

Like the Lockharts.

Beatrice arrived second. She was not required to attend the greeting, but Queen Cecile had asked for her to be present for certain arrivals. Another move, another message.

She waited beside a gilded mantle, posture effortless, expression unreadable. She wore charcoal blue this time. Cool, precise, a contrast to the ruby red set aside for tomorrow. Her necklace remained locked away.

Johanna entered first, flanked by her parents.

Beatrice inclined her head politely.

"Lady Johanna," she said. "Lord Lockhart. Lady Lockhart."

"Lady Beatrice," Johanna’s mother replied, her tone smooth. "A pleasure."

Johanna stood very still beside them. Her smile was practiced, but not forced. Just... distant.

Lord Lockhart’s gaze flicked briefly over Beatrice’s shoulder.

"I understand you’ll be seated with the royal family tomorrow."

Beatrice stiffened. "Yes."

"A high honor."

"A political one," Beatrice corrected softly. "As most honors tend to be."

There was a beat of silence. Johanna’s mother tilted her head slightly.

"We were under the impression," she said, "that Johanna remained the favored candidate for Crown Prince Francois."

Beatrice smiled then, just enough to be dangerous.

"Favor," she said, "...is a fickle thing. As I’m sure you know."

Johanna looked at her. Not sharply, not accusingly, but with something unreadable in her eyes. Beatrice returned the gaze.

She was not here to fight Johanna. But she would not yield to the family behind her.

The queen entered before the tension could fray further. Smooth as always, her presence cut the air like a knife. She welcomed the Lockharts with diplomatic grace. Eyes flicking once, only once, to Beatrice.

Message received.

She stepped aside as conversation resumed, no longer the centerpiece but still visible enough to remind them all. She was not gone.

Not dismissed.

Still seated. Still standing.

And not by accident.

Later after the formal welcomes had concluded and the corridors returned to something quieter, Beatrice ducked into the antechamber beside the conservatory to catch her breath. The windows here were tall, fogged slightly from the cold outside. Orange trees lined the walls, and the air smelled of soft citrus and wax.

She didn’t expect anyone to follow her. Which was why she didn’t speak immediately when she heard the door open behind her.

Johanna’s reflection appeared in the glass.

"I didn’t tell them," Johanna said. "About the banquet. About your seat."

Beatrice didn’t answer.

"They asked. I said I didn’t know."

"You did know."

"I didn’t think it mattered."

Beatrice turned. "You didn’t think it mattered that your parents believed you are officially named the future queen?"

"I didn’t think it mattered what they believed," Johanna said, voice quiet.

The silence between them stretched.

"It always matters."

Johanna looked down. "I don’t want to be your enemy."

"You’re not," Beatrice said. "But you’re also not neutral."

"Are you in love with him?"

Beatrice stiffened.

Johanna looked up. "Francois."

It was a question meant to hurt. Or maybe not. Maybe it was meant to clarify.

Beatrice didn’t lie.

"I don’t know," she said. "But I don’t trust it. And I won’t lean on it."

"Then what do you want from him?"

Beatrice stepped closer.

"To see me," she said. "Not what I represent."

Beatrice lingered in the corridor long after Johanna had excused herself. Her gaze drifting to the carved archway at the end of the hall.

She could hear the sound of a string ensemble warming up from the music chamber. Soon, they would play for the arrivals. A polite overture for what would become a political theater of whispers and wine.

She made her way toward the west gallery. A few nobles had begun to gather there already, the early birds and eager strategists. Two lords from the southern provinces were engaged in a quiet debate over military provisioning. A lady from the Valtine border stood near the windows, absently watching the arrival procession unfold in the courtyard below.

Beatrice stopped beside her.

"They will all try to measure you before midnight," the woman said without turning. "Best give them nothing to hold on to."

Beatrice gave a soft exhale. "Is that advice or experience?"

The woman looked at her then. Older and regal. The faintest echo of weariness around her eyes.

"Both."

Then she nodded and moved on, disappearing into the deeper folds of court.

Beatrice didn’t follow. Instead, she stepped to the window and watched the procession herself.

Another carriage had arrived. Gold-trimmed, northern make. One of the imperial envoys, likely. And behind it, no mistake, a Da Ville crest.

Not her father’s.

Magnus. Her brother. 𝒇𝙧𝙚𝓮𝙬𝙚𝓫𝒏𝓸𝓿𝓮𝒍.𝓬𝙤𝓶

She didn’t move, but her hand curled slightly on the windowsill.

"Lady Beatrice," a soft voice called from behind.

She turned.

Francois.

He didn’t ask what she was looking at. He didn’t need to.

"They’re arriving sooner than planned," she whispered.

"They’re making sure everyone sees them," Francois replied. "And you."

Beatrice gave a tight nod.

The bells tolled again. Tomorrow, the court would bow before the king.

Tonight, they would circle each other like wolves in velvet.

And Beatrice, she would stand in the center.

Unflinching.