The Villainess Refuses to Follow the Script-Chapter 93

Francois stepped inside, quiet as ever, while Beatrice set the kitten down gently onto the carpet. Elisha immediately took off, skittering across the room in a tangle of paws and tail, attacking the corner of a rug as if it had personally offended her.

Beatrice hid a small smile behind her hand and gestured for Francois to sit by the hearth.

"Tea?" she offered, almost shyly.

"I won’t stay long," he said, but he sat anyway, stretching his legs out toward the fire. His tunic was rumpled, his hair slightly tousled, and for once he didn’t look like a prince at all. Just a man at the end of a long day.

She poured two cups anyway, settling into the opposite chair.

"How was court?" she asked lightly.

"Less interesting," he replied. "Though the queen had a few things to say about dramatic stairwell rescues."

Beatrice snorted softly into her tea. "Of course she did."

Francois leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

"And you? How was your day with your new roommate?" He nodded toward Elisha, who was now attempting, with great determination, to climb onto the writing desk.

Beatrice followed his gaze, feeling a surprising warmth settle under her ribs.

"Peaceful. Until you arrived with more chaos."

"Chaos," Francois said thoughtfully, "seems to suit you."

Before she could come up with a suitably sharp retort, Elisha chose that exact moment to sprint across the floor, narrowly missing the chair leg, and launched herself toward Beatrice’s ankles.

She let out a startled yelp, stepping back, only to misjudge her footing on the edge of the carpet.

Her balance tilted.

In a blur, Francois rose to catch her, but the momentum carried them both down. Beatrice landed squarely in his lap, her hands pressed against his chest to steady herself, their faces a breath apart.

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.

Beatrice could feel the solid thrum of his heart beneath her palms. The way his hands hovered, tentative, barely touching her waist as if he wasn’t sure if he was allowed.

Heat rushed to her cheeks.

Francois cleared his throat first, shifting slightly but not making any sudden moves.

"Well," he said, voice a shade rougher than usual. "This is new."

Beatrice pushed herself upright, her dignity gathering like loose threads in her hands.

"I blame the cat," she said, chuckling nearvously.

Elisha, wholly unconcerned, sat nearby licking her paw. The kitten proceeded to mind her business after messing with them.

Francois smiled, a small, helpless thing that made her stomach tighten.

"She totally planned that," he said, rising to his feet with the easy grace she envied.

The moment stretched a little too long again, so he stepped back toward the door, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeves.

"I should go," Francois said, his voice lower. "Before we scandalize the walls."

She nodded, not trusting herself to say anything coherent.

"Sleep well, Beatrice." He paused at the threshold, his hand on the door.

She caught herself before she could say something foolish, something too honest.

"You too, Your Highness."

He rolled his eyes at the formality but said nothing more, slipping out into the quiet hallway.

When the door closed behind him, Beatrice exhaled, sinking into the nearest chair with her face in her hands. Elisha meowed imperiously from the floor.

"You saboteur!" Beatrice dropped one hand and pointed at her.

The kitten blinked innocently and pounced on the hem of her robe.

Morning arrived with clear skies again, but Beatrice was less ready to face it than usual.

She nearly collided with Francois in the east hall after breakfast. He was heading toward the council chamber, a stack of reports tucked under one arm. Their eyes met briefly, both of them pausing just a fraction too long.

Beatrice felt the blush creep up her neck and busied herself with adjusting the cuff of her sleeve, pretending not to notice the slight, private smile tugging at his mouth.

Neither of them spoke. They passed each other like conspirators, pretending nothing had happened.

Later, once the halls emptied and the servants retreated to their morning errands, Beatrice slipped back to her chambers.

She needed the quiet. Needed a place to think.

She sat at her desk, Elisha curled against her elbow, and pulled her journal from its hiding place.

She flipped to a clean page and dipped her pen carefully in ink.

In the novel, it was my room Johanna stumbled into.

She found letters, proof of everything. My family’s involvement with the war. The weapon deals. The betrayals.

The evidence was laid out like bait, and she took it.

But that was the novel.

Beatrice hesitated, the pen hovering.

This time, there are no letters. I burned them months ago. Every seal broken, every page ash.

She glanced at the kitten, sleeping with her tiny paws tucked beneath her chin.

But she’s not in my room this time. She’s in Magnus’.

Her chest tightened slightly.

And Magnus...

Magnus is not careful.

Beatrice pressed her lips together, setting the pen down more forcefully than necessary. She leaned back in the chair, staring up at the high canopy of her bed.

Johanna needed to leave before the threads could tighten.

Unless something was still there. Unless she found it.

Beatrice curled her arms around herself, feeling the chill despite the fire still glowing low in the hearth.

She couldn’t afford to spiral. Not now.

But for the first time in weeks, she wasn’t sure if she had rewritten the story enough. Or if the story was simply biding its time.

Elisha stirred, stretching her small body into a long arch. She climbed into Beatrice’s lap, pressing her warm weight against her stomach.

She stroked the kitten absentmindedly, staring at the blank space of the next page.

There were still moves left to make. She would just have to choose them more carefully. More ruthlessly.

If Johanna stumbled into danger again, this time it would not be Beatrice’s fault.

It would be her choice.