The Villainess Refuses to Follow the Script-Chapter 105

The morning air inside the royal court was stiff with anticipation.

Queen Cecile stood tall at the edge of the terrace garden, sunlight streaming across her gold-trimmed gown. Courtiers and candidates lined the stone floor, their expressions expectant. The selection had been dragging on for days. Everyone was desperate for answers.

"Ladies," the Queen began, her voice crisp and authoritative. "The palace has decided and a group of young noblewomen has been considered as consorts to the Crown Prince."

Beatrice stood in her place near the end of the marble line, her hands folded carefully before her. Her burn wound was hidden beneath layers of fabric and bandages, but it throbbed nonetheless.

"Three ladies have shown notable promise." Queen Cecile continued

Heads turned and murmurs buzzed like insects.

"Lady Johanna Lockhart," the Queen announced.

Johanna immediately stepped forward with grace, curtsying low. She was glowing with praise, her hair kissed by the breeze, and her smile was bashful.

Beatrice tensed.

"Lady Beatrice Da Ville."

There was another murmur. Not of admiration, but of polite surprise. She took her step forward as well, refusing to look at anyone. Her nod to the Queen was brief and cold.

"And Lady Gertrude of House Aurberg."

A woman stepped forward from the middle of the line. She was tall, broad-shouldered, and wore a fitted gown the color of burnt copper. Her curtsy was deep, but her chin lifted with unmistakable confidence.

Beatrice’s brows furrowed. Who?

Johanna looked equally baffled. Around them, whispers flared. Lady Gertrude of House Aurberg? She hadn’t been on any list. Not in the books, not in the previous timeline. And not in anyone’s memory.

That day passed in a blur.

Beatrice sat through brunch without touching her food. Her thoughts ran wild.

Gertrude wasn’t sweet like Johanna, nor calculating like herself. She was bold, quick-witted, and refused to downplay her ambition. During a mid-day etiquette lesson, she laughed openly when corrected by the instructor, claiming she could outshoot most men in the kingdom.

She doesn’t whisper. She declare.

And worst of all, she had no shame about wanting the prince.

Beatrice felt threatened. Not just politically, but narratively. Gertrude doesn’t belong in this story. And yet here she was, rewriting the rules.

The court cleared later that day, and the palace filled with the bustle of new arrivals.

House Aurberg arrived first, sweeping into the reception hall with their crimson banners and gold-plated brooches. Lord Aurberg looked like a general, square-jawed and armored with pride. His wife, tall and unsmiling, carried herself with a physician’s poise.

They made an impression.

By noon, the Da Villes and Lockharts arrived together.

Ethel descended from the carriage first, her gown a brutal shade of violet. Conrad followed, flanked by aides and guards. Their presence was heavier than necessary.

"Smile," Ethel whispered sharply to Beatrice the moment they met. "And don’t speak unless it counts."

Inside the great hall, they bowed to the King and Queen. Politeness reigned, but tension brewed. Beatrice could feel her mother’s hand tighten around her wrist during every glance Gertrude’s family exchanged with the royals.

"They’re brave," Conrad muttered under his breath. "But foolish. They don’t have our wealth so they shouldn’t be here."

That evening, Beatrice left her chambers briefly for a walk. The corridors were quieter, shadows longer.

She turned a corner, and nearly collided with Lady Gertrude. The other woman caught her by the elbow, steadying her.

"Lady Beatrice."

Beatrice stepped back. "Lady Aurberg."

Gertrude tilted her head, amused. "Strange to see you out, considering the rumors say you’ve been recovering in bed."

"I am. But not from cowardice."

That earned a dry chuckle. "Good. I wouldn’t want you weak when I win." 𝐟𝗿𝐞𝚎𝚠𝐞𝚋𝕟𝐨𝚟𝐞𝕝.𝕔𝕠𝚖

Beatrice narrowed her eyes. "You speak as if the crown is already yours."

"I speak as if I’m here to try," Gertrude replied, eyes gleaming. "And I never play to lose."

Dinner was a battlefield.

The royal family was seated at the high table, with the three families spread along each side. The Lockharts, timid and cautious. The Da Villes, poised and armed with veiled arrogance. The Aurbergs, newly-arrived but unshaken.

Gertrude’s father brought up trade routes before the soup was served.

"If the Crown is serious about building infrastructure," he said, "then we must discuss taxing the merchant guilds more equitably."

"And who decides what’s equitable?" Conrad replied coolly. "Men who sell remedies to peasants, or families who built cities from the ground up?"

Ethel added, "Some of us have contributed more than coins. We secured borders. Funded armies."

Lady Aurberg didn’t flinch. "And others have healed those armies. Trained the doctors who saved them. Built hospitals where your soldiers bled."

Gertrude smiled.

Beatrice could feel it unraveling. She set her spoon down.

"Surely," she said calmly, "there’s room for all kinds of contributions. The crown doesn’t need just wealth, but knowledge, strength, and diplomacy."

The Queen raised an eyebrow, clearly pleased. The King grunted into his wine.

Magnus, seated beside her, leaned in. "Since when do you speak like that?"

"Since someone let the palace become a debate club," Beatrice muttered.

He glanced at her arm. "Your burn’s worse, isn’t it."

Ethel, ever alert, cut in. "Our daughter nearly sacrificed herself for you all. Not that she seeks praise. She never has."

"How noble," Lady Aurberg murmured.

Across the table, Lila snorted.

"What?" Magnus said flatly.

