"Dory loves me? How on earth did that become a topic of conversation?"
Was it because of the rumors that Dory had waited for Tristan despite his cold treatment? The context beyond the hospital door was unclear. Only that single sentence—uttered in Dory's flustered, raised voice—pierced Tristan's ears sharply, like a needle.
"Even I find it absurd. What kind of naive fool would believe that?"
From the beginning, Dory had never once said she loved him during their entire engagement. She had only maintained that "an engagement must be honored." Even those who praised her as a "model lady" likely never believed she loved Tristan. His own assumptions had been the same.
…But confirming it was an entirely different matter.
The sheer bewilderment in her voice shattered every expectation at once.
Dory did not love Tristan.
The hollow truth echoed in his mind.
The reverberation was long. It wasn't just his head—his entire body felt empty. If someone so much as touched him, he might shatter like cheap porcelain knocked off a shelf.
…Would she at least comfort me if I did?
"…Huh?"
Dory's voice cut off that foolish thought.
Just before she opened the hospital door, Tristan gripped the handle tightly. He didn't want to be caught eavesdropping. Fortunately, when she stepped in moments later, she seemed to buy his flimsy excuse.
Now, it was time to end this awkward three-way reunion.
Suppressing the throbbing pain, Tristan spoke.
"Do we still have anything left to discuss among ourselves?"
For better or worse, Rick's gaze toward Dory had hardened subtly—as if he had resolved to let go of the woman he'd once loved from afar.
As he should.
There was only one reason Tristan had tolerated Rick's lingering looks at Dory until now: the man had never crossed the line. Though he'd later learned they'd built a friendship at the Sacred Salon… intervening without clear provocation would only undermine his dignity as her husband.
"Take care."
"Rest well, Rick."
That was it. Rick, until the trial ends, you'll shuffle between the Mayer estate and the courthouse, then find peace with your grandfather. And stay away from Dory.
…Yet even as the hospital door closed, severing Dory and Rick's space, Tristan felt no triumph.
Instead, a question arose.
Rick, how can you suppress the urge to chase after her?
I have to grit my teeth just to ignore you—yet you threw yourself into saving your rival. How?
How the hell…?
"Are you alright, Your Highness?"
At the end of their exchange, when Dory reached out to touch Tristan's forehead in concern, he was certain:
Even if he were shattered to pieces, Dory would gently extend her hand. Whether he was physically broken or politically ruined… she would shield him, playing the role of fiancée and wife.
Even if the root of that care wasn't love.
"Dory. How do you see me?"
A stupid question, though he already knew the answer.
In truth, he'd rather shout:
Dorys Redfield. Love me.
Hate me, call me stupid, treat me like a fool—I don't care.
Just reach for me not out of duty, but desire…
His desperate plea was drowned out by her terrifyingly bold idea.
"If anyone dares look down on you, tell me. I'll put salt in their drink!"
"…I'll keep that in mind."
For Dory, this was downright audacious.
The epitome of a proper lady had just promised—at her own family's party, no less—to secretly sabotage a guest's drink. All for Tristan!
As he walked away from the estate, Tristan burst into laughter.
Who else but Natalie would receive such favoritism from her?
At this rate, their relationship had taken a monumental leap.
"This is enough. Really, it's fine."
To shake off the urge to turn back and cling to her skirts, Tristan quickened his pace. His fuel? Rick's attitude.
"That bastard sacrificed himself for the woman he loved. Then I, at the very least, can keep my mouth shut. What more could I ask for when I already have Dory by my side?"
Soon, his steps led him not to the palace, but to the city's shopping district.
Not long after, as Dory had promised, the Redfield estate hosted a grand party.
With the entire extended family in attendance, the spotlight was firmly on Percival and Natalie.
Guests whispered as they observed the soon-to-be-wed couple across the lavishly decorated hall and gardens.
"Natalie's dressed so modestly for once. Is she trying not to overshadow her fiancé?"
"Does that mean we won't see her dominating the dance floor anymore? Thank goodness. Last time, my daughter couldn't get a single partner because of her!"
"It's not just Natalie. Men who only ask beautiful women to dance have no manners— Oh! Your Highness Tristan! Are you looking for someone?"
He'd tried to move discreetly, but Natalie's uncharacteristic (by her past standards) restraint made him stand out instead.
After exchanging pleasantries, Tristan replied,
"Have you seen my fiancée? She said she was stepping out to rest after the second dance, but she's taking longer than expected."
"I think I saw her near the study earlier."
"Thank you."
"Miss Dorys is quite lucky. If she learns the joy of being with someone as splendid as you, she'll waste less time cooped up in that dreary study!"
Though he dismissed the remark as not worth a response, Tristan found himself turning the words over in his mind as he walked down the hallway.
Waste.
Once officially crowned princess, Dory would have to accompany him to countless formal events. And even outside official functions, anyone inviting Tristan to a party would naturally include his wife's name on the invitation.
Dory would resent having her solitude taken from her. The one whose time is being wasted is her.
But that wasn't the only phrase gnawing at him.
"Men who only ask beautiful women to dance have no manners…"
Such men weren't rare in high society. Yet, the words inevitably called to mind his own past behavior.
At parties without Dory—or even when she stood ignored like a wallflower—Tristan had freely danced with other women.
The whispers hadn't lasted long. Public opinion swiftly softened toward "Well, that's just how His Highness is" while shifting blame to "Dorys isn't entirely faultless for just standing there."
Dory must have known what people murmured. She'd simply endured it.
How could she love the very cause of that humiliation?
A man who, at best, exchanged stiff greetings with her at tea parties and at worst, openly declared "I won't be dancing with you today" while showering attention on others.
A man who couldn't even spare a lark for his fiancée during the hunting tournament.
Loving such a bastard would require the boundless heart of a saint.
Of course… this was inevitable.
The initial shock of confirming Dory's feelings had dulled, though the aftermath lingered like the icy depths of the North Sea.
She's always been consistent. I'm the one who foolishly expected otherwise—just because my own feelings changed.
The childishness of it made his skin crawl.
I should be grateful just for the kindness she shows me.
As he ascended the stairs toward the study, Dory came into view, conversing with a maid.
Not wanting to eavesdrop like last time, Tristan paused on the landing, fingers brushing the velvet-lined box in his pocket. The fabric was soft yet unnervingly tactile.
It was meant to formally declare his renewed feelings—not in some belated, tear-strewn street confession, but properly. Anything would've been better than that.
But now…
"Alright, I'll leave it to you. I should return to the party."
"Just say the word whenever you want snacks without the master knowing. I'll have cookies ready!"
"Thanks!"
The moment Dory bid the maid farewell, Tristan climbed the remaining steps.