The Villainess Refuses to Follow the Script-Chapter 88

The ballroom had begun to thin.

Some of the lesser houses had started to slip out politely, murmuring excuses about early travel or late letters. The music had softened into something elegant and forgettable. The golden light still glittered across the high windows, but the shine of celebration had dulled slightly.

Like a mirror touched by breath.

Beatrice stood near the second columned alcove, a half-empty glass in hand, her fingers curled loosely around the stem. Francois had been drawn into another diplomatic conversation, this time with Lord Marelen, who had not stopped speaking for ten straight minutes. She didn’t mind. The distance gave her space to breathe.

The betrothal had been officially named. The court had witnessed. The king and queen had approved.

But the air still felt too sharp. Not exactly dangerous.

But alert.

Her family had already left the hall. Conrad and Ethel did not linger longer than necessary, offering their parting words with practiced civility and vanishing like smoke. Magnus had given her one final look before departing, a glance that didn’t hold any clear emotion, just pressure. Like he was reminding her that the floor was still fragile beneath their feet.

Beatrice did not follow them. She didn’t even say goodbye.

Lily was somewhere near the back, helping direct a few younger pages who’d spilled wine on one of the staircase runners. She’d catch up later, there was no rush anymore.

Beatrice tilted her glass slightly and watched the room, not searching for anything, just cataloging. How many heads turned when she shifted her weight. How many eyes followed Francois when he smiled at her from across the marble floor.

The game board had changed, but some pieces were still moving.

"Excuse me."

A voice echoed behind. A voice she hadn’t heard in days.

Beatrice turned.

Johanna Lockhart stood just a few feet away, hands folded neatly in front of her gown, eyes fixed on her without a single ounce of shame.

Her heart didn’t race, but it slowed.

"Lady Johanna," she said coolly. "I wasn’t expecting you."

Johanna offered the faintest smile. "The princess insisted. I thought it would be worse not to come."

"And your parents?"

"They had obligations elsewhere."

Of course they do.

The Lockharts had been present for every major court event of the season, until now. It wasn’t a scandal that they’d skipped the betrothal celebration. But it was a statement.

One Beatrice understood perfectly.

"I hope the palace has arranged a proper room for you," she said evenly.

"I’m staying in the same guest suite as before."

"I see."

Johanna shifted slightly, as if she meant to say more. But something about Beatrice’s expression must have changed, because she hesitated a little.

"I only wanted to offer my congratulations," Johanna said instead. "The announcement was... well, no one could ignore it."

"That was the goal."

"I imagine it was."

Silence stretched, wide and taut.

Beatrice looked past Johanna for a moment, toward the crowd beyond. Francois was still caught in conversation. The queen had disappeared somewhere near the council alcove. The court hummed around them like bees behind glass.

She turned back. "Enjoy the wine, Lady Johanna. I’m sure you remember how it’s served."

Johanna’s smile didn’t waver. "Good evening, Lady Beatrice."

She turned and walked away, posture perfect.

Beatrice stood very still.

It was nothing. Just a greeting, polite and appropriate. But something crawled under her skin, old instincts sharpening their edge.

In the original story, this had been the moment everything began to spiral. Not because Johanna had schemed. Not because she’d chased secrets. But because she had stumbled across the truth.

And once she knew...

Beatrice set her glass down on the nearest tray, exhaling sharply. She needs to find Francois before the story tries to correct itself.

She moved through the crowd with practiced ease, nodding where appropriate, smiling when required, but her eyes were locked on one thing.

By the time she reached Francois, Lord Marelen was finally retreating with a bow too low for someone his age. Francois glanced at her, sensing the shift in her presence before she spoke.

"Everything all right?" he asked quietly.

"Johanna’s here."

"Alone?" His brow lifted just slightly.

She nodded. "She said Lila asked her to stay."

Beatrice stood still for a moment, watching Johanna disappear into the tide of dancers and diplomats.

"Did you know she would come?" she asked, her tone carefully casual.

Francois shook his head. "No. But I suppose it was bound to happen. Lila wouldn’t let her disappear without trying to hold on."

Her gaze lingered in the direction Johanna had gone.

"Her parents didn’t even attend."

"That speaks for itself," Francois murmured. "And loudly."

"She said she’s staying in the guest suites again. Temporarily."

Francois tilted his head. "The same one as last time?"

"She didn’t say. I suppose the others were full."

Beatrice hesitated. A faint shiver crawled up the back of her neck. Not fear, but the faint instinctive sense of a page turning too close to its margin.

Francois touched her arm gently. "Beatrice, are you all right? You’re spiralling."

"I’m not."

"You look like you might."

