The Villainess Refuses to Follow the Script-Chapter 68

The palace’s west gallery was all light and laughter.

It always looked innocent in the morning. Sun pooled across polished floors, courtiers drifting in elegant clusters, the scent of lemon cakes and rosewater filling the air. Today, there was a musical quartet playing softly near the far arch, and a table of diplomatic wives pretending not to gossip near the citrus trees.

Beatrice stepped inside like she belonged there.

And for the first time in a long while, no one tried to argue with that.

She wasn’t late. She wasn’t early. She arrived at the exact right moment, when the attention was just beginning to shift, when eyes had grown bored and needed somewhere new to land.

They landed on her.

She felt it in the change of air. How the laughter dulled, then resumed just a shade louder than before. She moved through it with effortless grace, acknowledging no one until spoken to.

Which didn’t take long.

"Lady Beatrice."

She turned smoothly. It was Johanna.

She looked radiant, as always. Soft green silk gown, her hair braided in a crown, a warm expression that never quite dimmed.

Beatrice hadn’t seen her in days.

"My lady," Beatrice said, cool and poised.

Johanna tilted her head. "You look different today."

Beatrice smiled without showing her teeth.

"It must be the lighting."

"No, it’s something else." Johanna’s gaze didn’t waver. "You’re standing straighter."

That made Beatrice pause, just for a breath.

"New corset," she said lightly. "The steel does most of the work."

Johanna laughed, bright and unguarded. "Well, whatever it is, it suits you."

Others were watching now. Nobles on the edge of their conversations, pretending not to listen. Someone she didn’t recognize made a slow circle around the fruit table, glancing too often.

"Have you recovered?" Johanna asked. "You left the last supper so quickly, I was worried."

Beatrice didn’t blink. "You worry too easily."

"That’s true," Johanna agreed. "But I still do it." 𝑓𝘳𝘦𝑒𝑤𝑒𝘣𝘯ℴ𝘷𝘦𝓁.𝑐𝑜𝑚

Before Beatrice could reply, a new voice cut in from the side.

"Lady Beatrice."

Lord Darius Thorne. Mid-ranking noble. Older. Useless in war but popular in court for his taste in wine and his unnerving ability to remember everyone’s weaknesses.

He bowed with just enough charm to imply nothing good.

"I heard you spoke at the council," he said. "Bold move."

Beatrice inclined her head. "Only a small contribution."

"Modesty in the capital?" Darius smiled. "Careful, it might catch on."

Johanna offered a polite laugh. Beatrice didn’t.

Lord Thorne’s gaze drifted across the gallery, then back to her.

"Rumor says you stole the general’s thunder. That true?"

"Rumor says a great many things," Beatrice replied. "I’ve learned not to take them personally."

"Smart girl." He sipped his wine. "That’ll serve you well."

She offered no reaction.

Darius’ smile held for a moment longer, then slipped away. He turned to greet someone else, leaving the faint trace of his cologne and curiosity behind him.

Beatrice exhaled through her nose.

Johanna gave her a sidelong glance. "He’s harmless. Mostly."

"No one who smiles that much is harmless," Beatrice murmured.

Johanna smiled gently, but it didn’t reach her eyes. "And what about you?"

"Do I smile that much?"

"No," Johanna said. "You don’t."

She didn’t say anything else.

Beatrice excused herself not long after, weaving through the gallery with steady steps. She didn’t rush, she didn’t linger.

But she could feel it now.

The weight of attention wasn’t oppressive. It was strategic.

She’d stepped into the spotlight. Not with fanfare. Not with drama. Just enough to be noticed. And they were noticing.

The nobles. The whispers.

The way Queen Cecile had looked at her and seen not just a courtier, but a calculation.

She reached the far corridor, exhaled slowly, and let herself pause beside the tall windows overlooking the lower terrace.

The glass reflected her faintly. Hair pinned. Shoulders back. Da Ville signet glinting at her hand like a wound that hadn’t scarred yet.

The game had changed. And so had she.

She stayed there a moment longer, watching the sun drift across the stone, before finally turning away, steps quiet, face unreadable, her reflection already gone.

She didn’t return to her chambers. Not yet.

Instead, she walked the long way around the west wing, letting her heels click softly against the marble. No destination, just motion.

The palace was a maze she knew too well. Where to be seen, where to vanish, where even the walls seemed to have ears. But today, she didn’t want to disappear.

She wanted them to see her walking like this. Calm, composed, and alone.

She passed a pair of visiting lords near the sculpture gallery. One gave a polite nod. The other looked like he wanted to speak, then thought better of it.

Good.

The longer they hesitated, the easier it would be to control the story.

When she finally reached the quiet corridor outside the old observatory, her pace slowed. No one ever came here during daylight hours. The windows were narrow, the stone floors cold, and the only sounds were the echo of her own thoughts.

She stood by the narrow arched window at the end of the hall.

Through it, she could just make out the edge of the northern tower.

The Da Ville flag fluttered lazily in the breeze.

Still raised. Still proud.

Still hers.

Beatrice folded her arms, the cold sinking into her sleeves.

She remembered a line from the letter her father had sent, a single sentence she hadn’t dared read aloud.

We are always closer than you think.

At the time, it had seemed like a warning. Now, it felt like a promise. And if they were close, if they were watching, then fine.

Let them watch.

She would give them something to see.

She didn’t move for a long time.

The corridor was quiet, the kind of quiet that hummed beneath the skin. A stillness that didn’t feel safe. Only suspended, like a breath waiting to be held too long.

She let her gaze wander out past the tower.

Somewhere beyond the palace walls, her parents were likely sitting in a room lined with mirrors and shadows, sipping tea from cups etched in gold, speaking about her in the same tone they used for business deals and rainfall. Measured, detached, and predictable.

But she was no longer predictable.

Not to them. Not to anyone.

To the right of the courtyard below, she caught movement. A servant crossing the gravel, then another.

One of them paused. Just long enough to look up at her window.

Not dramatic. Not obvious.

But long enough.

Beatrice didn’t blink.

The servant moved on. So did she.

By the time she returned to her chambers, the air had shifted again.

The fire had been lit in her absence, and her desk had been cleared of the morning’s papers.

Nothing was missing. But the chair had been pushed in an inch too far.

Someone had come in. And someone had left.

She didn’t check the journal.

Not yet.

She walked to the mirror instead, unfastening the clasp at her collar. Then she looked at herself, long and hard.

Not as Beatrice Da Ville. Not as the role she’d inherited.

But as the question Queen Cecile had named her. The problem no one knew how to solve.

And quietly, without smiling, she whispered to the reflection...

"I hope you’re paying attention."

Because if they wanted a villain, she was almost ready to give them one.