I’m Not Sorry But The Prince Will Marry Me Anyway
Chapter 128

Chapter 128: Chapter 128

Thump, thump, thump. My heartbeat pounded so hard it shook my head. Neither reason nor emotion could grasp the situation—if anything, they were denying it.

There’s no way Tristan loves me. No way he sincerely wants to marry me. And crying...? That’s something he would never do.

Before I knew it, my body moved on its own, seeking proof of the most unbelievable thing. I touched the tears running down his cheek. They were hot yet cold.

Almost instantly, Tristan flinched as if burned and quickly lowered his head.

"...Ah, sorry."

"...Don’t mind it. I never thought I’d show such a pathetic sight."

"..."

"I hate showing myself like this... and yet, I can’t seem to pull away from you."

As he said, his left hand still clung to my sleeve. His fingertips were pale, as if he were holding onto the last threads of hope.

"...Dory."

He took a deep breath, struggling to swallow his tears, then slowly lifted his head again. He didn’t completely succeed. More tears fell from his reddened eyes.

"Ha, give me a moment. I really... didn’t mean for this to happen."

Just as he sighed, perhaps in self-loathing— a familiar voice called from behind me.

"L-Lady Dory!"

"Huh?"

"Who’s that scoundrel with you?! I’ll protect you, my lady!"

"Woof! Woof!"

And the familiar sound of barking.

It was my maid, who had promised to come fetch me if I was late. Of all times, why now?!

Tristan’s face flushed red in an instant, as if every red blood cell had rushed to his cheeks. I quickly waved my hands at the approaching maid.

"Ah, no, I’m fine!"

Please, don’t come closer! This is really not the time!

That was when Tristan whispered behind me.

"...Sorry, Dory. Forget this ever happened."

"What?"

With those words, he stepped away from me. By the time I turned back, only the faint trace of his silver hair disappearing into the night remained.

The maid, having run at full speed, was gasping behind me.

"My lady! Huff, huff, are you alright?"

Honestly, I’m not.

The salon suddenly closed, I don’t know when it’ll reopen, and Tristan just dropped a confession I never saw coming.

"...I think two slices of pound cake and half a bottle of wine might help."

"You sound really not alright. What happened? Who was that man? Should I call the guards?"

"No, no need for that."

And so, I spilled a half-truth, half-lie.

"...I don’t even know what he is to me."

As I walked back through the back entrance of the count’s estate with my maid, my mind swirled with questions.

Tristan, are you sick? Can you even cry? What did you mean by those words?

When we arrived, my maid spoke.

"Please rest in your room, my lady. I’ll bring you some pound cake and wine."

"Thanks. The wine was just a joke, though. Don’t bother with it."

"Then how about some mulled wine?"

"...That sounds nice."

A little while later, she returned with warm mulled wine and pound cake packed with rum-soaked dried fruit.

It seemed she left just a bit of alcohol in the mulled wine on purpose, enough to lift my spirits.

And yet, rather than fading, the memory of what had just happened floated even more vividly in my mind, carried by the warmth of the drink.

Tristan. You told me to forget what just happened, didn’t you?

Don’t think of it

A book title by the American cognitive linguist George Lakoff. The moment someone hears those words, they inevitably think of an elephant. Likewise, I couldn’t help but dwell on Tristan’s words.

"I love you..."

The moment I recalled them, my face burned. No, don’t let it get to you. It’s not even certain he meant it!

But then my rational side coldly retorted.

Would Tristan ever lie about something like that?

Good point. What would he gain from such a lie? If anything, stubbornly insisting "I don’t like you at all!" would suit him more.

...Just like that night of the hunting tournament.

Wait... could it be that even back then...?

Why? How did this happen?

If this were a cliché, would it be "You’re the first person to ever stand up to me like this"? No, he’s the one who was rude! I simply maintained the composure of a librarian.

Another cliché: "You’re the only one who reached my lonely heart." Something similar happened at the racetrack, but that wasn’t the start. He said he only just started loving me too much today.

If he had feelings before, then... when did they begin?

...Though, he didn’t seem to remember himself.

More than the timing, what bothered me most was that phrase—"too much."

The emotion that drove him to chase me down in the dead of night,

that forced him to confess in such a place, in such a pathetic way...

That wasn’t how Tristan would normally confess.

However, a person’s true nature is sometimes revealed by what they choose at the end of a path they never intended to take. Tristan chose to confess. Even though he had always avoided me, never asking me anything...

At least, in the end, he didn’t run away.

The moment I recalled his voice, my fingertips tingled. Every moment he had touched me resurfaced—when he escorted me, when he pulled me along, when we walked together down the cobblestone path...

...A thought suddenly struck me. Did I really need to ask when and why he started liking me? Did I really need a specific moment or reason?

Maybe I...

No, no, absolutely not!

While something—perhaps my pride—floundered aimlessly, my body, drunk on mulled wine, slowly sank into sleep.

"..."

When I opened my eyes, I saw a familiar ceiling. Not the damp, mold-prone ceiling of my tiny rented room, but one adorned with delicately faded wisteria-patterned wallpaper, lending an air of elegance.

Right. This wasn’t the struggling librarian’s lodging. This was the room of a count’s daughter—a world without job-hunting worries or broken boilers...

Yeah, right! Like I don’t have bigger problems now! No running away from reality!

One by one, the memories I wanted to forget came flooding back.

First, my sister’s wedding had been moved up. With time running out, I had planned to buy information with coins, but the salon had closed indefinitely. The reason? Tristan had been tailing me.

Those were the two major events. Oh, and there was also that ridiculous scene where Tristan suddenly confessed his love to me.

...But that can’t be right. I probably just had a sweet dream after eating too many sweets. Ha ha ha ha ha.

...Right?

What should I do?

No, actually, there’s nothing to worry about.

Tristan is bound to change for the better and marry me. If he likes me now, that’s no problem. I’ve always played the role of his devoted, patient fiancée, so I just have to keep doing what I’ve been doing. Nothing to panic over.

And yet...

...Seriously, what do I do?

Just thinking about last night makes me feel like my whole body is out of sync.

Calm down. I can handle this.

I’ve been acting like I’m madly in love with Tristan all along. Just keep it up.

I mean, we almost kissed before, didn’t we? I’ve held his hand when he reached for mine, danced with him when he asked.

That’s all it is. Even enemies do that much. I can do this!

"Good morning, my lady... Oh my, do you have a fever?"

My maid, bringing in wash water, looked startled.

I quickly made an excuse.

"I think it’s just the mulled wine from last night."

"Oh dear. I’ll bring you cooler water for your wash."

"Thanks... And I have a question."

"Of course, my lady."

"The Sacred Salon is closed, right?"

"..."

My maid, who had once stayed at the convent with me and occasionally worked as an informant at the salon, let out a short sigh.

"The name ’Sacred Salon’ is rather unique. But I wouldn’t know much about salons, my lady—just as you don’t know the difference between clotted cream and whipped cream."

As if I wouldn’t know that.

Whipped cream is the best friend of a soft, moist cake sponge. Clotted cream, with its over-55% fat content, belongs with dense scones. They’re as different as sea otters and river otters.

...This was her way of sending me a signal.

"I think this is what clotted cream looks like... Let me try drawing it. Is this right?"

She didn’t want to speak openly where others could hear. So I began writing my questions on a notepad.

Why did it close? Were all the documents safely handled? When will it reopen?

The maid quickly began jotting down her answers.