The Villainess Refuses to Follow the Script-Chapter 101

Beatrice did not leave her chambers for four days.

No walks, no visits, no council meetings. Meals went untouched, dresses laid out by Lily each morning were left abandoned on the chairs. Elisha became her only company, curled constantly in her lap or sleeping beside her in the armchair. The kitten didn’t ask questions and didn’t remind her of the bells or the silence that followed them.

She refused to speak to anyone.

On the fifth day, Queen Cecile came.

The guards announced her arrival, but Beatrice didn’t rise. She remained seated by the window, eyes unfocused, lips pressed tight. The queen entered without waiting for permission.

"Four days is long enough," Queen Cecile said, her tone even. "Your grief has its place, but this is not it."

Beatrice turned her face slightly toward the light and said nothing.

The queen crossed the room, her heels soft against the rug. "Do you think I haven’t mourned for the things I’ve allowed? For the people who had to fall for the crown to rise?"

She remained silent.

"You are going to be queen," she continued, voice sharper now. "And queens do not have the luxury of breaking."

Beatrice met her eyes then, and something in her gaze made the queen pause.

"You came here to scold me," Beatrice said, voice dry and low. "Not to comfort."

"I came here to remind you of your role. You were not the executioner."

Beatrice looked back out the window. "No, I was the reason."

The queen didn’t argue. When she left, the silence returned and it was heavier than before.

Later that day, the Da Villes finally left the palace. Carriages rolled away under gray skies. Conrad had business elsewhere. Ethel did not say goodbye. Only Magnus remained, citing Beatrice’s health as his reason. But she knew better.

He stayed because he didn’t trust her.

Preparations for the wedding has began. Meetings were held in drawing rooms Beatrice refused to enter. Seamstresses brought fabric samples to her door while planners spoke through the wood like she was a locked doll.

She gave no opinions or any approval.

Francois came to her one evening with a new stack of proposals. A gold ribbon trailed from the edge of the folder. He didn’t mention the ceremony or the guest list. Instead, he sat beside her on the rug, Elisha between them, batting lazily at the corner of his coat.

"I don’t want to talk about the wedding," she said quietly.

"Then let’s talk about after."

Beatrice looked at him.

Francois stared down at the kitten. "The way you held Lila when she cried. The way you talk to Elisha like she understands you. You’ll be a good mother."

Something in her chest twisted.

"Not just to children," he added. "To a kingdom, too. To a people who will need someone steady."

Beatrice blinked hard. The weight of his words pressed against the edges of her grief.

That night, after Francois left, she pulled out her journals. She turned the pages slowly and carefully. But the lines had faded after her last entry. By the end, there was nothing.

The story had ended.

So why hadn’t she woken up?

The next morning, Beatrice requested an audience with the king and queen.

"I want to go home," she said.

Queen Cecile raised a brow. "To your estate?"

"For a week. No more. I need... clarity."

King Marshall nodded slowly. "Very well. Your brother shall accompany you."

Francois frowned. "I should go."

"You can’t," Beatrice said softly. "The border still needs you."

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue further.

They departed the next day.

The Da Ville estate rose like a shadow from the hills, its black stone towers and curling iron gates exactly as she remembered. But the moment her carriage stopped at the entrance, the household erupted with life.

Helpers rushed to greet her. Stableboys grinned, and maids curtsied.

She blinked at the warmth. This wasn’t what the book described. It spoke of terror, of whispering servants and lowered gazes. But the people here, they looked at her with kindness.

Only Ethel met her with frost.

"You look thinner," her mother remarked. "Try not to faint again."

Beatrice didn’t respond. She only climbed the stairs and entered the halls of her childhood.

It smelled the same. Polished wood, lilies in vases. The same dark paintings. But something had changed.

Or maybe it was her.

That afternoon, she wandered.

She followed familiar corridors to the back of the estate, to the wide stone path that led to the stables.

Dust clung to the wooden walls. A few stablehands recognized her and bowed. She passed them quietly, drawn toward the last stall.

Inside, a white mare stood tall and still. Beatrice reached out, brushing a hand along its flank.

Then it happened.

A flash.

A memory not hers.

A boy. No.... a young man. Hands rough, eyes warm. Straw in his hair. Standing in this same stall, smiling at her like she was the only light in a dark world.

The image vanished.

Beatrice staggered back. She didn’t know that face, and didn’t recognize that feeling.

Her hand curled against her chest as she looked at the mare again.

The stall. The light cutting through the beams above.

"What was that?" She whispered the question into the dust.

A sharp voice broke the silence.

"Supper’s ready."

Magnus stood at the doorway, eyes narrow.

Beatrice straightened. "I’ll be there shortly."

He didn’t move as he stared at her.

And in his eyes, she saw it.

Fear.

Beatrice didn’t sleep that night.

She lay in the bed she had once called her own. Larger than it needed to be, the mattress too stiff, the drapes too heavy.

