The Villainess Refuses to Follow the Script-Chapter 89

The morning after the betrothal celebration arrived cloaked in gray clouds and a hush that felt far too deliberate.

Beatrice sat by her window with a cup of lukewarm tea in hand, her robe still gathered loose at the waist. The festivities had drained the court overnight. She’d heard only soft footsteps in the corridors so far, no chatter, no laughter. Even the bells seemed to ring slower.

It should’ve been a moment of triumph. Her name had been spoken beside the crown. Her place secured. The kingdom had seen her and not flinched.

But still...

That unspoken dread lingered, like the aftertaste of bad wine.

She dressed slowly. Simple wool, hair half-twisted at the crown, and no jewels. Not today. She wasn’t in the mood to look like something gilded.

Lily entered only once to set down a fresh plate of breakfast, but Beatrice barely touched it.

Instead, after a long moment of stillness, she made her way outside.

The gardens were mostly empty, save for a few groundskeepers pruning the frost-bitten hedges and two young pages struggling to carry a basket of tulip bulbs across the gravel. She let them pass without a word.

She didn’t have a destination in mind, only a desire to walk, to breathe something other than perfume and worry. But as she rounded the bend near the west garden path, she slowed.

Two figures stood just past the rose trellis, caught mid-laughter.

Lila. And Johanna.

The princess wore a pale cloak, her golden curls pinned neatly beneath a silk scarf. Johanna, in contrast, stood with her hands buried in her sleeves, expression bright. Like the past week hadn’t aged her. Like no part of her had been left out in the cold.

Beatrice halted.

They hadn’t seen her.

She watched, just for a moment. Just long enough to catch a snatch of their conversation. Something about a dog they’d rescued as children, one that used to chase the gardeners across the eastern terrace.

Lila’s laugh echoed against the hedge wall.

It was warm. Familiar. The kind of sound you couldn’t earn with strategy. The kind of closeness that only came from years stitched together by secrets and scraped knees.

Beatrice turned away before they noticed. She didn’t know why it stung.

She wasn’t angry. But she was aware, with sudden clarity, that no matter how many gowns she wore or councils she sat in, some doors were already closed to her. Some memories would never be hers to claim.

By the time she reached the east wing terrace, the sky had darkened slightly. The promise of snow, or something like it, drifted in the air.

Francois was already waiting in the private dining hall, seated at a table near the wide glass window. He looked up as she entered and gave a smile that didn’t need to be rehearsed. 𝐟𝗿𝐞𝚎𝚠𝐞𝚋𝕟𝐨𝚟𝐞𝕝.𝕔𝕠𝚖

"You’re late," he said lightly.

"I walked," she replied, shedding her gloves.

His brow arched. "Alone?"

"I wasn’t followed."

"That’s not what I asked."

She took her seat and poured herself a cup of tea.

"I needed air."

Francois didn’t press further. Instead, he gestured toward the small spread laid out between them. Fresh bread, soft cheese, slices of cured meat, and a bowl of winter berries drizzled in syrup.

"The queen says I should eat more," he said with mock solemnity. "Apparently rulers need energy."

Beatrice reached for a slice of bread. "And here I thought self-destruction was fashionable at court."

"Only in the north," he quipped.

They ate quietly for a moment, the silence not awkward, but comfortable. Beatrice allowed herself to sink into it. Into the rhythm of something that felt, for once, personal.

But eventually, Francois broke it.

"I wanted to ask you something."

Beatrice looked up.

He leaned forward, resting his arms against the table. "There’s a naval tour in two days. A brief inspection along the river. We’ll only be gone for the afternoon, but..." His fingers tapped once against the ceramic plate. "Would you come with me?"

She blinked. "To the docks?"

"To the water," he clarified. "The royal skiff will be ready. It’s nothing grand, just a sail down the coast. But I thought—"

He hesitated, which was rare for him.

"I thought it might be good. For us."

Beatrice studied his face.

He wasn’t asking her to make a political appearance. He wasn’t offering a new alliance. He wasn’t trying to craft her into something for show.

He was just asking.

A moment, outside the palace. Outside the corridors and shadows. A breath between Chapters.

"Yes," she said finally. "I’ll come."

Francois smiled, not his public one. Not the one meant for courtiers.

This was a smaller smile. A quieter one.

"I’ll send the details later."

She nodded, finishing her tea. "Good. I’ll dress to terrify the fishermen."

He laughed, genuinely this time. "Please don’t. They’re already superstitious."

"Then they’ll love me."

Their plates were cleared by the staff not long after, and Francois rose to meet his next obligation, something about a trade emissary. Beatrice lingered only a moment longer in the room after he left.

Then slowly, she stood and returned to the window.

From this angle, she could see a sliver of the west garden. The trellis. The frost-covered path. No sign of Johanna or Lila now. Just the wind brushing through empty branches.

Beatrice touched the rose pin at her collar.

Three more days, she thought.

Just three.

She could survive that.

If not, someone else wouldn’t.

She turned away from the window and let her fingers trail along the edge of the table, where a single berry had rolled loose from the bowl. She pressed it gently, watching the syrup bead around her skin like blood before wiping it away with a napkin.

The quiet of the room made her thoughts louder.

Three days.

Three days to maintain control. Three days to keep the seams from showing. Three days to keep Johanna exactly where she belonged. Close, but not curious.

And yet, Beatrice couldn’t shake the feeling that something had already begun to stir. Some wheel turning out of view. The kind of movement she couldn’t trace until it was too late.

A knock interrupted her thoughts.

She turned, expecting Lily, but it was a steward instead, offering a bow.

"A delivery, my lady," he said. "From the palace conservatory. A small gift."

She raised a brow. "From whom?"

"They didn’t say."

Beatrice accepted the parcel. Small, wrapped in dark linen, no card attached. She didn’t open it until she was back in her chambers, seated at her writing desk with the late morning light pouring through the tall windows.

Inside the cloth was a single rose.

Black, velvety. Pruned perfectly, and no thorns.

Beneath it was a slip of paper. No signature or any words. Just a symbol she recognized at once.

A wax-pressed seal. Faint, and smudged.

The Lockhart crest.

Beatrice stared at it, unmoving for a long while.

The message wasn’t clear. But the warning was.