I'm Not Sorry But The Prince Will Marry Me Anyway-Chapter 111

The world spun around him.

‘Your Highness. Is the tunnel... collapsing right now?’

Rick couldn’t get his voice out. Strange. It was just a bite to the shoulder, wasn’t it?

Before he could hear a response, the cold dirt floor touched his cheek. Yet, the dizziness didn’t stop.

Yeah, the world must be falling apart. Especially if Tristan was looking at him with that worried expression.

“You idiot...!”

The situation had reversed. Now, it was Tristan trying to drape Rick’s arm over his own shoulder.

Rick wanted to scoff—Don’t push yourself when you’re barely holding yourself together, Your Highness—but the moment his arm was lifted, a searing pain surged through him, forcing him to swallow a scream.

Ah. My collarbone’s broken.

The bitten arm wouldn’t move. No matter how hard he gasped, his lungs wouldn’t expand properly. His ribs must have cracked, stabbing into his lungs.

Tristan attempted to help him up a few more times before eventually setting him down.

“Wait here. I’ll bring someone... Stay awake!”

Only when he saw Tristan limping away in haste did Rick realize—

I really am in critical condition.

Rick lifted his good hand to inspect his wound. His fingers found the jagged gash left by the beast’s fangs.

Ha! This is going to leave a great scar.

Stopping the bleeding would be difficult. Even with just a light touch, blood ran down his wrist in a vivid crimson streak. The bleeding was bad.

His mercenary instincts told him—men who suffered wounds like this didn’t make it back to their families.

Even if, by some miracle, they did return, they were usually unconscious, confined to a bed until death took them. Never once able to say their goodbyes.

...Well. It’s a relief I don’t have any family.

Words and memories drifted away in his hazy mind.

Maria, his savior. The kind-hearted people of Meyer’s estate. The mercenaries who had embraced him on his last day with them. The grandfather he had once wished to meet at least once in his life...

And most of all—

I have a promise to keep.

Doris Redfield.

They had made a promise.

Rick pulled at his torn, bloodstained shirt, pressing his good hand to it. With his fingers drenched in his own blood, he began to write.

978. 8. You win.

And the symbol of the Sacred Salon.

That would be enough for the Salon to transfer his coin to her.

A sense of relief settled in—he had completed one last duty.

Then, the bastard’s voice rang out.

“Rick Ray!”

Two soldiers arrived with him, quickly lifting Rick’s failing body. The damn prince reached out, attempting to press against Rick’s wound to staunch the bleeding, but his eyes caught the scrap of shirt Rick was holding out instead.

“What’s this, Rick?”

“...To...”

“What?”

“...Doris, s...”

“...Give this to Doris?”

Yes.

Rick nodded—or at least, he meant to. In truth, it was less a nod and more his head drooping from sheer exhaustion, but judging from the flicker of confusion across Tristan’s face, he had understood.

Doris. I did everything I could.

He had saved her fiancé.

Not in perfect condition, sure. But that was his problem. That bastard had always thrown himself into fights like this.

And he had settled his business with the Sacred Salon’s bet. He had kept the message as vague as possible, avoiding anything that could stir unnecessary suspicion...

If Tristan is such a bastard that he’d twist my note into evidence of his fiancée’s betrayal...

Then he’d be the one losing out on the greatest woman alive.

Doris would be fine, no matter what.

Doris. Even if I’ve never truly accomplished anything in my life... if you’re the woman I know you to be—

“...Don’t worry. About anything.”

Before he knew it, they had made it outside the tunnel. The blinding sunlight struck his face. His blurred vision could only distinguish between light and darkness now.

Which was why Tristan’s voice rang all the clearer.

“I swear. Everything will be fine.”

***

"Doris, my lady, you must be hungry. Please, have this."

The maid returned to the guest room of the convent, offering me half a loaf of bread from the lunch menu. Since I had been hiding away in my room to avoid the risk of any nun recognizing me, I gratefully accepted it.

"Thank you! But are you sure? You've been running around all day. You must be even more exhausted ❀ Nоvеlігht ❀ (Don’t copy, read here) than I am..."

"I'm fine. The nuns kept me company while I ate, and they gave me plenty of food. They seemed starved for outside stories."

"Guests must be rare here."

"They are, especially noblewomen during the social season. But I did manage to gather a lot of information..."

I leaned in, listening.

A few hours ago.

After finding a record of a woman named Ariel Rabbit, I had bluntly questioned the maid when she returned from tending to my sister.

"How do you know about the Sacred Salon?"

"Huh? The... what?"

"Don’t play dumb. When my sister mentioned the Sacred Salon earlier, you reacted as if you already knew about it."

