The Villainess Refuses to Follow the Script-Chapter 86

Beatrice sat in the armchair by her window, a single candle flickering at her side, the rose pin resting on the table like a question no one dared ask aloud.

Three days.

In three days, the crown would name her. And the court would bare its teeth.

She watched the stars. Listened to the hush of wind in the garden below. And tried to picture herself. Not as Beatrice Da Ville, not as Bea Elisha Park, but a queen-in-waiting. A symbol. A decision made permanent in public.

By the time dawn crept in across the windowpanes, she had written nothing. But the silence inside her was no longer heavy.

It was shaped like resolve.

Preparations moved quickly.

The palace seamstresses arrived first. Two dozen of them, descending like a gentle storm. Measuring, murmuring, pinning bolts of rare fabric to her frame. Beatrice stood still as they flitted around her like birds, draping deep violet velvet across her shoulders, silk the color of burnished steel around her waist.

"What is this shade called?" she asked, fingering the cloth.

"Midnight," one of the seamstresses said. "Chosen by the prince himself."

Beatrice didn’t smile, but her heart warmed just slightly.

The next morning, Queen Cecile summoned her for tea. They sat in the snow-lit conservatory, surrounded by frost-covered glass and quiet ivy.

"You’ll need to practice saying no," the queen said, pouring the tea with steady hands. "To offers of alliance. To requests from noble families. To your own advisors."

"And to Francois?" Beatrice stirred her cup.

Queen Cecile’s mouth twitched. "Especially to him."

Beatrice tilted her head. "Will he listen?"

"If he doesn’t," Queen Cecile said mildly, "I will."

They sipped in silence for a while.

"You’ve done well not to collapse under the pressure."

"It’s only just begun."

"Exactly."

Her fingers tightened slightly around the porcelain handle.

"I thought the hardest part was being chosen," she admitted.

"It’s not." Queen Cecile looked directly at her. "It’s staying chosen."

The day before the ceremony, Beatrice walked the outer gardens alone.

Snow had begun to fall, light as ash, clinging to the hems of her cloak. She moved slowly, letting the cold bite into her hands, into her thoughts. Each step crunched underfoot like breaking glass.

Lily found her there, cheeks pink from the wind, her arms wrapped tightly around a rolled-up paper.

"It arrived," she said breathlessly. "The formal declaration."

Beatrice accepted the scroll, breaking the wax seal with a thumb.

Lady Beatrice Da Ville, betrothed to His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Francois Montague of Vasqueria, to be publicly named and honored as future queen consort...

The rest blurred.

Not from emotion. But from sheer, heavy finality.

"It’s real now," she murmured.

Lily looked at her with wide, quiet eyes.

"You’re ready."

Beatrice exhaled. "I have to be."

That evening, she stood once more at her window.

The palace glittered in the distance, the banquet hall being cleaned, musicians rehearsing quietly in the upper galleries, florists working through the night.

She watched it all, but her hand rested on her journal.

Tomorrow, the court would cheer. Tomorrow, she would smile through it all.

She opened the journal and began to write. Not in fear, not in warning. But in certainty.

They crowned the wrong girl in the original novel. This time, I will not go quietly. This time, I write the ending myself.

The candle had long since burned out, but Beatrice stayed by the window, her breath misting faintly against the cold glass. Outside, the sky was ink-black, the stars dulled by the lights being strung across the grand balconies below.

She could hear the distant hum of anticipation in the corridors. The rustle of silks being unpacked, the clipped orders of tailors, the subtle shift of palace staff treating her not as a guest of status, but as a permanent fixture of power. Her name was being whispered more often than spoken. Her future was no longer a quiet theory, but a stage set in velvet and light.

She hadn’t told Francois yet how badly her hands had trembled after reading the decree. How she’d stared at the wax seal on her own name for an hour before breaking it. How the rose pin on her sleeve had begun to feel like a pact, something bolder than a crest. Something irreversible.

A quiet knock broke her thoughts.

This time, it wasn’t Lily. It was a young page, bowing with the kind of rehearsed precision that usually preceded formality.

"A message from His Highness," the boy said. "He wishes to see you before the ceremony tomorrow. Privately."

Beatrice arched a brow. "Where?"

"The eastern gallery. Just before sunrise."

She nodded once. "Tell him I’ll be there."

When the boy left, she returned to her desk and ran her fingers over the ridges of her journal.

She had lied in the last entry. A little.

The court wouldn’t cheer tomorrow.

They would watch. They would judge. Some might even smile. But no one cheers when a blade is raised, only when it struck. And Beatrice had not yet drawn hers.

She flipped the page.

I was forged in something older than fear. They forget, I was never meant to survive this story.

And yet I remain.

And with that, she closed the book.

Let the court prepare their flowers. Let the nobles polish their masks.

She would meet them at the altar of spectacle. Unshaken and unrepentant, already wearing the crown.

The night deepened, velvet-thick and silent. Beatrice didn’t sleep.

She moved through her chambers slowly, brushing her fingers across the new silk gowns that had arrived earlier that evening. Each one was folded with ceremonial reverence, laid out in careful rows by Lily. Embroidered crests, bone-buttoned sleeves, layers of tulle and velvet too fine for comfort.

They weren’t dresses, they were declarations.

She didn’t choose one. Not yet.

Instead, she sat before her mirror, watching her reflection in the dim candlelight. She barely recognized herself. Not because she had changed, but because she’d stopped apologizing for being sharp.

The girl in the mirror had shadows beneath her eyes, but they didn’t make her look tired. They made her look dangerous.

A soft knock came again. Lily, this time.

"My lady," she said gently, stepping inside. "They’re preparing the upper gallery for tomorrow’s guests. Do you want to review the seating arrangement before it goes to the heralds?"

Beatrice shook her head. "They’ll sit where the queen tells them to."

Lily hesitated. "And the dress?"

"Not yet."

The maid nodded. "As you wish."

Before she could leave, Beatrice spoke again.

"Any gossip?"

Lily blinked. "About the ceremony?"

"About me."

Lily hesitated, but spoke eventually.

"Some are saying you stole it. Others say you earned it. And one lady, I won’t name her, but said she’d rather die than wear red again, for fear it would look like you were standing behind her."

Beatrice didn’t smile, but her shoulders relaxed.

"Thank you."

Lily lingered. "Do you want me to stay?"

"No," Beatrice said. "But I want you close tomorrow. You’re the only one I trust to speak when I can’t."

Lily bowed, the deepest she ever had.

"Then I’ll stay close enough to hear you breathe."

Beatrice turned back to the mirror as the maid exited the room. The pin on her sleeve caught the firelight, obsidian glinting like a secret ready to be told.

The nobles would see her step into place beside the prince tomorrow. But tonight, she wasn’t practicing a performance.

She was steadying a sword.