The Villainess Refuses to Follow the Script-Chapter 76

Beatrice woke to the taste of iron and silk.

The world around her had slowed to a murmur. Candlelight flickered against the vaulted ceiling. Her head pulsed. Her ribs ached like someone had shattered them from the inside.

And when she tried to sit up, she found herself cradled against something solid.

"Stay still," Francois said. His voice was tight. Frayed.

She blinked, her vision swam. The smell of wine still clung to her skin.

Somewhere to her left, a physician was shouting orders. Somewhere to her right, she could hear the clatter of armor. Guards were flooding the ballroom like wolves scenting blood.

Then came another voice. Sharp, and cutting.

"Where is my daughter?"

Beatrice flinched.

Footsteps struck the marble like thrown daggers.

"Step aside," Conrad Da Ville barked.

Francois stood, carefully lowering Beatrice onto a velvet bench beside the toppled high table. Her vision cleared just enough to see him. Her father in full Da Ville regalia. Crimson brocade, gold-threaded cloak, and a stare that could freeze fire.

"She’s alive," Francois said tightly. "Barely."

Lord Conrad swept past him. Ethel Da Ville followed, quiet as frost, her gloved hand clutching a scented handkerchief she didn’t need. Magnus trailed behind, eyes narrowed, mouth set.

Conrad knelt beside Beatrice.

"What happened?" he demanded.

She coughed, her throat scraped like rust.

"She stopped him," Francois said.

Ethel’s voice was sharp and cold. "Stopped who?"

Francois looked at her, then at Conrad. "Who do you think?"

The room crackled with tension. Servants hovered, frozen in place. The queen stood across the room with a hand on King Marshall’s shoulder. Physicians worked around her in tense silence. The king still hadn’t moved.

Beatrice leaned forward slowly, her voice raw. "He drank... one. Just one."

Magnus folded his arms. "And you drank the rest?"

Francois turned. "She was protecting him."

"From what?" Ethel asked. "From dinner?"

"From an attempt," Francois snapped.

Beatrice coughed again. Her mother didn’t move.

"You’re suggesting," Conrad said carefully, "that the palace allowed poison to be served to the king? That they seated my daughter beside him and failed to notice?"

"I’m suggesting," Francois said, "that someone knew it would happen. And she tried to stop it."

The air chilled. Conrad rose slowly.

"Then I suggest you find who let that poison into this room before someone decides to make her the scapegoat."

Guards bristled.

"Lord Da Ville," Queen Cecile’s voice rang out, sharp and unmistakable.

All heads turned. The queen approached, her gown trailing like water across the marble.

"Your daughter has risked her life tonight," Queen Cecile said. "But this court will not tolerate threats. Veiled or otherwise, while the king still fights for breath."

"No threat, Your Majesty. Only concern." Conrad bowed, barely.

Queen Cecile’s expression didn’t shift. "That would be more believable had your concern arrived before the blood hit the floor."

Ethel’s lips parted, but said nothing.

Francois stepped forward. "He needs a healer trained in toxins. Not just court physicians."

Queen Cecile nodded once. "It’s already being arranged."

A long silence fell. Then the queen looked at Beatrice. Not with anger, not with pity.

Just calculation.

"You knew," she said softly.

Beatrice nodded.

"And yet you let it play out?"

"I tried to stop it."

"You didn’t tell me."

Beatrice met her gaze, even now. "Would you have listened?"

Silence stretched between them.

Then the queen turned.

"This ballroom is sealed. No one enters or leaves without my command. Lord Da Ville, Lady Ethel, take your daughter and clean her up. But she remains within palace walls, and she will be questioned."

"Not tonight." Francois stepped between them.

Queen Cecile’s eyes narrowed.

He didn’t move. "She’s not a criminal."

"No," the queen said. "But she’s still a Da Ville. And tonight, that means she’s dangerous."

Beatrice closed her eyes, and let them drag her from the room. They moved her through the halls like something sacred or condemned.

