The Villainess Refuses to Follow the Script-Chapter 75

The birthday banquet shimmered like something out of myth.

The grand ballroom had been transformed into a portrait of opulence. Chandeliers blazing with hundreds of candles, the floors polished to a mirror shine, and tables dressed in embroidered silks and gold-rimmed glass. Musicians played at the far end beneath an arch of white roses. Guests filled the hall like pieces on a chessboard, each one placed deliberately.

And at the high table, under the eye of every watching noble, Beatrice sat beside the king.

Her gown clung like a second skin. Deep crimson, the collar of black jet thorns gleaming at her throat. Her mother’s necklace. Her father’s design. She wore it like a chain and dared anyone to pull.

The king, resplendent in black and gold, raised his goblet for the first toast of the night. Beatrice’s hand moved before she could think.

"Allow me, Your Majesty," she said, lifting the goblet delicately from his fingers.

King Marshall blinked. "Ah. Very kind."

She smiled tightly, and took a sip.

Not poisoned. Not yet.

The servants returned with refills. This time, a young page approached the king with a tray of four goblets. Beatrice rose slightly in her seat.

"Thirsty work, these celebrations," she said lightly, and picked the one nearest the king. She drank without hesitation.

The page hesitated. The king arched an eyebrow. The queen said nothing, but Beatrice could feel Queen Cecile’s gaze slice into her.

Francois, seated one place down, shot her a sharp look.

Beatrice ignored it.

Third round. Another tray, this time silver, this time poured by one of the Da Ville stewards.

Absolutely not.

She rose fully from her seat this time.

"Forgive me, Your Majesty," she said, voice sweet. "This one looks over-poured. We wouldn’t want a spill."

She took it. Sipped, and set it back.

The king laughed, bemused. "You’re quite diligent tonight, Lady Beatrice."

"I was raised to be thorough," she replied, trying not to breathe too fast.

Her tongue felt faintly numb.

Not enough to kill. Not enough to floor her, but something. She swallowed it.

More rounds. More passes. Some she intercepted with grace. Others, she bumped from the king’s reach, pretending not to notice her own clumsiness.

"My apologies," she said once, feigning embarrassment as a goblet tipped and spilled across her place setting. "These sleeves are impossible."

Queen Cecile raised one perfect brow. Francois’ knuckles were white against his fork.

She drank four more times before the main course. Her head buzzed. Her heartbeat echoed oddly in her throat.

But she was still sitting. Still smiling.

The king had not touched a single cup.

Across the room, she saw her father watching.

He did not smile.

By the end of the third course, Beatrice had swayed once against the table and blamed the wine. The steward had offered to bring her water but she declined.

Her mother had not looked at her all night.

Just past the serving of the spiced pears, the goblet came again. Gold this time, jeweled at the stem. Ceremonial.

The final toast.

Beatrice stood before it even reached the king’s hand.

She picked it up and turned to the room.

"To His Majesty," she said clearly. "Long may he reign."

She drank, and the burn down her throat was sharper this time.

She smiled through it.

The nobles applauded.

King Marshall raised his own, untouched glass.

And drank.

Beat rice stared.Her limbs prickled with heat.

Across the table, her brother Magnus frowned. Not at her, but at the king.

And Beatrice realized. This wasn’t the cup.

It had been the pears.

The king blinked once.

Paused.

Then smiled.

The room roared with cheer.

Beatrice, light-headed and furious, sat back down.

Francois leaned close. "What the hell are you doing?"

She didn’t answer.

Because her mouth was numb. Because her body had begun to shake.

And because across the room, her father stood and clapped, expression calm.

As if he hadn’t just tried to murder a king.

As if his daughter hadn’t just eaten the proof.

Beatrice didn’t realize how warm her limbs had gotten until her fingers slipped against the stem of her goblet. She’d lost count of how many she’d stolen. Nine? Ten? The wine was heavier now, sloshing sluggishly in her gut. Her mouth felt dry. Her pulse too loud.

