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

With my stomach full and my spirits lifted, I emerged from the refreshment area only to be greeted by my aunt’s scolding.

“Dori! What took you so long? His Highness didn’t look pleased earlier—did you upset him?”

This is getting ridiculous.

“Aunt, what do you think is more likely? Me upsetting His Highness, or him upsetting me?”

“…Don’t say such things carelessly.”

As expected, she couldn’t refute it.

Lowering her voice, my aunt pressed further.

“What were you talking about earlier? Can I give your parents some good news?”

“I told him that I’m his fiancée and that I’ll always wait for him.”

“If you repeat that one more time, I’ll have it memorized myself.”

Across the hall, several young ladies were being asked to dance, and my aunt grew visibly restless.

“His Highness Tristan will come this way, right? He wouldn’t leave his fiancée as a wallflower even here at the royal palace, would he?”

“There are far more ladies than gentlemen tonight. Even if I don’t get to dance, it’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“Stop with your pretty words. If he doesn’t come, I’ll drag some other man over here!”

Her voice rose again, but no one seemed to care. Most of the room’s attention was fixed on one spot.

Arthur Albion.

The most eligible bachelor of the season.

“Pardon me, coming through,” he said softly, advancing through the crowd with polite nods, even though his sheer presence could have easily cleared a path. His intent was obvious.

His piercing dark eyes were locked onto Maria Meyer, the woman whose beauty and modest status made her the talk of the season.

It was the kind of encounter destined to stir up intrigue.

In the original story, when Arthur and Maria reunited in the greenhouse, they initially pretended not to know each other.

Maria maintained her distance, knowing that their childhood friendship was a thing of the past. She was aware of the chasm between a humble baron’s niece and the future Duke of the North. She feared that rekindling any connection would only bring her heartache.

Arthur, on the other hand, regretted pretending not to know her.

He hadn’t forgotten her, not once in the five years since she left the North.

Though the harsh blizzards of Frost Hill erased her footprints, his heart preserved every memory—from the day they splashed in the stream and dirtied the carpet to the day she left the snowfields behind.

After much reflection, Arthur had reached a conclusion:

“Is there even a trace of me left in your heart? Let me confirm if I meant as much to you as you did to me.”

By society’s standards, it was madness. What good would it do to confirm such a thing if he wasn’t planning to propose?

But regardless of his inner turmoil, Arthur’s attention was an overwhelming burden for Maria, who had hoped for a quiet evening.

Desperate to avoid his gaze, Maria glanced around the room for any opportunity to escape. However, no man dared approach her.

Every time one even twitched, Arthur’s eyes bore into them with a silent, “Do you want to fight me?” It was enough to make them reconsider.

After all, interrupting the young duke’s dance partner could very well be seen as insubordination.

In this room, the only man who could disrupt Arthur Albion’s plans was Tristan.

Maria must have followed her instincts from the original story.

“Your Highness Tristan!”

Her delicate voice caught Tristan’s attention, and he turned toward the sight of her shimmering silver hair.

Maria hurried toward him, her steps almost frantic.

It was unconventional for a lady to ask a man to dance, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

“Your Highness, at the last ball, you mentioned we could have the next dance together. Do you… remember?”

Even if he didn’t, this was the perfect moment to lie.

In the original story, Tristan nodded without hesitation. He even knelt before Maria with an exaggerated flourish, smirking smugly as he invited her to dance.

Maria regretted it almost immediately, but it was too late. Tristan swept her onto the dance floor, drawing jealous stares from Arthur, who seethed silently from the sidelines.

…But that’s not what was happening now.

No matter how many times I replayed the original scene in my head, Maria and Tristan just stood there awkwardly, staring at each other.

Tristan, why are you hesitating? This is the girl you used to chase after—shouldn’t you be thrilled?

The silence between them dragged on, growing more unbearable by the second. Around them, the crowd began to buzz. Maria’s face turned bright red.

Oh, for the love of—do something, Tristan! Say something!

As if my inner scream had reached him, Tristan’s gaze shifted to me. He opened his mouth slowly.

Please, just agree and make it smooth—

“I already have a fiancée who watches over me warmly. Could we postpone that promise for another time?”

…Excuse me, what?

My mind went blank. The only coherent thought drifting through my empty brain was this:

I’ve told you before—I’m not watching you warmly, I’m glaring at you!

Before I could process his words, Tristan began walking toward me. Maria followed behind him, and Arthur trailed after her.

What are they, a line of grown adults playing train?!

Just as I was about to bolt, a regal voice cut through the hall.

“Tristan, stop right there.”

The Queen’s voice rang out, commanding and clear.

Tristan froze, turning to face her.

“Mother?”

