I’m Not Sorry But The Prince Will Marry Me Anyway
Chapter 131

Chapter 131: Chapter 131

How long has Rick Rey been lying in the hospital? When he was first admitted, the doctor had said:

"The most important factor in recovery is age. Since he’s still young, there’s some hope."

That might have been a subtle warning not to have too much hope. The wounds that had shredded his neck and shoulders had healed, and the bleeding had stopped. His complexion was good. But Rick still couldn’t speak. He couldn’t even open his eyes.

On Tristan’s last visit, the doctor cautiously said: "It seems that some blood vessels or nerves have been severed in places we can’t reach. Time might help, but..."

Perhaps avoiding the word miracle was the doctor’s last shred of professional pride.

"So you’re saying there’s no chance of improvement?"

"...Yes. Long-term care is the best option. If his family arrives, I can explain it to them."

"No need. I’ll handle the explanation. But if his condition is stable, give me a little more time."

That was a message to Rick as well. The medicine that had already saved his life once—maybe, just maybe, it could save him again.

But there was a major problem.

"It’s meant only for royalty, and only for emergencies. Those two conditions can’t be broken..."

The excuse of saving a life wouldn’t work. Rick had already been saved by that medicine once.

If I ignored the rules again, the entire succession of the Blue Atrium could be revoked.

Rick threw himself into the fight, Arthur fought alongside him, the soldiers supported them, even Count Braum acknowledged their efforts...

And Dory’s encouragement completed it all.

But none of that was a reason for me to give up on Rick.

"I need to find a way. Rick Rey, I can’t have you sleeping forever."

Tristan needed his testimony to take off Count Braum’s head as promised. And more than anything...

He needed to hear from his own lips why he saved him.

"If it were me, I’d have killed the man set to marry the woman I loved."

Luckily—or unluckily—he had no such person in mind. By the time Tristan had even begun to grasp the weight of the word marriage, his engagement to Dory had already struck like lightning.

He had imagined marrying someone else before. But regardless, Dory was set to marry him.

She had to.

"Enough useless thoughts. Time to study the administrative process."

Returning to his office, he tucked the magic potion into his coat and opened a lordship training manual.

But before he could turn more than a few pages, a knock came at the door.

"Your Highness, a message from the royal hospital."

"Has Rick’s condition changed?"

Tristan had given strict orders to be contacted immediately if anything happened to him. Preparing for the worst, he instinctively gripped the potion.

But the news that followed was unexpected.

"Someone claiming to be Rick Rey’s family is requesting a visit. How should we proceed?"

"A wedding hall?"

"Yes. Usually, churches are assigned based on where you live, but if there’s no waiting list, you can choose."

"Hmm. So weddings are always held in churches?"

"Where else would you have one?"

In a dazzling white building of uncertain nationality that handles an entire wedding—ceremony, officiant, speeches, letters, music, applause, photos, reception, banquet—all in an hour.

That’s how it usually works for Koreans.

Fortunately, the palace official misunderstood my words slightly and cut in.

"Lady Dory will be marrying at the palace church, so she may not have thought about booking a wedding venue separately."

"Ah, I see. I waited for nothing when Dory didn’t even need to learn this."

"Just listen along anyway. It’s simple. When noblewomen come to get their marriage approval, they receive this form to take to their parish church."

"Oh? The Queen’s seal is already on this. ’May the young lambs be reborn under God’s wings, in the name of the royal family. Helena S. Albion.’"

"That’s a standard phrase. The Crown Princess handles actual disputes over church usage."

Just like how every Korean passport contains a line from the Minister of Foreign Affairs requesting assistance and protection for the passport holder, yet the actual work is done by embassy staff.

...Ah, I get the picture now.

Meanwhile, Maria finished sorting the documents and thanked the official.

"Thank you for the explanation. Dory, I’m done with my business."

"Are you going to see the young duke?"

"Yes. I only thought about the marriage approval, not the church. He might want to hold it in Frosthill."

"Got it. I still have things to do at the palace, so go ahead."

"Dory, you waited for me, so I’ll wait for you too."

"This might be something hard to talk about with others."

Maria didn’t take it the wrong way or feel hurt. She understood immediately.

After she left, I turned to my maid and said—

"It might take a while, so why don’t you take a walk in the garden?"

"Oh my, should I ask the carriage to come more slowly? How long will you be?"

"I’m not sure. I’m meeting someone who’s difficult to see without an appointment."

"I’ll be in the garden, so call me anytime!"

Without asking further, my maid headed toward the garden.

I climbed the stairs. Since I had visited occasionally, the palace maids weren’t surprised to see me here.

Neither was the maid standing guard in front of a beautiful gray door.

"I wish to see the Crown Princess."

"Ah, Lady Dorys Redfield. May I ask the purpose of your visit?"

"I’d like to ask for advice regarding church-affiliated activities. Even a brief answer would be fine."

"Understood. Please wait a moment."

The ever-busy Crown Princess responded sooner than expected. By the time the tea brought by the maid had gone lukewarm—meaning she was faster than most officials.

The Crown Princess didn’t have an official office. Instead of tea leaves, her reception room was stacked with documents.

She greeted me there.

"You’ve been visiting often lately. It’s good to be proactive, but once you officially start sharing your husband’s duties after marriage, this might become a shackle."

"Thank you for the advice. But if I don’t learn now, I may never get the chance."

"You’re too diligent. Anyway, you want to know about church-affiliated activities? What exactly?"

"Are we alone in this room?"

"...What?"

"Is there a separate tea room behind the reception area where a maid might be preparing tea?"

"What are you trying to say?"

"About the closed-off church space—one basement floor, two above ground—that was available until last week."

"..."

"Are you sure I can speak freely?"

"...No one else is here."

At last, I spoke honestly.

"Your Highness, aren’t you the administrator of the Sacred Salon? The one known as Madame Abigail?"

I deliberately lowered my head. I didn’t want her to waste energy maintaining her expression.

Tap. Tap. The Crown Princess drummed her fingers on the table before speaking.

"The Sacred Salon... you mean that odd place where nobles bet on society rumors? I’ve heard of it a few times."

"Yes. A salon where maids and servants of powerful figures act as informants, gathering all kinds of information. The owner is a masked woman called Madame Abigail."

"What an unpleasant speculation."

Her words said one thing, but her tone suggested amusement—like she was curious to hear more.

I laid out my reasoning, step by step.

"First... the maids working in the Sacred Salon’s kitchen were too skilled. The food tasted strikingly similar to what’s served in the palace. That led me to think of someone with the power to assign royal maids to external work."

"You’re not a food critic. Are you really so sure just from that?"

"Not certainty—just a clue. The waffles I had at the salon recently were made with caramel-glazed pecans mixed into the batter. Even high-end dessert houses don’t commonly serve that."

"Uncommon doesn’t mean unique."

"True, but restaurants usually create multiple menu items using shared ingredients for efficiency. Yet at the Sacred Salon, caramel-glazed pecans were only used in waffles. As if they were sourced externally and used sparingly—a rare choice for any business."

"..."

"More importantly, the extravagant habit of topping waffles with ice cream was something I personally taught the palace kitchen maids when I visited for the Queen’s banquet in May."

"... By that logic, Madame Abigail could be someone else from the palace, not me."