The Villainess Refuses to Follow the Script-Chapter 66

By the time Beatrice reached her chambers, the weight in her spine had settled into something dense and cold.

She entered without fanfare. The guards didn’t glance at her twice. No servants hovered nearby. No one waiting to flatter or needle.

She preferred it that way.

The door clicked shut behind her, and the moment it did, she exhaled. Slow and sharp, as if she’d been holding her breath for hours.

The stillness of her rooms was intact.

Almost.

Her eyes swept over the space out of habit, the same way she had every morning since arriving at court. Everything looked untouched. The chairs were where she’d left them. The fire was unlit. The curtains slightly parted.

But something was wrong.

It took her another second to realize what it was.

The drawer to her desk, where she kept her journal was open.

Not wide. Not conspicuously. Just barely ajar, as if someone had forgotten to close it properly. But Beatrice knew herself too well to dismiss it.

She crossed the room quickly and pulled the drawer open.

The journal was there. Resting exactly where she’d left it, with the ribbon tucked between yesterday’s pages. She opened it.

Most of it looked untouched.

Until she noticed a page that had been folded back. Sloppily.

She turned to it.

The handwriting was hers. The ink slightly older. A paragraph she didn’t remember writing until she read the first line.

There is a version of me in this story who dies for all the right reasons. This isn’t that version.

Her throat went dry.

That wasn’t something she’d meant to leave visible. That page had been part of a rush of late-night thoughts, scribbled out during one of the nights the palace had been too quiet and her hands had moved faster than her conscience.

Her journal hadn’t been stolen.

But someone had looked. Someone had read it.

Beatrice closed the book slowly. Carefully.

The burn of adrenaline was sudden and sharp. Not panic, but proximity to it. She tried to recall who had entered the room in the last two days.

Lily. A page. The footman from House Da Ville. No one else. No one with enough time.

Unless someone hadn’t needed much time. Unless someone had known exactly what they were looking for.

She clenched her jaw and placed the journal back in the drawer. This time, she locked it. Not with a key, those were too easily copied. But with a custom clasp her father had once installed. Something small, unseen, but unpickable without force.

It made her skin crawl that she hadn’t used it before.

She turned from the desk and crossed the room, pacing without realizing it.

Had they read more?

Had they seen the names?

The war strategies?

The line about Francois?

Beatrice stopped moving.

If it had been Lily, she would’ve said something, subtle, indirect, but something. If it had been a stranger, they would’ve taken the journal itself. Not just opened it.

Which meant whoever it was wanted her to know.

Wanted her to feel watched. And it was working.

She sank slowly into the chair by the fireless hearth. Pressed her fingertips to her temple.

Her thoughts wouldn’t settle.

She’d spent so long walking a careful line, playing the role of the dutiful daughter, the clever noblewoman, the silent reader of a story she already knew the ending to.

But now... now the story was looking back.

The silence broke with a soft knock. She sat up straight.

"Who is it?" she called, voice sharper than intended.

"It’s Lily, my lady."

Beatrice inhaled slowly.

"Come in."

The door opened, and Lily stepped inside, hands folded neatly.

"I came to refresh the fire," she said. "The air’s gone cold."

Beatrice studied her.

Lily didn’t fidget. Didn’t hesitate. Her expression was neutral, voice calm.

"Did anyone come in while I was away?" Beatrice asked.

Lily blinked once. "No, my lady."

"You’re sure?"

"I didn’t leave your door."

Beatrice nodded slowly. "Very well."

Lily moved to the hearth, kneeling to arrange the kindling. Her movements were smooth and practiced.

Beatrice didn’t speak again until Lily was done.

"Lily."

"Yes, my lady?"

"If anyone asks about my journals... or anything I’ve written..."

"I would not speak of it."

Beatrice nodded.

Lily dipped into a short bow. "Shall I bring your lunch?"

"No. I’m not hungry."

"Very well."

She left quietly.

Beatrice remained seated, her eyes fixed on the fire as it began to catch, the first flames licking at the wood like cautious fingers.

She didn’t know what page had been read. But she knew one thing with certainty.

Someone in this palace was beginning to ask the wrong questions. And if they looked too closely, they’d find answers she couldn’t afford to give.

She stayed there long after the fire took. The heat touched her ankles first, then her hands. But it did nothing to thaw the knot forming behind her ribs.

Beatrice wasn’t afraid of exposure. She was afraid of what she might do to avoid it.

Across the room, the journal sat locked and silent. But she could still feel the weight of that single line reverberating inside her.

This isn’t that version.

Whoever had read it, if they understood it, they might dismiss it as melodrama. A passing thought. A noblewoman’s poetic indulgence.

But if they didn’t...

If they read it for what it was?

It was a confession. A declaration.

And a warning.

She rose eventually, walking to the windows and drawing the curtains open fully. The light poured in across the carpet, too gold, too honest.

Below, the courtyard bustled with movement. Squires training. Courtiers lingering. Another performance unfolding beneath her, neat and contained.

She wondered, if she leapt from this window now, would they say she’d slipped? Would they say it was madness? Or would someone, somewhere, finally admit the truth?

That she had been screaming silently for weeks.

She didn’t move, of course. She never did.

Instead, she turned from the window and crossed to the small stand beside her bed. The one drawer there held nothing of consequence, except for the false bottom. 𝚏𝗿𝗲𝐞𝐰𝚎𝕓𝐧𝚘𝘃𝗲𝐥.𝐜𝚘𝕞

From it, she retrieved the second journal.

The one no one knew existed.

This one held nothing tactical. Nothing political. No war maps. No noble names.

Only thoughts.

Dreams. Memories. Fractures in the wall she kept so carefully sealed.

She opened it with steady hands. And for the first time in weeks, she let herself write something honest.

If they come for me, I hope they come quickly. Because if they give me time to prepare...

I won’t go quietly.

She stared at the words.

Then underlined the last sentence.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.