“You extended an invitation to Miss Meyer, and now you’re turning your back on her? Does that make any sense?”

“I simply lack the audacity to dance with another lady while my fiancée is present,” Tristan replied smoothly, though his shamelessness was enough to leave the entire room stunned.

This was the same man who had ignored Doris Redfield for years. Now he’s suddenly acting like a devoted partner?

The Queen, seemingly amused by her youngest son’s ridiculous excuse, chuckled softly.

“Perhaps it’s not your fiancée you’re worried about but me. Nevertheless, shouldn’t you escort one of the debutantes this evening?”

“……”

“The significance of today’s ball should be clear enough that your fiancée won’t mind, don’t you think?”

The Queen turned her gaze to me, her eyes expectant. Summoning every ounce of composure, I nodded firmly.

Tristan hesitated, but in the end, he didn’t leave Maria standing there, her face as red as a tomato.

As he bent slightly, his silver hair fell forward, swaying softly with his voice.

“Lady Maria Meyer, would you honor me with the first dance of the evening?”

“Y-yes! Of course!”@@novelbin@@

Maria placed her gloved hand lightly onto Tristan’s palm.

I couldn’t help but recall the original novel’s description of this moment:

"Tristan clasped her glove like a carnivorous plant seizing a fly, his greedy fingers tightening around the delicate fabric. The prince, puffed with self-importance, gave no thought to the fact that it was Maria’s only pair of silk gloves..."

It was such a pitiful scene that it had stuck with me all this time.

But reality, once again, diverged from the novel.

Tristan’s hand merely held hers with the indifference of someone carrying a borrowed item. There was none of the arrogance or possessiveness described in the book.

What’s going on?

This was supposed to be Tristan’s moment of smug superiority, the one where Arthur realized his lingering, intense feelings for Maria.

Instead, Tristan led Maria to the center of the ballroom with a detached demeanor, their hands barely clasped.

Even so, the sight of the silver-haired prince and the golden-haired beauty standing together drew admiring sighs from the crowd.

“They look stunning together,” whispered one of the chaperones who had, moments earlier, been gleefully gossiping about them.

Around them, other pairs gathered, preparing for the first waltz.

Meanwhile, the chaperones’ attention shifted to Arthur Albion, who remained rooted to his spot.

At most balls, the ratio of ladies to gentlemen made it almost a duty for the men to invite multiple partners to dance. Surely, Arthur couldn’t just stand idly by.

One brave chaperone approached him, likely suggesting he dance with the lady she had escorted.

But Arthur shook his head.

In the novel, this was when his burning gaze was supposed to fixate on Tristan, radiating jealousy. Instead, his dark eyes carried a peculiar emotion as he glanced around the room.

Then, they landed on… me.

“Lady, may I have your name?”

“M-my name is Dori Redfield…”

“Miss Redfield, may I have the honor of this dance?”

Why me of all people?!

I wanted to run. But humiliating the male lead in front of everyone would serve no purpose. Worse, it would delay the first dance, which would surely earn me a scowl from the Queen. Left with no choice, I nodded.

Arthur’s large hand clumsily led me toward the dance floor.

The first notes of the piano solo began, soon joined by the lively sound of woodwinds filling the hall. People began to move gracefully in rhythm.

Arthur, looking slightly embarrassed, said, “I’m not the best dancer. I may step on your toes. My apologies in advance.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll probably step on yours first—I’m not a skilled dancer either.”

“Is that so?”

“…”

Clearly, he wasn’t interested in keeping the conversation going.

I glanced up at him, noticing how his eyes kept searching over my shoulder for someone.

“Your Grace, are you perhaps looking for Lady Maria?”

“Wh—oh!”

Arthur abruptly stepped on my foot, causing a sharp pain to shoot through me.

“Ah! Ow!”

His face turned bright red.

“I’m so sorry! Should we stop? Do you need the infirmary?”

“No, no, it’s fine! But… you were looking for Lady Maria, weren’t you?”

“…Am I that obvious?”

“Yes.”

Arthur’s ears turned crimson as he lowered his head in embarrassment.

“I apologize. I’ll focus on my dance partner from now on.”

“Please do. I’d rather not get stepped on again.”

Despite my words, I couldn’t help but feel oddly amused.

In a transmigration story, the first sign of deviation from the original plotline is usually something like this:

“Why is the male lead obsessed with me instead of the heroine?”

Fortunately, Arthur’s feelings for Maria seemed unshaken, so I could relax.

…Even if my foot throbbed painfully.

As I gritted my teeth and endured the remainder of the dance, Arthur’s gaze once again drifted past my shoulder.

“Your Grace, are you still looking at Lady Maria?”

Arthur fumbled for a response.

“Well, it’s just that something over there…” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Never mind. It’s nothing.”