The Villainess Refuses to Follow the Script-Chapter 77

The attempt had not been meant to kill.

That much was clear.

In the days following the banquet, the court teetered between panic and paranoia. But the physicians, quiet and precise, confirmed what Beatrice had already suspected. The poison had been designed to rattle, not ruin. Enough to seize the king’s breath. Enough to collapse Beatrice in full view of every noble. But not enough to finish the job.

It had been a warning.

To the crown, to the court. To the world.

Beatrice spent three days recovering. The fever faded slowly, but the ache in her ribs remained. Her thoughts, tangled and slow at first, grew clearer with each hour. And with that clarity came resolve.

She had decided to tell the truth.

Not all of it, not the novel, not the timelines, not the fractured rules of whatever fate had dropped her into this world. But the part that mattered.

The Da Villes had orchestrated the attempt.

She didn’t care if it would end her. She just wanted it to stop. The manipulation, the silence, the careful threading of her life into a blade she couldn’t hold.

So when the summons arrived, delivered by a stiff-faced page, stamped with the queen’s seal, Beatrice didn’t flinch.

She dressed slowly, methodically. No jewels, no rouge. Just black silk and a steady hand.

Lily looked worried, but said nothing.

The royal chamber was colder than usual when she entered. Queen Cecile stood near the far window, flanked by two advisors and a scribe. A single chair had been placed in the center of the room.

Beatrice approached it without pause and sat.

The queen turned.

"Lady Beatrice. You know why you’re here."

Beatrice nodded. "Yes, Your Majesty."

"You’re prepared to speak truthfully?"

"I am."

Her heart thundered. Her palms were ice.

She inhaled.

"The attempt on the king—"

And then her breath stopped.

No warning, no lead-up.

Just pain.

It punched through her like a spike, starting at her ribs, winding up into her throat. Her voice cracked, useless, as her mouth moved again.

"It was—"

Agony.

Her back arched slightly in the chair. Her lungs seized. She couldn’t breathe. Her fingers dug into the fabric of her skirt as her chest burned hotter, tighter..

The words would not come.

Beatrice choked on air, the taste of blood sharp behind her teeth. Her vision narrowed and her ears rang.

The queen stepped forward, alarmed. "Lady Beatrice?"

Beatrice raised a shaking hand. "I—"

But she couldn’t speak.

Not about them.

The pain only receded when she stopped trying. When she sat still, silent, teeth clenched and hands trembling. It took nearly a minute for the burning in her chest to ease.

The queen looked at her, expression unreadable.

"You’re unwell."

Beatrice nodded slowly, breathing hard. "I... I don’t know what happened."

Realization slowly struck her.

She understood it now. The same way she understood the rules of the story without needing to see them written. Whatever force had dropped her into this version of events had made sure she couldn’t shatter it. Not directly.

She couldn’t speak the truth of the Da Villes’ betrayal.

Not to the court, not to the queen. Not to anyone who could change the ending.

Queen Cecile dismissed the others. Slowly and silently.

Then she approached and set a cup of water beside her chair.

"Perhaps another day," she said quietly. "When your body permits it."

Beatrice looked up at her.

"And if it never does?"

Queen Cecile’s gaze did not soften.

"Then you’ll find another way."

Beatrice sat alone long after the queen left.

The pain still echoed faintly beneath her ribs. Not an injury, not quite. Just a boundary.

And now she knew what the game had always required.

Survival, yes. But not the truth.

Never the truth. Not from her.

******

They came that same afternoon.

Not loud, not furious. Just present.

All at once.

Conrad arrived first, sweeping into the infirmary like he owned the air inside it. Ethel followed close behind, silent as always, her gloved hands folded too neatly.

And Magnus. Well, he didn’t bother to hide his displeasure. He lingered by the door, arms crossed, watching Beatrice like she might shatter and take them all with her.

"You spoke with the queen," Lord Conrad said. No preamble, no pleasantries.

Beatrice stayed seated on the edge of the cot. Her hands were folded in her lap, her posture straight, her face unreadable.

"I did."

Ethel’s mouth tightened. "Alone?"

Beatrice gave a single nod.

Conrad didn’t sit. He circled slowly behind her, the way generals walked their maps.

"Do you know how easily that could’ve gone wrong?"

"She asked a question," Beatrice said evenly. "I gave her an answer."

"You should’ve waited," Ethel snapped. "You don’t speak to Cecile alone. Not now, not while suspicion is still in the air."

Beatrice turned toward them, voice calm but firm. "And what would you have me do? Hide behind you? Let her shape the narrative without ever hearing mine?"

"Do you even know what your narrative is?" Magnus cut in.

She flinched, barely. But it was enough.

Conrad stepped closer. "The palace is on fire, Beatrice. Not literally, not yet. But one wrong word and they’ll let it burn just to see who comes crawling out of the ash."

"They don’t trust you," Ethel said. "No matter how many goblets you stole."

Her voice dropped. "They don’t trust any of us."

"Then stop giving them reasons to look harder," Conrad said sharply. "You’ve done enough."

Beatrice stood slowly.

"I didn’t say anything that would endanger us."

"Not yet," Ethel said coldly.

Magnus scoffed. "You’re one fever away from slipping, and we all know it."

"You think I want to be in this position?" Beatrice stepped toward him.

"No," Magnus said. "I think you want to be righteous. And that gets people killed."

The silence that followed was brittle.

Then Conrad turned for the door.

"You’re still under watch. Don’t forget that," he said. "Whatever story the queen’s building, make sure you’re not the ending."

They left one by one, Ethel’s perfume lingering behind like a warning.

Beatrice sat back down, her heart hammering, her mouth dry.

They were scared.

They’d never show it, but they were. Scared of what she knew, scared of what she might say.

Scared of her.

And now, so was she.