And still, the goblets kept coming.

The banquet blurred. Laughter echoed at strange angles. The chandeliers above her glittered like falling glass. Somewhere nearby, the queen was laughing lightly at a diplomat’s story. Francois was saying something to her, but the words ran like water over her ears.

Her hand twitched.

Another goblet was placed in front of the king.

Beatrice reached for it. Too late.

King Marshall lifted it before she could stop him, raising it toward a toast she hadn’t heard. His eyes swept the table once, Briefly, distractedly, and then he drank.

It was only half a sip. But it was enough.

Beatrice stared at the cup in his hand.

And then she felt it.

The roll in her stomach. The slow, creeping heat in her neck. Her throat thickened. Her vision spun sideways.

The wine. Not all of it was clean.

The king turned to her. Just slightly, just enough, and she watched his eyes widen.

He collapsed forward with a dull thud.

Gasps erupted across the hall.

Beatrice tried to stand. Her knees buckled.

Someone shouted. A scream broke. Guards moved. Cutlery clattered.

The world tilted violently to the left as Beatrice fell to the ground beside the king’s chair, her head striking marble. Everything sounded distant now, like she was hearing it through water. Someone grabbed her shoulders.

She tried to speak. "I—"

Darkness surged up from her chest.

And Beatrice Da Ville, too full of wine and secrets, slipped into it.

Voices blurred like storm winds in a hallway. Boots scraped. Goblets shattered. Somewhere far away, someone was yelling for a physician.

Beatrice didn’t feel the marble under her cheek. She only felt cold.

Cold, and a strange, buzzing numbness moving up her arms like static.

"Lady Beatrice—"

That voice was close. Familiar, low, and frantic.

She tried to open her eyes. Nothing. Her lashes twitched, but the light behind them remained black.

"She’s breathing," someone said. "She’s... she’s breathing—"

"She drank from every cup," another voice snapped. "I watched her. She was... she kept—"

Hands at her shoulder. The weight of pressure on her chest. Someone rolled her onto her back, and the cold marble met her spine like a second heartbeat.

She choked on her own breath.

Coughed once.

The pain was sudden and sharp. Her ribs felt like they were splitting apart. The air tasted sour, metal and crushed berries.

"Beatrice."

His hands were on her face. She felt the brush of his gloves, then bare fingers. One cradled behind her neck, the other resting just under her jaw.

"Open your eyes."

She did. Barely.

The chandelier above her was fractured. She blinked, and it swam into two, then four. Her vision narrowed to a single shape kneeling above her.

Francois.

He looked terrified.

"Don’t move," he said.

Her mouth opened, but nothing came out. She turned her head slightly, and saw the king.

Unmoving. Pale.

Queen Cecile knelt beside him, her composure cracked at the edges. Her hand hovered over his arm, as if unsure whether to touch or command.

"Is he...?" Beatrice croaked, voice shredded.

"They’re trying," Francois said. "You’re going to be—"

Beatrice coughed again, harder this time.

Her body convulsed once, and something warm rose in her throat. She turned sharply to the side just before she vomited wine and bile onto the floor.

A courtier shrieked.

Beatrice shook as Francois caught her by the shoulders again, steadying her upright.

"What happened?" he whispered. "What did you.... what did you do?"

Her eyes flicked to him. And in a breathless rasp, she said...

"I missed one."

He stared at her. For a heartbeat, he looked like he didn’t understand.

Then he did.

And the horror that crossed his face was colder than any poison.

"You knew?" he whispered.

She didn’t answer. Not because she couldn’t. But because her body gave out again, slumping hard against his chest.

Behind them, chaos reigned. Guards rushing to lock the doors, nobles shouting for answers, the queen rising with fire in her eyes.

The crown had just been pierced.

And Beatrice was the only one who knew who had sharpened the blade.