The Villainess Refuses to Follow the Script-Chapter 87

The Grand Hall had not looked like this in decades.

Its high arched ceiling had been draped with pale silk and glittering banners. Candlelight flickered across marble columns. The floor gleamed like a mirror beneath the shoes of nobility. Music drifted in from a hidden ensemble, the melody stately but warm.

The betrothal of a crown prince was always a matter of spectacle. But this... this was declaration of power laid bare and dressed in gold.

Beatrice stood in the antechamber just beyond the Grand Hall, her gown a deep, midnight shade that bled into the shadows. Its neckline was modest, but the shoulders were cut sharp, the fabric heavy with embroidery in silver thread. The rose pin rested just above her pulse.

Lily adjusted the folds one last time, her fingers shaking.

"They won’t forget this entrance."

"That’s the point," Beatrice said.

Francois was already inside. She had heard the cheers when he entered.

"Ready?" Lily whispered.

Beatrice nodded.

The steward opened the doors. And the room turned.

She stepped into the light and into the hush that followed it.

Hundreds of eyes, dozens of expressions. Surprise, admiration, and a few hidden sneers. But no one spoke. No one interrupted.

The crown prince was waiting at the far end, beneath a silver banner bearing the royal crest.

Beatrice walked slowly, every step deliberate. As she reached the dais, Francois extended his hand.

She took it.

Then the king and queen rose.

"By the authority of the crown," King Marshall said, his voice clear and unflinching, "we recognize the formal betrothal of Crown Prince Francois and Lady Beatrice Da Ville. Let the court witness."

And witness they did.

The hall filled with applause. Some hesitant, some thunderous. From the front rows, generals and councilmen nodded. From the galleries above, the minor houses craned their necks for a better view.

Conrad and Ethel Da Ville stood near the front, both dressed in ceremonial crimson. Their expressions unreadable.

But present.

A sign to the court that the crown and the Da Villes were aligned now. At least on paper.

Magnus was beside them, jaw tight. He hadn’t spoken to her since they have arrived.

Francois leaned toward her as they stepped down from the dais.

"Now the easy part’s over."

"You mean the part where no one tries to poison us?" Beatrice laughed softly under her breath.

"Yet."

Servants swept through the room with wine and citrus water, trays of sugared almonds and marbled cheeses. Courtiers flowed forward with carefully crafted congratulations. Lady Clarisse complimented her embroidery. Lord Calden asked if she’d considered a personal sigil.

Beatrice answered with charm and poise. But never warmth.

She didn’t have that to spare.

Only once did she glance toward her parents.

Conrad nodded once, Ethel didn’t blink. While her brother looked away.

Beatrice let it go.

This was her night and her moment. Let them rot in the corners of it.

Francois didn’t leave her side. Not once.

When they paused beside the marble fountain to take a moment, he offered her a glass of wine, then pulled her just out of earshot of the crowd.

"You wore the pin," he said quietly.

Beatrice touched it briefly. "It felt right."

"It suits you."

"It’s not my house color."

"No," Francois said, smiling faintly. "It’s yours."

They stood in silence as another toast began at the front of the hall. Beatrice let her fingers rest lightly against the glass.

She didn’t feel like the villain anymore. She didn’t feel like the heroine either.

But she felt seen. And for now, that was enough.

The orchestra swelled again, something sweeping, formal, full of strings and pride. Courtiers resumed their polite chatter, but the air hadn’t softened. Not truly. Too many were still watching her.

Beatrice felt it in her spine. The tilt of every head when she turned. The silence that followed her laughter. The space that opened around her, like people couldn’t quite decide whether she was something sacred or a threat.

Francois didn’t move from her side. When he refilled her glass, his fingers brushed hers. When she stepped toward the dais to greet a minor duke, his presence followed. Unspoken and unyielding.

And across the ballroom, her family remained watching.

But she gave them nothing.

"You’ve become very good at this," Francois murmured as another toast was raised, this one from a baron with no teeth and too many titles.

"At what?" she asked, tone even.

"The performance, the restraint. The game."

"I was raised for it." Beatrice kept her eyes on the dance floor.

"Yes," Francois said softly. "But I wonder if they ever expected you to win."

She turned to him.

"I didn’t win," she said. "Not yet."

His gaze didn’t leave hers.

"We’ll win together."

She looked away, just long enough to steady her breath.

Across the ballroom, servants began circulating with silver trays of honeyed cakes and sliced pears soaked in mulled wine. The music shifted. Lighter now, meant for slower dances and easy laughter.

A courtier approached Francois with a low bow, murmuring something about a diplomat’s request. He excused himself with a light touch to her shoulder, promising to return.

Beatrice took the moment to breathe.

She stepped out onto the edge of the open-air balcony just beyond the ballroom, the night wind cool against her neck. Voices hummed behind her. Stars glimmered ahead.

She needed the silence, just for a moment.

But then...

"I hope you know what you’re doing," Magnus said quietly behind her.

Beatrice didn’t turn. "Always."

"Really?" he asked, stepping closer. "Because from where I’m standing, you look like someone walking across a frozen lake hoping it doesn’t crack."

"Funny," she murmured. "I was thinking the same thing about you."

"Be careful, sister. The closer you stand to the flame, the harder it’ll be to pretend you’re not the one holding the match."

He walked away before she could answer.

She stayed outside a while longer. Just long enough to remember what power tasted like when it wasn’t poisoned.

And when she finally returned inside, the whole room seemed to shift again. Tilting slightly toward her, like the story had already decided which way the wind was blowing.