"After the joyous wedding concluded as the most scandalous event that could only happen there…"
Natalie and I requested an audience with the Queen the very next day.
Though Her Majesty was undoubtedly busy, the fact that the bride—the central figure in this debacle—had come in person meant we weren't kept waiting long.
We bowed before the Queen, whose face was drawn with exhaustion.
"Thank you for granting us your precious time, Your Majesty. Ordinarily, our parents should have been the ones to attend, but…"
"…I understand. Facing an unprecedented crisis, they must be preoccupied with damage control—contacting relatives and business associates."
Of course, that sentence also doubled as the Queen's own self-introduction.
Rubbing her shadowed eyes, she continued:
"We summoned and interrogated the woman, Ariel Rabbit. Her testimony appears credible."
"So His Highness Percival truly promised marriage to another…?"
"…Indeed."
Natalie groaned, pressing a hand to her forehead. With dark circles under her eyes from a sleepless night, she looked ready to collapse—though in truth, she hadn't been suffering emotionally. She'd simply stayed up playing cards with the maids to achieve that convincingly haggard look.
(After fainting post-wedding, she'd napped plenty. She couldn't possibly be that tired.)
The Queen, unaware, fretted over her.
"Are you alright, Natalie? You ought to rest."
"No. If I sleep, I might have nightmares… I'd rather stay awake until this is resolved."
"'Resolved'—you mean annulling the engagement, I presume?"
"…I won't deny it."
"Sigh… Very well."
The Queen bit her lower lip.
"A blemish hastily covered will only fracture beyond repair. This is our karma, but I cannot ask an innocent lady to shoulder that pain."
"Then…?"
"The annulment will be processed within the week. Documents will be shredded, the marriage contract voided and returned to the Redfield estate. That will be the end of it."
"Understood."
"…I wish we weren't parting on such terms, but I can't think of anything pleasant to say. My apologies."
Don't worry, Your Majesty. We didn't come here for good news.
Now, it was time for me to broach the world's least welcome topic.
"Your Majesty. Regarding the annulment… On behalf of House Redfield, I must bring up a rather… delicate matter."
"Oh? Not Natalie, but you, Dorys?"
"Yes. That the youngest of our house acts as envoy is no disrespect to the Crown. Rather, as one who may soon join the royal family, I deemed it my duty to bear this burden—and to spare my parents further distress. I beg your understanding."
Long preambles only ever lead to one subject: money.
"Age holds no weight here. Speak freely."
"…It concerns Natalie's dowry. Prepared under great strain in such a short time, House Redfield humbly requests its return."
"Ah… Your 'humility' is understandable. You've broached this well. I'll instruct the palace stewardess to arrange repayment by this afternoon."
"Thank you!"
"Though—was the sum truly so burdensome? For future reference, might we adjust the dowry for your own marriage? Answer candidly."
"Well…"
Natalie interjected—and the Queen's eyes nearly bulged from their sockets.
"What?! That was the amount demanded?!"
"Yes. His Highness Percival—"
The Queen immediately summoned the royal stewardess, then the Crown's bankers. After verifying the documents, our claim was confirmed.
Realizing her son hadn't just ruined his own prospects but bankrupted another family's fields, the Queen exhaled a pained sigh.
"A dowry is, by principle, the bride's wealth—not the husband's to spend. Yet to demand more than the standard…?"
It was pure malice.
Our parents, fearing the Crown would look down on them, had scraped their souls bare to pay.
"…It will be returned at once. And never speak of this sum again."
"Of course."
"Dorys Redfield—rest assured, no such amount will ever be asked of you! We'll personally review it!"
"No need for concern, Your Majesty."
Before leaving, I bowed deeply.
"Just as I've always trusted His Highness Tristan, I will forever believe in the unshakable bond between our families."
"Sigh… You came bearing uncomfortable truths, yet now you ease my burdens. Thank you, Dorys Redfield…!"
As we exited, Natalie fought to keep a smirk off her face—until I pinched her side.
Not yet.
The stewardess and banker handling the refund asked:
"To which account shall we return the funds?"
"Right here."
Natalie wrote "Natalie Redfield" in the recipient field.
The stewardess blinked at the non-househead name but, under the Queen's strict orders, accepted the paperwork without comment.
Two days later…
The dowry—inflated by Percival's bloated ego to rival even the Crown's extravagance—landed safely in Natalie's account.
While we sisters breathed easy, our parents—busy canceling events, refunding unused goods, and placating relatives—only now remembered to question their daughter… and the dowry.
How efficient.
As I finished the last cracker, a passing maid asked:
"My lady, you've only eaten sweets—aren't you thirsty? Shall I bring milk or tea?"
"Hmm… Ah, wait."
The front door swung open. Natalie strode in, her blue coat flaring, face alight with triumph.
Looks like it's done.
"Prepare tea for four. It seems we're having a real family meeting."
"At once."
Minutes later, we cornered our parents in the tea room and forced them back into their seats.
Natalie dropped the bomb.
"The dowry's been refunded—to me. Asking the Queen won't change that."
"…What? Wh-what do you mean, 'to you'?!"
"Isn't a dowry the bride's property by law?"
Technically, yes. Even commoners couldn't meddle with a daughter-in-law's funds.
But reality was another matter—as everyone knew.
"That money's for your new family! And you're not even a bride anymore!"
"I didn't choose to annul. You saw what happened at the wedding."
"Th-that's beside the point! Return it now!"
"No."
"WHAT?!"
"You promised—if I accepted the royal match, you'd make me the finest bride. 'Stop your nonsense and focus on what you're good at,' you said."
"That was—!"
"So the reward for my first obedience is you ignoring the principle that 'dowries belong to the bride'? Proves listening to you only brings losses."
"NATALIE!"
"Am I wrong?"
"H-how—how dare you…! No, wait—why did the Queen give it to you?!"
I answered flatly:
"Surely Her Majesty, paragon of womanhood, couldn't brazenly violate the 'dowry principle' before the bride herself?"
(In truth, she'd been too frantic cleaning up her son's mess to care—but let's be generous.)
Mother turned to me, trembling.
"Dorys… You went with Natalie to see the Queen?!"
"Yes."
"Wh-what were you thinking? Did Natalie pressure you? You don't have to obey your sister blindly!"
Ah, cognitive dissonance.
Their sweet, docile youngest—Dorys—couldn't have done this willingly.
Wrong.
Even before I possessed her, Dorys Redfield's core tenet was this: Uphold principles.
"I did what was necessary. While you salvaged pride, someone had to act before it was too late—especially me, as the families' future bridge."
"..."
"Let's be honest: this wedding collapsed in historically farcical fashion. Though Percival's at fault, blaming the Crown outright is untenable—hence the stalemate. You knew its complexity and avoided it, didn't you?"
"Well… perhaps, but—!"
"I stepped forward willingly, resolved your dilemma, and secured the Queen's assurance of our families' bond. Do I deserve your reproach?"
***