Unlike the glamorous lilac-colored envelope, the letter paper was plain. It was an unusual choice for Tristan, who usually paid attention even to appearances.
'Either he didn't have suitable stationery, or he prepared enough but still ran short.'
To my fiancée, Doris Redfield.
Dory, do you remember how I begged you for a letter on the day of the hunting tournament?
It's only now, with our roles reversed, that I realize writing a letter isn't so easy.
Even so, I thought it would be better to convey this by letter than by voice.
Dory, I'll say something that no flowery language could ever soften.
I know that you do not love me.
The final sentence of the paragraph struck me straight in the heart. My mind wavered, and my fingertips grew cold.
What is he talking about?
Barely escaping from the line written in particularly rough strokes, I moved on to read the next.
The day before Rick Rey was discharged, I overheard a conversation between you and Rick.
To be exact, I'm talking about the moment you were flustered by the rumor that "Doris loves Tristan passionately."
It wasn't intentional. I'm sorry.
What I should have done then was to reveal my presence in the corridor, ask about the source of the rumor, and clarify the truth.
But… at that moment, hearing your voice, I realized your true feelings, and the best I could do was to compose myself.
It's a miserable excuse.
I recalled the moment when the hospital door handle wouldn't turn.
Was he listening outside then?
And did he interpret the embarrassment in my voice as "displeasure at a baseless rumor"?
It wasn't something that could be summed up in one simple sentence.
The embarrassment in my voice at that time was a tangled result of several emotions: the confusion of hearing a name given to feelings I'd never even clearly admitted to myself, doubts about the person who first uttered it, and the burden of Rick's feelings for me.
But the fact that Tristan disregarded all those nuances and only concluded "Doris does not love me" meant…
It meant that topic had become a filter, occupying his entire mind.
Love me, hate me.
As if only those two answers were allowed.
It was a misunderstanding, you fool! Why didn't you just ask me…
No. I gritted my teeth before I could scream inside.
He did ask.
That day, in the hospital corridor, Tristan already asked me:
"Dory, how do you see me?"
And I dodged the question.
I said, "Tristan is admirable, wonderful, smart."
Even though I knew what answer he wanted.
I was the fool.
Suppressing the urge to run to Tristan immediately, I forced myself to finish reading the letter.
At the beginning, Tristan's handwriting was rough, but as the letter went on, it gradually stabilized. In contrast, my hand, holding the letter, began to tremble more and more.
I have already confessed my feelings to you in the worst way possible and then even asked you to forget it.
It was a foolish act, whether I meant to fix things or make them worse.
I know time cannot be turned back.
That's why, at the very least, I intend to keep the promise I made when I proposed to you.
I promised I would make you happy, didn't I?
Honestly, if you do not love me… I did consider that you might be happier with another man.
But no matter how I thought about it, I couldn't imagine you finding a better man than me.
My trembling hands stilled for a moment.
Tristan, so consistent.
It's irritating how I can't even say he's wrong.
Without even looking in a mirror, I knew the corners of my lips must have lifted a little.
But the next unexpected sentence — so unlike him — froze my smile and pushed me into confusion.
Ultimately, the only method I could think of was this:
Pretend to be a prison called "husband," but be a fence that allows you as much freedom as possible.
I want you to live the way you wish.
Instead of forcing yourself to attend parties and charity performances, read books, and enjoy solo tea parties in the quiet garden (though your table would probably have more desserts than tea)…
I hope you can spend your time in the way you love.
Just — in official settings, stay by my side as my wife.
Just think of the night of the Harvest Festival.
In front of others, I'll show as much affection as I can, sometimes sending gifts and letters.
It's to prevent rumors of discord from making things difficult for us, so please bear with me.
I will never speak of love again.
I'm sorry.
It felt like a huge ball of yarn was coiling up inside my stomach. It was warm and ticklish, yet suffocating. I needed to cough up this misplaced kindness and untangle the knots immediately.
Tristan.
You're not like this. Be a little more selfish. Who's supposed to be whose fence here?
And what are you even apologizing for!
I turned to the next page, already thinking that I had to run straight to the royal palace after lunch.
But when I reached the final page, I realized I needed to revise my plans.
You are thoughtful and wise. You might judge that this is not a "fair" deal and try to give me more in return.
However, by the time this letter reaches the Redfield estate, I'll already have left the capital's walls. I want to take care of as much administrative work as possible before the execution of Count Braum.
…Truthfully, I don't have the courage to face you right now.
I'm afraid I'll hold onto you again and confess everything.
I'm afraid I'll end up begging for your feelings.
Even now, I feel like I could die wanting to tear this letter apart.
But this should be your choice, not mine.
Burn this letter before anyone else can read it.
We must be a "model" couple.
Within this marriage we each wanted for different reasons, I hope we can find our own kind of happiness.
P.S. I arranged for a second bouquet to be delivered in case my return is delayed.
I hope you'll like it.
Tristan.
The hastily scrawled signature, without any embellishment, revealed his urgency. By the time I read this letter, he would already be outside the capital's walls? Running away like this?
My anger flared — but only for a moment, because a spark lit up in my mind.
Was everything really going according to Tristan's plan?
Officially, the festival ended last night, but many people likely continued celebrating into the early morning — just like my sister had.
In other words, the streets could still be blocked by drunkards, patients, perpetrators, victims, and guards.
It's just a guess, but… I'm not going to just sit here and wait!
I rang the bell and began changing clothes.
Just as I finished taking off my indoor gown, a maid — also part of the salon — entered.
"You called, miss?"
"I'll spend five coins. Call a coachman and go straight to Madame."
"At this hour…?"
"I know it might not even be possible to deliver the request. I just feel like I have to do something, anything. I'll write the details now."
I began hastily scribbling out a letter.
Not just to Madame Abigail — I also needed to send requests to the mercenary guild and an errand center.
Only one plan came to mind.
God of short stories, Mr. O. Henry, lend me your wisdom from The Gift of the Magi.
Love can be achieved.
It just happens faster with money.
"You could have given me a heads-up. I could've sent more attendants along," the Crown Prince sighed next to the carriage after learning only this morning about his younger brother's departure.
Tristan shook his head calmly.
"It's nothing grand. Honestly, one horse would have been enough."
"That's exactly why it couldn't be just one. Imagine — the heir to a territory arriving alone on horseback. People would think you're not a prince but a runaway."
"…"
The word runaway nearly slipped off Tristan's tongue.
The truth was, there had been no urgent need for him to leave today.
The reports for the transition of power had surely been in preparation ever since the current lord's retirement was decided, and any unofficial investigations could have been handled by his subordinates.
Above all… there's no guarantee Dory would even come looking for me after reading the letter.
Maybe all of this was just Tristan's desperate wish.
A pathetic hope that Dory would urgently seek Tristan, and Tristan would run away.
Hah. The more I think about it, the more ridiculous it sounds. Running around at dawn, driven by such a stupid fantasy.
Dory might laugh at his letter.
Or, well, knowing her, she might just give a wry smile rather than mock him outright.
Either way, the letter had left his hands at dawn, and Tristan would be away from the capital for about a week.
In the meantime, Dory would be free to enjoy her time without the burden of a sudden visit from her fiancé.
"Your Highness. The carriage and horses are ready."
"Thank you."
Tristan climbed into the carriage.
His eldest brother yawned lazily and waved his hand at his youngest sibling.