The memory in the stable haunted her.

It hadn’t been vivid. Just a flicker, a warmth behind the ribs. The curve of a grin. Familiarity that didn’t belong to her, but had lived here once.

She pressed a palm to her chest and whispered into the darkness, "Who were you?"

Elisha curled beside her feet, unbothered. Magnus was in the guest wing, one floor below. Likely pacing, listening for signs of rebellion. He didn’t trust her here. And maybe he was right not to.

The next morning, she requested the household staff leave her alone until midday. No calls, no visitors, and no meals.

She needed time to sort what was hers and what wasn’t.

She wandered again. This time, into the drawing rooms, the west library, the winter garden. Each one pressing something subtle against the inside of her skull.

In the blue parlor, she paused.

The mirror over the mantel was covered in a heavy black cloth. The kind used for mourning. She frowned. It hadn’t been there the last time she woke up here.

She reached up slowly and pulled the cloth down and her own reflection stared back.

But something was wrong.

The wallpaper behind her, the pattern didn’t match the room. It was older. The upholstery, the chair legs, everything in the reflection belonged to a time before she was born.

She turned around. The room behind her was modern and polished. The one in the mirror... aged.

As if the glass had remembered a different life. She staggered back, letting the cloth fall into place once more.

Her pulse raced. And her throat ached.

Not pain like a cough. But pain like resistance. Like something buried too deep, trying to surface.

She fled the room.

Outside, the afternoon wind was sharp. The gardens had gone mostly dormant, early frost curling over the tops of the hedges. Beatrice walked without direction. She let her feet take her around the rose labyrinth, down past the willow pond, until she came to the servants’ quarter gates.

Voices floated on the wind. Low laughter, the clatter of pans, someone calling out in song.

Beatrice paused at the edge. A few of the older staff were gathered around a table set near the back wall. A pot of tea sat at the center, steam curling like smoke.

She stepped into view and all of them straightened immediately.

"Lady Beatrice!" One of the maids rushed forward, wringing her apron in her hands. "We didn’t know you’d be walking this far."

"I needed air," Beatrice said softly.

Another maid, Alma, gave a cautious smile. "Would you like to sit with us?"

Beatrice nodded.

The staff exchanged glances, surprised but not displeased. A chair was offered as tea was poured.

They spoke gently at first about weather, travel, and the palace garden’s lack of decent pears. Then the stories began.

"You used to hide in the pantries, my lady," Alma said, smiling fondly. "Always with a book. Even when your tutors were waiting in the library."

Beatrice blinked. "I did?"

"You did," the maid slightly frowned. "M-mistress Ethel used to drag you out b-by the wrist."

Her smile faltered slightly.

"She wasn’t... kind to you, back then," Ida said, one of the helpers.

Beatrice continued to listen and didn’t interrupt.

"I remember once," Alma said carefully, "she made you stand outside after dinner. Said you were too proud to eat with your family."

Another voice chimed in. "She told us not to offer you food. But one of the kitchen boys snuck you bread through the cellar gate."

Her breath hitched.

"Do you remember who?" she asked quietly.

Alma tilted her head, confused. "Oh, he’s gone now. Long gone. He got in trouble soon after. Something with the horses. Left the estate before winter hit."

Her chest tightened.

The boy in the stall. Could it be him?

"I think his name was Thom," Ida added after a moment. "Thomas, maybe."

Beatrice stood too quickly. The staff scrambled back.

"My lady?" Alma asked, startled.

"I’m fine. Thank you for the tea."

Then she left without waiting for a reply.

Back in her chambers, she paced. Her fingers twitched as her mind clawed at the name.

Thomas.

A name she’d never read in the book. A name she’d never spoken aloud.

But one her body knew.

She turned to her armoire and rifled through the drawers until she found it. A small tin box tucked behind silk gloves and embroidered shawls. She didn’t know what she was looking for, only that something might be here.

Inside were trinkets and childhood things. An old ribbon. A cracked brooch. And at the bottom, a folded scrap of parchment.

She opened it slowly.

The ink had faded but she could still make out a few words.

"My lady, keep this. I’ll meet you by the stables at midnight. Don’t be late. We’ll leave together."

No signature.

Her hands trembled.

Someone had loved her once. Someone she wasn’t meant to love back. Someone who vanished.

Her heart pounded.

Was this why her throat locked shut whenever she tried to speak the truth?

Was this the root of the curse?

She didn’t know, but it felt close. Like a thread tugging at the edge of her memories.

A knock at the door startled her. Magnus entered without waiting. He looked annoyed, but beneath it was unease.

"Supper is ready," he said flatly. "You didn’t eat this morning."

Beatrice tucked the letter into her sleeve.

"Fine," she said.

He studied her. "What have you been doing?"

"Remembering," she said, brushing past him.

And in her mind, a door creaked open just a little wider.