She glanced at him, but didn’t speak further.

"Whatever you’re bracing for, we’ll handle it. Together." Francois caressed her arm gently.

She gave him a tight nod and finally brought the glass to her lips. But her mind didn’t quiet.

Because she knew how stories worked.

They rarely exploded in the middle. They unravelled in whispers first. Quiet clues, tiny shifts. And all it took was one thread pulled too far before everything collapsed.

She didn’t return to the center of the ballroom.

Instead, Beatrice let herself drift to the edge of it, close enough to see Francois if she needed to, but far enough that the sound of clinking glasses and laughter softened into something vague and distant.

From here, the celebration looked like a painting. Elegant and composed. Beautiful from a distance. But she’d already seen the brushstrokes underneath. Smeared lines, hidden intentions, and colors that bled where they shouldn’t.

Lila found her before the clock struck the next hour.

"I was looking for you," she said, breathless, cheeks flushed from dancing.

Beatrice turned slightly, the sharp edge in her chest dulling at the sight of her.

"Congratulations, you found me." She grinned at the princess.

Lila hesitated, smoothing her skirts. "Have you seen Johanna? She’s here."

"Yes."

"I asked her to. I didn’t think—" She paused, fidgeted with the clasp of her necklace. "I just didn’t want her to vanish. Everyone’s been treating her like glass since the announcement."

"She’s not a glass," she said quietely, voice fading. "She’s a key."

Lila blinked. "What?"

"Never mind." Beatrice straightened her shoulders. "You asked her to stay?"

"Just for a few more days. She was going to leave tonight. But... I asked her to stay until the weekend."

Panic struck her again as she recalls the original events in the novel.

A few more days would give Johanna just enough time. To walk the wrong hallway, open the wrong drawer, and piece together the right truth.

Lila stepped forward, quieter now. "Beatrice... you’re not angry, are you?"

She looked at her and forced a smile.

"No," she said softly. "Not angry."

But underneath the calm, something else began to calcify.

If Johanna stayed longer, if she gets too close...

Beatrice might not have the luxury of restraint.

She’d rewrite the ending again, if she had to. And this time, she wouldn’t wait for the story to chase her.

She stepped away from the alcove as the final notes of the waltz faded, her steps unhurried but intentional. She passed a pair of noblemen whispering beneath one of the chandeliers. Their words hushed the moment she drew near. She didn’t bother pretending she did not notice.

Let them worry.

Beatrice paused near one of the tall arched windows, the velvet curtain brushing her shoulder. Outside, the palace grounds glittered in moonlight. Beyond the garden paths, she could just make out the dark tree line edging the forest.

A flash of movement caught her eye. Only a shadow, disappearing around the far side of the hedge wall.

She sighed aloud.

The story had a way of arranging people like pieces. Giving them just enough space to collide.

"My lady," Lily called behind her.

She turned and waited for her to continue.

"The queen asked if you might join her briefly in the west hall before the evening ends."

Her spine straightened slightly. "Of course."

She followed Lily through a side corridor, past a few straggling diplomats and courtiers, until the sound of the party slipped away behind them.

The west hall was empty but lit, candlelight danced across the mosaic tiles in patterns of flame and gold. Queen Cecile stood near the window, alone.

"Your Majesty," Beatrice said, bowing her head slightly.

"Walk with me," the queen ordered.

They moved in step along the edge of the corridor, silent for several paces. It wasn’t until they passed the third arch that the queen finally spoke.

"Lady Johanna is here. And I heared she’s staying?"

Her gait slowed.

"Yes. Lila asked her."

"And you allowed it?"

"She doesn’t need my permission, and I’m afraid I do not own the castle."

"But soon it will be yours," Queen Cecile stopped walking. "You must know that her presence in the palace could start whispers in court."

Beatrice did not know what to say, or what kind of response does the queen expects from her.

Is she expecting me to drag Lady Johanna out of the palace? Does she want me to chastise the princess for inviting her dearest friend to stay over?

The queen continued. "If something needs to be done, do it. But be precise."

Beatrice nodded once. "I understand."

The queen stepped past her, the train of her gown whispering against the stone.

"You’ve worn power well tonight," she said without looking back. "Don’t forget the weight of it in the morning."

Beatrice exhaled deeply and returned to the ballroom just before the final toast.

Francois was waiting near the dais, his expression unreadable until he saw her. Then it softened, just enough to remind her why she’d agreed to all of this in the first place.

She crossed the floor to join him, slipping back into place beside the crown.

The orchestra picked up again, smooth and low. And Beatrice, eyes trained on the room, smiled like she belonged in the ending she was now determined to write herself.

Even if someone else had to fall for it to happen.