The Villainess Refuses to Follow the Script-Chapter 97

Beatrice barely slept.

The hours bled together in a fog of pacing, cold tea, and the occasional scrape of Elisha darting across the floor. She wasn’t sure if it was anger, or fear, or something worse that kept her heart thudding in her ears.

By morning, the palace had tightened around her.

Two guards were stationed outside her door at all times. Meals were brought by nameless stewards who said nothing, did nothing except bow and retreat. Lily was barred from entering, her familiar knock never came.

The isolation gnawed at her faster than she expected.

Beatrice spent the morning listlessly pushing food around her plate, listening to the muted sounds of the court shifting uneasily beyond her walls.

The Da Villes arrived by midday.

She caught only whispers through the door, noisy preparations at the front gates, low thud of heavy carriages, and the clash of boots against stone. Their estate was closer to the capital than the Lockhart lands, and Beatrice knew her family would use that speed to seize every opportunity.

By late afternoon, another knock at her door came. This time, it was one of the royal guards.

"Lady Beatrice," he announced stiffly. "You are requested to present yourself in the west hall."

Beatrice smoothed her skirts automatically. "Am I still under house arrest?"

"Not once you leave this room," he said.

Confusion scraped along her spine. She followed without question, Elisha watching her go with wide, blinking eyes.

The west hall was colder than she remembered.

Queen Cecile waited alone, no king or council. The queen’s expression was guarded, mouth set into a line that hinted at dissatisfaction she hadn’t bothered to mask.

"Your house arrest," the queen said without preamble, "is lifted."

Beatrice exhaled in relief. "Thank you, Your Majesty."

"Not because you’ve been absolved," the queen added sharply. "But because we cannot afford the optics."

Of course.

Keeping the crown prince’s betrothed locked away would be a political embarrassment Vasqueria could not afford. Not with tensions high and enemies watching. Whether they trusted her or not, they needed her visible and untarnished.

"You will conduct yourself with restraint," Queen Cecile warned. "You will not speak publicly of the investigation. You will remain available should further questioning arise."

"I understand."

The queen studied her for a long moment. "I pray you do."

Beatrice curtsied, shallow but perfect, and left before her legs could betray her.

She didn’t return to her rooms immediately. Instead, she made her way to the small receiving parlor where she knew her parents would be housed during their stay.

The door was ajar. She knocked once and stepped inside.

Conrad and Ethel Da Ville rose to greet her. Her father looked utterly unbothered, his tailored coat pristine, his silver hair combed back without a strand out of place. Her mother offered a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

"Beatrice," Conrad said, opening his arms briefly before dropping them. "Well timed."

"We heard," Ethel said smoothly, "...about the situation."

"It’s being handled," Conrad added, voice almost bored. "Magnus was detained this morning." 𝗳𝚛𝗲𝕖𝚠𝚎𝚋𝗻𝗼𝕧𝗲𝐥.𝚌𝚘𝐦

Beatrice felt her stomach lurch. "Magnus?"

"Of course," her father said. "Better to give them a culprit they recognize."

Her brother, stupid and arrogant Magnus, taken in chains while she stood free. The guilt was there, a faint pulse under her ribs, but she forced it down.

"And you?" Ethel asked. "Are you ready to behave properly until this storm passes?"

Beatrice said nothing.

"Good," Conrad said, as if she’d answered. "Because it will pass."

He moved to the sideboard, pouring himself a small glass of port.

"We took precautions," he said lightly, "to ensure the right story is told."

Her mouth went dry. "What did you do?"

Her father sipped the port, savoring it.

"A document," he said. "Something sensitive, from Lucenbourg."

Ethel’s smile sharpened.

"It will be found among their things when they arrive," her mother said.

"A letter," Conrad continued, "bearing the Lucenbourg war seal. Real enough. One of their generals sent it months ago. It fell into our possession during... business."

He gave a small, amused shrug.

"Now," he said, "it will be their disgrace."

The full weight of what he meant settled heavily in her chest.

"You—" Beatrice struggled for words. "You planted it?"

"We corrected the narrative," Ethel corrected coldly. "That family’s Lucenbourg roots were always their weakness. We simply... exposed it."

"They won’t be able to prove anything," Conrad said, pleased. "Not after the inspection."

Beatrice closed her eyes briefly.

"You should rest," her mother said coolly. "Look pleasant. When this is done, you’ll be a queen."

Beatrice turned on her heel and left without another word.

She made it back to her chambers before the wave of nausea finally broke loose. She stumbled to the basin, gripping the porcelain edge hard enough that her knuckles ached.