Two guards flanked her, more shadow than escort, while Magnus followed behind with unreadable silence. Ethel led the way, her steps brisk, never once looking back. And Conrad walked beside her, not holding her, not speaking, but his presence was a wall between her and the rest of the court.

The corridors were quiet now. Word had already spread like fire under marble. Guests confined to guest wings, envoys sequestered, servants shushed by threat of dismissal. The birthday banquet had ended in bloodless terror. And Beatrice had become its centerpiece.

They brought her to the north wing. Not to her family’s guest chambers, but to an old room used sometimes for visiting nobility recovering from illness. Private and shielded. A place where silence could be curated.

The moment the doors shut behind them, Ethel turned.

"Take off that necklace."

Beatrice didn’t move.

"Now!" Ethel’s voice cut sharper.

With trembling fingers, Beatrice reached up and unfastened the jet collar. The clasp slipped once before releasing. She placed it gently on the table beside her.

Conrad folded his arms. "Tell me exactly what you drank."

Beatrice sank into the velvet chair by the hearth. "I lost count."

Ethel looked ready to slap her. "You what?"

"They kept coming," she said. "I couldn’t tell which tray it was. So I drank every one I could reach."

"And missed the wrong one," Magnus muttered.

Beatrice turned to him. "You noticed."

"I noticed Father watching the king instead of you," Magnus said flatly. "I noticed your hand shaking halfway through the third toast."

"She should’ve warned us," Ethel said, pacing now. "We could’ve—"

"What?" Beatrice snapped. "Stop a plot you planned?"

That silenced the room.

A long, terrible moment passed before Conrad spoke.

"You weren’t supposed to be seated next to him."

Beatrice laughed once, hoarse and broken.

"Then maybe you should’ve sent someone else in my place."

Ethel’s eyes narrowed. "You’re blaming us for your own recklessness?"

"I’m blaming you," Beatrice said, voice rising, "for attempting a public execution and then acting surprised that blood got on your shoes."

Conrad didn’t flinch.

"You protected the king," he said slowly. "That won’t earn you his trust. Only suspicion."

"I wasn’t trying to earn anything."

"You may have cost us everything."

Beatrice stood, too fast.

The room tilted. Magnus moved forward, but she caught herself against the mantle.

"You planned to kill a man in front of half the continent," she said, breathing hard. "And now you’re angry that I refused to sit there and smile through it?"

Conrad stepped closer. "You’re a Da Ville."

"No," she said. "I’m what you made. But not what you own."

His expression cracked, just for a second.

Then the door opened again.

Lily stood there, breathless. "They’ve made up a room for her. In the east infirmary."

Conrad turned. "She’s not going there."

"She has no choice," Lily said. "The queen’s orders. And the physicians are already waiting."

Beatrice met her father’s gaze, steady despite the fever rising behind her eyes.

"I’m going."

"You can’t protect yourself from what happens next," Ethel said coldly.

Beatrice brushed past her. "Then I’ll bleed on my own terms."

She let Lily guide her down the hall, each step heavier than the last. The palace was a ghost of itself now. Dimly lit, cleared of all unnecessary bodies, with only shadows and steel in its corners.

By the time they reached the infirmary, her skin was burning and her vision had narrowed to soft blurs.

A cot waited. White sheets, quiet candlelight, and a single chair by the window.

Beatrice didn’t remember lying down, but she remembered the door opening sometime later.

And the sound of boots.

Not a physician, not a guard.

Francois crossed the room without hesitation. Sat in the chair beside her, still in formal dress, the wine stain on his cuff barely dried. His jaw was set, his hands tight in his lap.

"You should be resting," she rasped.

"I will. When I know you’re breathing properly."

She tried to smirk, but her lips trembled. "I warned you."

"Not enough."

"Are they blaming me yet?" She turned her head on the pillow.

"Some are."

"And you?"

Francois looked at her.

"I watched you fall," he said. "I won’t forget that."

Beatrice blinked, her throat ached. Her hands curled slowly in the sheets.

And this time, finally, she let herself be vulnerable around him.