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

I could fill the page with pretty words, sure. But the problem is that I’m already known as someone devoted to Tristan.

‘Tristan isn’t stupid. He’d recognize a letter full of empty flattery immediately.’

Pretending to adore him while writing the letter would be easy enough.

Something like: You’re amazing, I’m so happy to be your fiancée, please return safely.

Stretch each of those sentiments into three or four sentences, and voilà—done.

Let’s just finish this quickly!

I grabbed my pen, mentally crafting the first sentence—

And stopped cold after the words “Dear Prince Tristan,”.

‘Why does this feel so embarrassing? This is weird.’

I mean, I’m bad at lying, but I’m great at writing fake sincerity.

I once sent a New Year’s card to the awful library director: “Thank you for all your guidance this year. I wish you good health in the coming year as well.”

What I actually wanted to write was: “Thanks to you, every single day of this year has been absolute hell. Next year, I hope to see your face only in the crime section of the newspaper. How long will you keep funneling library funds into buying your friends’ garbage self-help books?”

Pretending to like someone I don’t is child’s play.

I settled on an opening for Tristan’s letter:

“Every time I close my eyes, the moment I first met Your Highness comes vividly to mind. If my life were a book, that day would be the first time a bookmark was placed between its pages. The joy of being bound to someone like you through our engagement is something I will always treasure…”

Et cetera, et cetera.

But in reality? Learning I was destined to marry Tristan hadn’t brought me joy.

…It hadn’t made me sad, either.

If I’d been reincarnated as Maria, I would have felt overwhelmed. Arthur is a kind and resolute leader—the kind of person someone like Maria, with her steadfastness, should end up with.

If my fate had been to end up with Rick? That would’ve been just as overwhelming. Rick carries so many scars. He needs someone who can truly embrace and heal him.

Tristan, though? He’s the perfect middling villain—not too good, not too bad. And his face? Well, at least that’s worth complimenting. I could write a letter praising his looks and status, declaring it an honor to be engaged to him…

…No.

I found myself crossing out line after line, scratching through the sparkling sentences like they were something toxic, staining the page black.

The sound made Maria look over, startled.

“Doris?”

“I messed up. Don’t worry about it.”

I clenched my jaw.

Am I really okay with this? Pretending not to care, faking affection?

That would be an insult to Tristan.

We’re going to get married regardless, so the least I can do is approach this with sincerity.

‘So then, what can I do?’

The answer was obvious: follow the same advice I’d given the other ladies.

When I grabbed a fresh sheet of paper, Maria tilted her head curiously.

“Are you drawing?”

“Yeah, just decorating the edges of the letter.”

I’ll write about the things I like. I’ll ask him about what he likes.

We may never love each other, but at the very least, we can surround ourselves with things we enjoy.

Today, for the first time, I saw Your Highness shoot an arrow. The unerring trajectory that pierced the wind is surely a testament to the path you’ve walked for so long. Do you enjoy archery?

After writing that, I recalled the image of Tristan drawing his bow.

The way his cape slipped, revealing broad, firm shoulders. The way his gloved fingers tightened over the bowstring. The unwavering focus in his deep blue eyes as he tracked the arrow’s flight…

…Wow. When did I start paying that much attention to Tristan?

Enough. Why am I reminiscing about this?

Let’s sum it up briefly.

I’d like to grab your arm just once…

‘Not like that, you idiot!’

I stabbed my pen into the paper in frustration. Maria jumped beside me.

“Doris? What’s wrong? Your face is red.”

“It’s… it’s just hard to write this letter!”

“Oh, I understand. When feelings of love are overwhelming, it’s hard to condense them into words.”

That’s not it at all!

I wanted to protest, but the embarrassment rising within me left me speechless. Maria, oblivious, smiled and popped a cookie into my mouth.

“Take your time, Doris. It’s not like you have to pour your whole heart into this letter.”

“…”

“If words are hard, you can express yourself with decorations.”

Just then, a maid approached, holding some feather ornaments.

“Miss, would you like to use these?”

“What kind of feathers are these?”

“I got them from the banquet’s makeshift kitchen. They’re leftovers from the day’s hunting game.”

Ah, the spoils of today’s hunt.

Looking around, I noticed that the supply box had been filled with decorations—beautiful feathers, wildflowers, even lush green leaves befitting June.

The ladies eagerly reached for them, their hands moving like excited students decorating their journals. I, too, set to work.