Elisha meowed from the bed, sensing her distress but not knowing what to do.

Beatrice forced herself upright, washed her face in cold water, and gritted her teeth against the tremor in her hands.

There would be no undoing this. Her family had set the stage. The play was already moving.

All she could do now was survive it.

And pray in the small, hollowed-out space where she still kept her last scraps of belief.... that Francois would not look at her when this was over and see a stranger staring back.

Beatrice paced the room for what felt like hours.

The sun dipped lower beyond her balcony, casting long, skeletal shadows across the floor. Elisha chased them lazily, unaware of the turmoil knotting tighter inside her.

By the time another knock came, it was already dark. She braced herself, expecting another faceless steward, but when the door swung open, it was Francois.

He stepped inside quietly, closing the door behind him, his expression unreadable in the dim light.

"You shouldn’t be here," Beatrice said, her voice more brittle than she’d meant.

Francois said nothing at first. He crossed to her, slow and careful, like she was a glass figure he wasn’t sure how to hold.

"Are you all right?" he asked finally.

She gave a thin smile. "Define all right."

He almost smiled back. Instead, he reached out and brushed a loose curl from her forehead.

"I’m sorry," he said quietly. "For the way the council handled everything. For... not knowing where to stand."

Beatrice swallowed hard.

"You stood exactly where you needed to," she said. "Where the crown needed you."

That was the difference between them. Francois had obligations stitched into his skin. She had choices, and each one was carving her closer to something unrecognizable.

Francois studied her for a long, heavy moment.

"They’re watching everything now," he said, his voice low. "Every word, every step."

"I know."

"And they’ll expect us to smile through it."

"I can smile," Beatrice said, sharper than she meant.

He smiled then, but it was a sad, tired thing.

Beatrice exhaled slowly, willing her hands to unclench at her sides.

"I don’t want your pity," she said.

"You don’t have it," he replied. "You have my loyalty."

The words landed harder than she was ready for. He stepped back after a beat, sensing the crack in her defenses even if she didn’t show it.

"I’ll see you at the council meeting tomorrow," he hesitated at the door. "I’m glad you’re free."

Beatrice forced herself to nod.

When he was gone, she leaned back against the door, pressing her palms flat to the wood.

She didn’t know how long she stayed like that, listening to the distant churn of the court below. Somewhere, bells rang out again, long and low.

Elisha climbed into her lap when she finally sat by the hearth. The kitten purred against her knees, a soft steady hum against the chaos outside.

Beatrice stroked her absentmindedly, letting her mind run through every possibility and outcome.

The Lockharts wouldn’t fall easily. Lord Lockhart was a shrewd man, and Johanna, naive though she might seem, was no fool.

But timing, pressure, and fear had a way of sharpening suspicion into a weapon. And this time, Beatrice wouldn’t be the one bleeding for it.

The fire crackled low as she reached for her journal. She flipped past pages filled with old memories, old warnings. This time, she didn’t write anything at all.

She simply closed her eyes, and listened to the walls breathing around her, as if the very stone was bracing for the war she knew was coming.

The fire had burned down to embers by the time another knock rattled against her door. Beatrice stiffened, every instinct flashing alert, but it was only a steward this time. He handed her a sealed letter with a deep bow.

"My lady," he said. "From the High Council."

Beatrice waited until he retreated before breaking the seal. It wasn’t long. A formal summons, another council session. First light.

She let the letter fall onto the table.

First light meant they weren’t wasting time waiting for the Lockharts to spin their defenses. First light meant they wanted this blood drawn cleanly, before anyone could reconsider.

Beatrice rose and crossed to the window. Beyond the gardens, the palace grounds shimmered in the starlight, deceptively peaceful. Somewhere past those walls, the Lockharts were arriving, or preparing their excuses. She wondered idly, if Johanna knew yet. If she understood just how quickly favor could rot into suspicion.

A soft scrape behind her made her turn. Elisha, ever curious, was pawing at the hem of her discarded cloak. Beatrice bent and scooped her up, cradling the kitten against her chest.

"You," she whispered, "have better instincts than most of this court."

Elisha purred. A deep, rattling sound that vibrated through her bones. She crossed back to the hearth, settling into the chair once more, and watched the coals dim further.

Tomorrow would not be kind. Tomorrow, lines would be drawn too deep to erase. And she would stand exactly where she had always known she would. Alone, if necessary.

Elisha butted her head under her chin, demanding attention. Beatrice obliged, stroking the soft fur absently.

The fire flickered once more, a final reluctant flare, before sinking into ash. Beatrice stayed awake long after it was gone, staring into the darkness, mapping out every step she would have to take before this was over.