The Villainess Refuses to Follow the Script-Chapter 80

The wine was lighter than Beatrice expected. Crisp and subtle, not unlike the queen herself.

The rest of dinner unfolded with surprising ease. There were no servants, no guards posted near the doors. Just three chairs, three people, and the low hum of a fireplace behind them.

For a long while, they spoke of nothing.

Beatrice didn’t mind. Silence, she had learned, was not the absence of power. It was its quiet display.

But then King Marshall cleared his throat and leaned forward with the sort of mischievous gleam that belonged more to a stage actor than a sovereign.

"So," he said, cutting into a roasted fig with perfect indifference, "how long have you been secretly in love with my son?"

Beatrice nearly choked on her wine.

Queen Cecile didn’t blink. "Marshall."

"What?" he said, shrugging. "I’m old, not dead. I’ve heard every version of what had transpired in the courtyard. The whole she’s my queen now bit. Very dramatic. Frankly, it upstaged the assassination attempt."

Beatrice stared at him, half-horrified. "Your Majesty...?"

"You can say Marshall. We’ve had poison together now, that makes us friends."

Beatrice blinked. Then laughed softly, startled. She didn’t mean to. It just slipped out.

Queen Cecile gave her husband a slow look. "She’s not here to entertain you."

"She entertained the entire court," he said cheerfully. "I haven’t seen this much whispering since Duke Ellery wore velvet breeches to a funeral."

Beatrice shook her head, exasperated. "I’m not—" she paused. "It’s not like that."

"Not yet?" King Marshall asked.

"I don’t know," she admitted.

The room quieted.

Queen Cecile took a slow sip of her wine and said, "He was different after you collapsed."

Beatrice looked up.

The queen didn’t meet her eyes. "Francois has always carried the crown like a weight. Not a right. He’s steady, obedient, and clever. But I’ve never seen him move without calculation."

"Until the courtyard," Beatrice murmured.

"Until you."

"You’re trouble for him. I like that." King Marshall’s tone softened, still teasing, but not unkind.

"I didn’t mean to be."

"Oh, nobody ever does," he said with a wink.

Beatrice hesitated. Then leaned back slightly in her chair.

"I didn’t plan any of this."

"No one plans a crown," Queen Cecile said. "They survive it."

Beatrice stared down at her plate, half-finished. The food had long gone cold, but the weight of the conversation was only now settling.

"I don’t know how to love someone," she said quietly. "Not like this. Not when it’s visible."

King Marshall was quiet for a moment. Then he leaned back with a sigh. "Well, that’s unfortunate. Because he’s already decided you’re it."

She looked up.

Queen Cecile nodded once. "He has."

"What if I break him?" Beatrice’s voice was barely above a whisper.

"You won’t," Queen Cecile said. "But you might harden him."

"And that’s worse?"

"Not if he stays sharp."

King Marshall refilled his glass. "You’ll learn, eventually. It’s not about getting it perfect. It’s about making sure neither of you bleeds out first."

Beatrice gave a soft huff of breath. "Is that your definition of love?"

"No," the king said. "That’s my definition of marriage."

Queen Cecile finally smiled. Barely, but it was there.

Beatrice looked between them and for a brief flicker of time, felt something close to... belonging. Not comfort. But something warmer than scrutiny.

"You really think I can do this?" she asked.

King Marshall tilted his head. "No."

Her mouth parted.

"But," he added, "that’s never stopped anyone who matters."

Queen Cecile’s voice followed, quiet but sure. "We don’t need perfect. We need unflinching."

Beatrice sat very still. And nodded.

The rest of the evening passed without further interrogation. When she rose to leave, Queen Cecile did not stop her. The King only offered a lazy salute with his wine glass.

"Try not to almost die again," he said. "It’s exhausting."

"I’ll do my best," Beatrice replied.

As she stepped back into the quiet corridor, she felt the shift behind her like the closing of a Chapter.

And ahead of her, a new beginning.

Beatrice walked slowly through the corridor, her gloves clutched in one hand, the hem of her gown whispering across stone. The air had cooled with evening, but her skin still felt warm. From the wine. From the words.

She didn’t expect the queen’s honesty. She didn’t expect the king’s mischief.

And she certainly didn’t expect how steady she felt now, after days of poison, panic, and whispered threats.

Just as she reached the edge of the royal wing, she found herself pausing near the rose gallery. The moonlight filtered through the high windows, casting long shadows between the columns. She stepped inside, drawn more by instinct than decision.

The roses had been trimmed back for winter. Only a few blossoms remained, blooming stubbornly against the cold.

Beatrice reached out, brushing her fingers over one of them. Dark red, almost black at the edges.

"I’ve seen that look before," a voice murmured behind her.

Francois stood at the far end of the hall, his coat half-buttoned, his gloves tucked under one arm. He looked tired. Not from battle, but from something heavier.

"Have you been waiting?" she asked.

He nodded once. "I didn’t want to interrupt dinner."

"It wasn’t what I expected." She stepped closer.

"The queen doesn’t waste time with people she doesn’t respect."

"And the king?"

Francois smiled faintly. "He only behaves when he’s bored. Apparently, you’re more entertaining than war briefings."

Beatrice rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched.

"He asked me how long I’ve been in love with you."

Francois blinked. "He what?"

"Direct quote." She shrugged.

He laughed. Soft and breathless. "And what did you say?"

She stepped past him toward the window, letting the moonlight spill across her face.

"I didn’t have to answer. The queen already knew."

Francois approached carefully, stopping beside her.

"I meant what I said," he said quietly. "In the courtyard."

Beatrice nodded once. "I know."

"You still haven’t run."

"I don’t know how."

They stood in silence.

"If you don’t want it, say it now. I won’t stop you if you decide to walk away, but I admit your rejection would sting."

Beatrice looked at him, really looked. The way his shoulders still carried the shape of armor even in plain clothes. The way his mouth almost smiled but didn’t quite trust it yet.

She doesn’t love him. Not yet.

But if this kept going, if he kept standing beside her like this...

I might.

"I’m not soft," she said, stepping closer to him.

"I know."

"I won’t be easy."

"I never asked you to be."

Beatrice turned her head slightly, eyes meeting his.

"I’m still in the middle of danger."

"So am I," he said.

And then gently, without ceremony, he offered her his hand.

No crown. No audience.

Just a boy who’d seen too much and a girl who was already burning.

She took it.

For tonight, that was enough.