"You sound like you’re trying to be charming. It doesn’t suit you."

"Neither does sarcasm, but here we are."

Beatrice chuckled.

After supper, she walked slowly back to her chambers. Despite the chaos, she felt a strange comfort. It reminded her of the first time she had arrived in this story. Not the nerves or the fear, but the noise. The spark of not knowing what comes next.

She changed into her nightgown and sat at the vanity, staring at her own eyes. She then turned to Lily, who was folding her outer gown.

"Lily," she said, "what do you know of House Aurberg?"

The maid paused. "Not as old as yours or the Lockharts, my lady. But ambitious. They own buildings in the townsquare. Clinics, and pharmacies."

"Doctors?"

"Yes, generations of them. And merchants, too. They aren’t royal blood, but they made themselves powerful."

Beatrice nodded slowly. "Thank you."

After Lily left, she wandered to the window. The courtyard below was dim, lit only by lanterns and moonlight. She leaned against the glass, the cool air brushing her wrist.

Then she saw it.

Two figures near the rose arches.

Johanna... and Lila.

The princess leaned forward, and kissed Johanna on the cheek.

Beatrice blinked.

It was just the cheek. But Johanna smiled like it was more.

Beatrice stepped back from the window, her chest tight.

"Right," she whispered. "It’s probably nothing."

But the way her heart hammered said otherwise.

She slept poorly. When morning came, it dragged with it a haze of questions she wasn’t ready to face.

Beatrice didn’t bring it up. Not to Lily, and definitely not at brunch. But the image had imprinted itself into her skull. Lila’s hand on Johanna’s cheek, and the softness in Johanna’s smile afterward. She’d stared at the ceiling for hours replaying it, dissecting every angle.

It wasn’t jealousy she was feeling. It was confusion.

And maybe... a little grief. The kind that came from realizing you’d misunderstood the story all along.

The day unfolded with less ceremony than expected. Court activities were paused while the palace updated its schedule around the arrival of noble families. Still, Beatrice sensed tension under the surface, like everyone was bracing for something louder.

She spent most of the morning walking. She didn’t feel like attending the embroidery salon or the early garden session. Her feet carried her aimlessly down sunlit corridors until she found herself near the eastern stairwell.

The same one she’d wandered down the day of her burn.

She paused there, and inhaled.

That pain had earned her sympathy, and access. A conversation with the queen, and a subtle tilt in Francois’ attention. But it also felt like a signal that something darker was pushing forward.

This wasn’t the story she remembered.

By midafternoon, she was back in her room, staring again at her reflection.

The bandage was still visible if she shifted her shoulder. The skin around it had begun to peel, a pink rawness blooming under gauze. She sighed and reached for a shawl just as a knock came to the door.

It was Lily, clutching a folded letter.

"From the prince," she said quickly, eyes averted. "Delivered through one of the footmen."

Beatrice’s fingers closed around it before she even breathed.

Inside, the note was short.

You asked me to get to know the real you.

Tonight, I’ll try.

—F.

She folded it back up, too quickly, pressing her fingers against her lips to muffle the sound that almost escaped.

Try.

Try was good. Try was honest.

Dusk brought a restless sort of hush to the palace. Beatrice couldn’t eat. She changed into a long velvet robe that shimmered like ink, the sleeves trimmed in soft embroidery. Lily helped with her hair, a simple braid coiled at the nape of her neck.

She didn’t speak much. When it was safe, she slipped down the west wing staircase, back towards the future queen’s suite.

Francois was already waiting. This time, not leaning or slouching, but standing upright, hands clasped before him like he might be nervous too.

She smiled gently. "You’re early."

"I’m trying," he said again, and unlocked the door.

The suite hadn’t changed. Still pristine, still bare, still humming with the quiet pressure of legacy. She stepped inside, letting the door close softly behind her.

"I looked everywhere for my journal," she said, not expecting him to understand. "It’s silly. I know it wouldn’t be here anymore."

"Was it important?"

"It had everything." She looked around the room. "Plans, secrets. Thoughts I didn’t want to say out loud."

She didn’t say: memories of you. That felt like a landmine too early in the conversation.

Francois stepped closer, just enough that she could hear the breath he took before he spoke.

"I meant what I said, Lady Beatrice. I woud like to get to know you better. I don’t know why you’ve changed, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious."

Her throat tightened.

She nodded. "Then ask."

He hesitated. "...Are you in love with me?"

Her mouth opened, then closed. She looked at the window.

"I was," she whispered. "Before."

"But not now?"

"It’s... complicated."

Francois chuckled, quiet and self-deprecating. "That’s the first honest answer I’ve gotten in weeks."

She met his eyes. "Then keep asking."

And he did.

They talked until the hallways dimmed completely.

Not about politics or titles. Just strange things. Favorite foods, books. How he hated his fencing instructor. How she used to sneak into the kitchens to stuff herself with pastries.

Francois leaned back against the edge of the empty writing desk, arms folded.

"Lady Gertrude," he said suddenly. "What do you think of her?"

Beatrice stiffened. "She seems like a nice lady."

He smirked. "Do you think she’ll win?"

"She’s not from the book."

His brow furrowed. "What?"

She waved a hand. "Forget I said that."

But of course, he didn’t. He looked at her like he was adding up clues that hadn’t made sense before.

"I should go," she murmured. "Before someone starts another rumor."

He nodded slowly. "Same time tomorrow?"

She blinked.

He said it without smiling. But Beatrice smiled anyway.