"I was just surprised that you were a patron... Lady Natalie said the same thing."

"When my sister was shocked by my involvement, she called the Salon by its full name. That means she recognized its particular significance. And you— you caught on to that nuance perfectly."

"..."

She glanced around before giving up. Honestly, she had probably realized her mistake earlier, back when she had awkwardly changed the subject, claiming my sister was "overheated."

"Was it you who covered for me during the Redfield estate’s banquet? When my father was looking for me while I was at the Salon?"

"Ah... yes."

"One last question... Are you also acting as an informant for the Sacred Salon?"

It was unlikely she was just an ordinary patron.

Not only was the Salon far too expensive for a maid’s salary, but she also knew that I was one of its clients.

At the word informant, the maid’s eyes widened.

"An informant? No way! Isn't that something only, you know, important people do?"

"Spies thrive on that kind of assumption."

"..."

"Besides, who has better access to word-of-mouth gossip than maids? With nothing but a broom, you can walk into a supposedly 'off-limits' office under the excuse of cleaning."

It had only really sunk in after I had worn a maid's uniform myself—no high-society noblewoman could gather scandalous information as efficiently as maids did.

She didn't argue. Instead, she hesitated, watching my reaction carefully.

"...You're not mad?"

"I was a client of the Sacred Salon too. I’ve spent plenty of time playing in the same game, profiting off other people's secrets. It would be hypocritical to blame the seller now."

What was I supposed to do, act like some self-righteous fool?

This 𝓬ontent is taken from freeweɓnovel.cѳm.

Sure, it was a little unsettling. But it wasn't like I was entirely surprised.

"I never sold information about you or your sister!"

"I know. No one would be interested in me, and my sister... well, she’s too honest. No secrets worth selling."

"..."

"But that aside—could I ask for your help? For my sister. There's something I need to find out while we’re here at the convent."

"Of course!"

And so, the maid had gone off to dig up traces of Ariel Rabbit for me.

"The younger nuns remember her as a beautiful woman with a clear voice," the maid reported now. "She wasn’t a noble, but she acted like one—like one of those aristocratic ladies who come here for temporary retreats. She kept to herself, never socializing with the others."

"She arrived two years ago, right?"

"Yes, in the summer of 976."

"...I see."

"But a few months later, her attitude changed. And by last spring, she had been transferred somewhere else."

Ariel Rabbit’s recorded grievances against "P" had started in November 976.

Could it be that Ariel had been lured to the convent by "P"—there was only one obvious suspect for that identity—believing she would only stay for a short while?

And then, after a few months, she realized she had been deceived. That was when she started writing under the bed...

"...I need to check the convent’s donation records."

If this convent was willing to drug people in exchange for money, then it wasn’t a stretch to think they might imprison people for the right price, too.

The maid seemed to understand my line of thinking but hesitated.

"My only real skill is chatting. I’m not great at searching through documents..."

"Don’t worry. We won’t need to go rifling through anyone’s drawers."

"Huh?"

"Donation records don’t just exist on paper."

...Though, realistically, I was still going to be stuck in this room while the maid did all the hard work.

By the next morning, we had gathered as much information as we could.

And finally, my sister was well enough to leave the convent.

Prince Percival made sure to escort—or more accurately, annoy—my sister, while she, in turn, dedicated her efforts to mocking his gentlemanly behavior. That meant I had a much easier time slipping into the maid’s carriage.

There was, however, one pressing issue left to deal with.

Where exactly was I supposed to have been last night?

‘My parents think I stayed at the convent. My sister and Percival are going to freak out when they hear that, because they know that’s nonsense...’

While I was mulling it over, the maid who had gone ahead to Redfield Manor yesterday offered an idea.

"Actually, last night, the master said, ‘Why on earth would Doris stay behind?’ What if I tell them I overheard that and came back early to bring you home?"

Another maid shook her head.

"If we say that, we’ll get scolded for acting without permission. What if we say Lady Doris caught a cold on the way down and had to return to the convent for some rest?"

"...That sounds really pathetic."

Though, to be fair, excuses are always pathetic.

The three of us huddled together, trying to refine our cover story into something at least vaguely plausible.

...But we never got the chance to use it.

The servants’ carriage stopped at the rear gate of the marquisate. I moved discreetly, avoiding attention as I made my way toward the guest rooms, still thinking about how to spin my absence.

But the problem resolved itself.

Because at the tea table, where Percival and my sister were supposed to be exchanging their usual barbed remarks, a messenger arrived—

"Prince Percival, urgent news from the Blue Atrium—His Highness, Prince Tristan, has—"

And just like that, my whereabouts last night became the least of anyone’s concerns.

Even in my own mind.