When I hit a block while writing, I doodled around the edges. When inspiration struck, I picked up the pen again.

By the end, the letter was adorned with soft, watercolor-like chalk and feathered accents. A blend of words and decorations brought it to life.

**"Until we can witness the scenery of that day together once more,
And until the day we discover another view to admire side by side,
Please return safely.

Yours sincerely,
Your fiancée, Doris Redfield."**

“Done…”

I folded the paper and glanced around. Most of the ladies seemed to have finished their letters too, their faces glowing with smiles like students after an enjoyable art class.

It was a relief to see they had fun.

Right about then, Natalie returned to our table, her expression as bright as someone who’d thoroughly enjoyed themselves.

“Did you have a pleasant tea time, my little songbirds?”

“Thanks to you, we did. But, Natalie, where’s the Countess?”

“Oh, her? She was gossiping about some viscountess earlier. As luck would have it, that very lady happened to be at a nearby tea table, so I paired them up to sort out their misunderstandings.”

In other words, she set them up to fight.

Natalie smiled sweetly, as if she’d just enjoyed a particularly entertaining show.

“I wanted to include that Rick fellow too, but he was too busy to even say hello.”

“Is his work that overwhelming?”

“Not my problem,” Natalie replied, sipping her lukewarm tea.

Then she stood and announced in a commanding tone, “Since the Countess rudely abandoned this tea party, I’ll take over. Ladies, the tea party is officially over. Please head back to prepare for the banquet.”

The other ladies exchanged hesitant glances, their faces practically shouting, “Are we really allowed to leave?”

But what choice did they have? The Countess wasn’t coming back.

They dispersed in small groups of twos and threes, heading off in different directions.

Before returning to their tents, though, each one made a point to stop by and thank me.

“Thank you for helping me prepare a meaningful gift, Miss Doris.”

Even if I went home empty-handed tomorrow, I felt confident this hunting tournament would remain a fond memory for many of them—and for me too.

Back in our tent, Natalie asked what I had been up to while the Countess was gone.

When I told her I’d written a letter for my fiancé, her face scrunched up.

“Do you think he can even read?”

“You’re being rude.”

“I’m not asking if he’s illiterate. I’m asking if he has the patience, focus, and literary sensibility to read a letter from his fiancée.”

“That’s even harsher!”

“For the record, I have none of those things either.”

“Given your talent for sarcasm, I’d say you do have literary sensibility. I guarantee it. …And as for His Highness, I’m pretty sure he has at least the first two.”

After all, he’d read and analyzed reports about the Blue Atrium. He’s clearly capable as a civil servant.

Natalie smirked. “You’re speaking of him much more positively than you used to.”

“Used to? What did I say about him before?”

I wondered if the original Doris had ever passed judgment on Tristan.

Natalie paused in thought, then shook her head. “For what it’s worth, I have a terrible memory.”

“…”

“Something along the lines of, ‘I’m disappointed by his tendency to chase meaningless things,’ I think. Probably annoyed that he loved parties and dances. Just like how you disliked me for the same reason.”

She grinned mischievously, and I waved my hands in a panic.

“Th-that’s not true anymore!”

“Oh, so you’re not denying the past. Anyway, are you attending the banquet tonight?”

“And if I say no?”

“Then you’d better come up with a convincing lie for Mother. Something like, ‘Doris had a great time with me and decided to stay in.’”

Her teasing made me laugh despite myself.

As people began returning to their tents to prepare for the banquet, Natalie stationed herself at her vanity, employing every maid in sight to help with her preparations.

Father, meanwhile, came back covered in mud but thankfully uninjured—though he’d apparently earned the distinction of being the first participant in this year’s tournament to slip and fall in animal droppings.

While the servants rushed to heat his bathwater, I addressed my family.

“I’ll head out first. Take your time getting ready.”

“You’re leaving already? Fine, pass along my regards to His Highness!”@@novelbin@@

I didn’t reply.

Would I even see him at the banquet?

He had explicitly said he’d be busy.

I packed the handkerchief and letter, just in case, but I wasn’t holding my breath.

‘If I can’t see him today… maybe there’ll be time early tomorrow morning?’

Would he scold me for bothering him at dawn?

…Hopefully, he’d at least pretend to be happy to receive it.

I’m not sure I can handle being married to someone who can’t even muster that much politeness.