The Villainess Refuses to Follow the Script-Chapter 83

The next morning dawned too bright for Beatrice’s liking.

Not because of fatigue, though the court had grown exhausting in new, political ways, but because the sunlight seemed determined to touch everything.

No shadows. No cover. Just honesty, flooding through the palace like a second fire.

And today, the fire wore gold.

The royal family’s first formal audience since the assassination attempt had been announced. A seated open court, where nobles would present grievances, offer gifts, and unofficially... gauge the future queen.

Beatrice stood in front of the mirror, motionless as Lily adjusted the final fastenings of her gown. It was blue today, but not soft. Deep, royal, edged in silver at the seams. Strong, strategic, no black.

No Da Ville red.

She wasn’t anyone’s daughter this morning. She was the crown’s.

Lily stepped back. "You look like steel."

"Let’s hope I hold like it."

The great hall had been transformed overnight. Columns were draped in silks, courtiers arranged in calculated lines along the marble floor. Guards in ceremonial armor flanked the dais. The king’s throne had been raised slightly higher than usual. Not for ego, but because symbolism mattered.

When Beatrice entered, a hush rippled through the room. Conversations quieted and heads turned. Not all eyes were kind, but none could look away.

Francois was already there, speaking quietly with the king. When he saw her, he broke away.

"You’re early," he murmured, and smiled faintly at her.

They ascended the dais together.

The king greeted her with a single nod, but his eyes gleamed. The queen said nothing, but placed her hand lightly over Beatrice’s wrist as she passed.

The first hour passed in a blur of ceremonial greetings. Minor lords, foreign envoys, over-dressed aristocrats offering velvet boxes with even more velvet inside.

Some congratulated her, some ignored her. One whispered, "We expected someone gentler."

Beatrice smiled. "You were misinformed."

Francois tried not to laugh. The queen didn’t bother to hide hers. But it was the third hour when the rhythm broke.

An envoy from Lucenbourg stepped forward.

Not the usual one. Not the man she’d lied about over dinner.

A new diplomat, clean-shaven and young, with silver chains around his collar and a face that screamed calculation. He bowed, but not deeply.

"Your Majesties," he said smoothly. "I bring condolences from His Grace the Archduke, and assurances that Lucenbourg bears no ill will and involvement on the... unfortunate events at the birthday banquet."

"Unfortunate," King Marshall echoed. "That’s one word for it."

The envoy tilted his head. "Surely, no one believes Lucenbourg would jeopardize our trade relations over a celebration."

"No one said anything about belief," Queen Cecile replied. "This is simply court."

The envoy’s gaze flicked to Beatrice. And held.

"Lady Beatrice," he said. "May I congratulate you on your... unexpected ascension in status."

She didn’t blink. "You may."

"And offer a gift from the Archduke’s personal collection. A token of goodwill."

He gestured, and an attendant stepped forward with a slender box. Polished ebony, trimmed in silver. Beatrice took it with calm fingers.

Inside lay a dagger.

Delicate and filigreed. Etched with vines and fire across the blade.

Beatrice met the envoy’s gaze. "Tell the Archduke his gift is appreciated. And that I don’t miss."

Francois said nothing. But she felt his tension ease beside her.

The envoy bowed, slightly deeper this time.

And left.

The rest of the court proceeded without further theatrics. By the time the audience ended, her jaw ached from too many smiles and her spine buzzed from too much stillness.

But she remained. Unflinching.

When they were dismissed, and the nobles scattered to the outer halls, Beatrice stood alone for a moment at the center of the dais.

The throne behind her. The crown in her future. And ahead, a kingdom watching.

Francois joined her as the guards closed the doors behind the last guests.

"You did well," he said.

She glanced at him and smirked. "What? Like it’s hard."

They walked slowly down the empty corridor, the echo of their steps softened by velvet runners.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"To the west balcony. The musicians rehearse around this time. I thought you might want to hear something that isn’t another ambassador."

"Music sounds tolerable."

"I thought so."

They walked in silence for a while, shoulders just close enough to brush, the world behind them full of whispers. But for once, none of them reaching.

When they stepped in the balcony, the sunlight had faded to gold, and below, a quartet rehearsed in the garden.

Beatrice leaned against the railing, letting the cool wind press against her skin.

"Will this ever feel normal?" she asked.

"No," Francois said. "But sometimes it gets easier."

They stood together in the light, music rising, the scent of roses and frost curling around them.

And Beatrice, steel-clad and standing, closed her eyes.

The wind picked up slightly, brushing strands of hair across her cheek. She didn’t move to fix it. Francois stood beside her, arms folded against the rail, watching the musicians tune their final notes into harmony.

"You don’t have to stay," she said after a long moment, her voice quieter than before.

"I know."

"Then what are you still doing here?"

He glanced at her. "You think I say things I don’t mean?"

Beatrice tilted her head, lips curving into a faint, wry smile.

"No. I think you mean every word too much."

He laughed softly at that. "Is that a flaw?"

"It’s dangerous."

He leaned in slightly, voice dropping just above the music. "Then I’ll try not to mean them so loudly."

She gave him a look. "Please don’t."

They fell into a companionable quiet again. The quartet below shifted into a slower piece, something almost mournful in its melody. A few petals from the nearby climbing roses caught the wind and spiraled downward like drifting ash.

Beatrice watched them fall.

"They’re still watching me. Every hour."

Francois didn’t pretend not to know what she meant.

"It will fade. Once they see you survive long enough."

"What if I don’t?"

"You will."

She turned toward him. "You say that like it’s simple."

"I don’t think it is. But I think you’re already doing it." He paused. "Better than most would."

She gave a short breath of a laugh. "That’s terrifying."

Francois leaned against the railing, shoulder brushing hers again.

"Maybe. But it’s also... beautiful."

Beatrice went still.

He didn’t look at her when he said it. Just kept his eyes on the garden. But the weight of his words settled between them like a promise too early to be spoken aloud.

She cleared her throat. "Have you always been like this?"

"Like what?"

"This calm. This composed. This... annoyingly earnest."

Francois grinned. "Only with people I like."

"Dangerous taste."

"Tell me something I don’t know."

Beatrice stared out over the garden, then down at her hands.

"They think I want the crown," she said. "That I’ve been playing for it since the beginning."

"Do you?" he asked.

"I want the power that comes with it. I want the leverage. The voice. But the crown itself... it’s just metal."

He turned to her. "You’re not the only one who feels that way."

Beatrice looked at him. "Then why fight so hard to hold it?"

"Because if I don’t, someone worse will."

She nodded slowly, as if the words stitched something together inside her.

"Then maybe we’re not so different after all."

A soft wind stirred the hem of her dress. The music quieted. Below, the musicians began to pack away their instruments.

Francois straightened.

"We should go," he said.

Beatrice didn’t move.

He looked at her again. "Or we could stay just a little longer."

Now she smiled. This time, full and real.

"Just a little," she said.

And so they stood, on the edge of everything. Two people in borrowed time, the weight of kingdoms on their backs.