The Villainess Refuses to Follow the Script-Chapter 72
The palace bloomed with celebration.
Preparations for King Marshall’s birthday were already visible in every corner of court. Silk banners were being hung from the balustrades. Gardeners sculpted hedges into the shapes of stags and hawks. Musicians rehearsed in the west amphitheater, their notes drifting faintly through the halls. The air was perfumed with honeyed wine and anticipation.
Beatrice moved through it like a thread through embroidery. Deliberate, composed, and trying not to unravel.
She’d always known the attempt happened on the king’s birthday. In the novel, it was a clean detail, almost theatrical. A poisoned goblet, a blame too quickly assigned, a war too eagerly accepted.
But in this timeline, everything had shifted. She was at the high table now. Which meant she would be right there when it happened.
And so would they.
Her family would attend in full.
Conrad Da Ville, her father, had already sent word that he would arrive two days prior to the celebration. Her mother, elegant and terrifying, would arrive with him. Even her younger brother, who rarely left the estate was confirmed.
All eyes would be on the birthday banquet.
But her eyes were on the trap beneath it.
She found herself in the royal archives late that afternoon.
Officially, she was researching historic treaties between Vasqueria and Lucenbourg. Unofficially, she was searching for anything that might explain how the original Beatrice had missed the signs.
But the records were clean. Too clean. Every page a carefully preserved story. Every entry sharpened with hindsight.
Nothing about the attempt. Nothing about what Beatrice knew had happened behind the scenes.
She returned the scroll to its slot and turned to leave, only to find someone blocking the archway.
Johanna.
"You’re very quiet lately," she said softly. "Is everything alright?"
Beatrice kept her expression calm. "There is a war forming. Forgive me if I don’t find the palace chatter soothing."
Johanna hesitated. Then she stepped into the room.
"Is it just the war that’s bothering you?" she asked.
Her mouth twitched. "You make it sound like I have other problems."
"I think you do," Johanna said. "But you won’t let anyone close enough to help."
Beatrice returned to the scroll rack. "Some things aren’t meant to be shared."
"That’s not true. You just believe it has to be."
"Why are you here, Johanna?" She turned.
Johanna met her gaze. "Because I want you to know... if you ever do decide to trust someone, I’ll be here."
The words were soft and unthreatening. And somehow, they hurt more than they should have.
Beatrice said nothing.
Johanna nodded once, then left.
The room felt colder after she was gone.
By evening, the palace was humming with rehearsals. Florists were sketching centerpieces. The head steward was overseeing seating arrangements. And seamstresses were darting through corridors with bolts of satin and stress in their eyes.
Beatrice returned to her chambers just past sunset. Lily met her at the door.
"There was a letter, my lady. From your father."
Beatrice stiffened. "Where is it?" 𝕗𝗿𝕖𝐞𝐰𝗲𝕓𝐧𝕠𝕧𝗲𝐥.𝚌𝐨𝚖
"I set it on your desk."
The envelope was sealed with red wax, Da Ville crimson.
She broke it with a knife.
Beatrice,
We expect you to perform adequately during the celebration. Do not embarrass the family. Do not draw suspicion. Everything has been arranged.
Your mother is sending a package ahead. Wear what she selects.
-C
Beatrice read it twice. Then folded it in half, once, twice, until the paper was the size of her palm.
Then she burned it.
The candle flame caught quickly, curling the corners into ash.
She didn’t watch it burn.
Instead, she turned to her journal, the one she kept hidden beneath the loose floorboard under her bed. The one no one knew existed. She flipped to a blank page.
He is coming. They all are. And I will sit with the king while they aim for his throat.
This isn’t strategy.
This is theater. And I am standing center stage with my mouth sewn shut.
She paused. Then added...
I should warn him. I should try. But even if I did, what would he see? A villain at his side and poison on the table.
No one would believe me. Not even Francois.
The ink bled a little where her hand shook.
She closed the journal. Locked it back in place.
Then stood by the window for a long time, watching as the lights in the palace glittered like stars.
They were preparing for a celebration, and she was preparing to survive it.
Whatever the cost.
Later that night, the palace quieted, but her thoughts didn’t.
She lit no candles beyond the one at her desk. Darkness suited her better when the weight of the day clung to her skin like smoke. She leaned against the window frame, arms crossed, watching shadows stretch across the eastern wing.
The room behind her was still, but her reflection in the glass seemed sharper than usual. Less like a girl and more like a consequence.
There was a knock.
She didn’t answer.
The door creaked open anyway, soft and cautious.
"I brought something," Lily said, voice low. "It arrived after supper."
Beatrice didn’t move. "Leave it on the chair."
"It’s a package from your mother, for the party."
Beatrice turned at that.
The package was smaller than she expected. Wrapped in black silk, tied with an ivory ribbon. Her mother’s usual signature.
She took it in silence.
Lily lingered by the door, watching her. "Will you try it on?"
"Later."
"If it doesn’t fit—"
"It will."
Lily gave a shallow bow and left, closing the door without another word.
Beatrice set the parcel down, fingers ghosting over the ribbon.
She didn’t open it. Not yet.
Instead, she returned to the window, hands curling into the fabric of her sleeves.
Somewhere beyond the gardens, near the stables, she saw a figure. Tall, alone. She couldn’t make out the details, but the silhouette was familiar.
Francois.
She should have looked away.
But she didn’t.
Since the summons arrived, she realized what scared her most wasn’t the attack. It wasn’t the poison. It wasn’t even her parents.
It was the possibility that she might survive this.
And have to live with what it would cost.
