I'm Not Sorry But The Prince Will Marry Me Anyway-Chapter 113

“Doris!”

“Your High—hng!”

I turned toward the door, then immediately ducked my head.

Tristan had burst out of his room without even buttoning up his shirt properly.

No, worse—judging from the water droplets still clinging to his chest, he had run out in the middle of washing up...

That was it. That was all I saw before I slammed my gaze downward.

“Your Highness, perhaps you should... finish dressing properly first? Did I come at an inconvenient time?”

“There is no such thing as an inconvenient time for you to visit me! I was merely in the middle of disinfecting my wounds.”

“...Excuse me?”

If that’s not an inconvenient time, then what is?

What, were you playing a board game while treating your wounds like some legendary general?

“There was no need for you to interrupt your treatment!”

“It was just a simple disinfection. I didn’t want to make my guest wait... especially the one who came to visit me.”

Wow. How touching.

This coming from the same man who had left me waiting for ages after the hunting tournament? The irony was astounding.

I responded firmly.

“Your Highness, finish your treatment.”

“...Summon the physician to—”

“Go back inside and get it done properly. I did not come all this way just to take one glance at Your Highness and leave.”

“You’re not even looking at me right now.”

“Perhaps I would be able to if you were fully clothed first.”

“...I’ll be back shortly. Wait for me.”

Tristan, his voice low and determined, turned back toward his room.

Through the slowly closing door, I caught a glimpse of the physician standing there, still holding a bottle of disinfectant, completely stunned.

So he really did run out in the middle of treatment.

Does he feel guilty for ignoring me so many times before?

Tristan, why is it that you have no concept of moderation?

I returned to my tea and cake, alternating between bites and sips, but my thoughts were so drowned in Tristan that I barely registered the taste.

Was he badly injured?

If he still needed to disinfect his wounds, then it had to be serious.

I thought this mission would be easier than the hunting tournament, since Arthur and the soldiers were there.

In the original story, Arthur had—despite some injuries—successfully completed the mission alone.

To be honest, Tristan could have just sat back and let everyone else handle things, and he would’ve been perfectly fine.

But...

That’s not who he is.

For someone born as a villain, always expected to skirt responsibility, this was the same man who had stepped forward in front of everyone that day at the hunting tournament.

Why does he always do this?

A part of me felt proud of him. Another part of me wished he’d stop being so reckless.

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The problem was—I never wanted to feel either of those things.

I had wanted ❖ Nоvеl𝚒ght ❖ (Exclusive on Nоvеl𝚒ght) to just sit back and enjoy the downfall of the infamous Crown Prince, nibble on some Madeleines, accept his inevitable apology, get married, and live peacefully.

I did not want to worry about him.

And, more than anything—

I did not want to feel—

No. I am NOT.

I forcefully shoved the intrusive thought away.

No matter how handsome he was, no matter if he was my fiancé, I refused to feel that way.

Nothing is more miserable than being the only one catching feelings in a relationship.

Especially for a man who had made it abundantly clear that he didn’t care for me that way.

I needed to focus.

I needed to be rational.

...Right. The bet.

Hearing about injuries suddenly reminded me of my wager with Rick.

Could I consider Tristan to have returned safely?

Our condition had been that he had to return unscathed—meaning no permanent damage to his physical abilities or scars longer than 10 centimeters.

...And only now did I realize the glaring loophole in that condition.

What if the scar was somewhere I couldn’t see?

I couldn’t exactly ask him to strip and show me.

I tried to imagine where Tristan might have been injured—only to violently shake my head when I realized what I was thinking.

Fortunately, the door opened at that moment.

I turned away immediately, like a chicken spotting a hawk.

“Doris, you’ve been waiting—what are you doing? You look like you’ve seen something you shouldn’t have.”

“I-I didn’t see anything! Not at all! I wasn’t even imagining it!”

“...I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He took a seat across from me, brushing it off.

“Anyway, how was your trip?”

“I had a wonderful time. And Your Highness? Are you truly alright? If you still require daily disinfection, your injuries must be serious...”

“It’s nothing.”

“Are you sure? I can still smell the disinfectant from here.”

Not that I was asking because of the bet.

This is just... the classic last words of any reckless man.

“I’m fine. I won’t die.”

Even now, Tristan’s brow furrowed slightly, as if he was hiding something.

I lowered my voice.

“Your Highness. Are you really alright?”

“...My wounds aren’t a concern.”

“They are to me. Please, don’t keep important matters from your fiancée.”

“....”

“You were the one who told me to act more like an engaged couple, weren’t you?”

“...It’s a different matter. But if you insist on knowing—”

Tristan took a deep breath, as if bracing himself, then finally spoke.

“You know Rick Ray, don’t you?”

“...Of course I do! He’s my friend—wait. Didn’t Your Highness bring him along on this mission?”

“You haven’t heard the rest of the news yet, then.”

“Your Highness... did something happen to Rick?”

“He’s alive.”

Tristan must have known those words wouldn’t reassure me. He cast his gaze downward, toward his teacup, before continuing.

“But he was severely injured in battle. He was transported back to the capital and is currently hospitalized at the Royal Hospital. The Meyer family was informed yesterday.”

“...How bad is it?”

“There was significant blood loss. He hasn’t regained consciousness since that day.”

For a moment, my mind went completely blank.

It was like walking a familiar road, only to suddenly find the ground crumbling beneath my feet.

Rick Ray.

Why... why you?

Tristan’s voice didn’t stop.

“Before he lost consciousness, he asked me to deliver this to you.”

He placed a crumpled cloth onto the table, spreading it carefully over his handkerchief.

Compared to the pristine white fabric, this tattered scrap looked filthy, as though it belonged on the floor rather than the table.

But when Tristan unfolded it...

It was a torn piece of fabric, covered in hastily scrawled writing.

The dark stains blurring the ink—was that his own blood?

978. 8. You win.

And next to it—a distinctive signature, not "Rick Ray," but one created under the rules of the Sacred Salon.

A letter, explicitly regarding the bet we made in August 978.

“...He wanted this to be given to me?”

“Yes. He specifically said your name.”

It felt like the curtains had suddenly been ripped away, shoving me out onto an unfamiliar stage.

Rick Ray... did you always know it was me behind the mask?

And in what could have been your final moments, the thing you cared about most was settling our bet?

My thoughts were a mess.

But there was no time for me to be confused.

Because across from me—Tristan was hesitating.

I could tell.

He wasn’t sure if he should ask.

I already knew what the obvious question would be.

And if I were in his place—

Wouldn’t I be wondering the same thing?