“Let’s go, Anne.”
Olivia strode forward with firm steps.
She had originally planned to keep a low profile and quietly leave as the staff had advised on the first day. But not anymore. This was already the fourth day. This was far too much.
She had thought she’d silently endure the hostility, understanding it stemmed from her membership not being unanimously approved by the existing club members. But this was her limit. The grace period she had set for herself ended here.
“Young Lady? The carriage is this way,” said Anne, thinking Olivia had lost her way.
“We’re not going home, Anne.”
“…Sorry?”
Anne, who had been secretly relieved that they might finally be heading home, was surprised. She had been furious all along, unable to understand why her mistress had to suffer such treatment here.
“We’re going to find somewhere to practice.”
Surely, on a property this large, there had to be more than one court.
Olivia briskly headed toward Court No. 11. Then to Court 10, and then 9… Her quick steps came to a halt in front of the last court. Her sea-blue eyes narrowed faintly as she looked over the grass court.
Not a single court was vacant.
Whether it was an expression of the British love for tennis or a blatant warning aimed at Olivia, she suspected the latter. There’s no place for you here.
Olivia turned away with Anne. Their footsteps down the walking path away from the courts were slow and heavy. The shadows of broad-leaved trees danced restlessly atop Olivia’s white shoes.
Deep in thought, Olivia walked along the straight path.
Following the chirping of birds and the sound of flowing water, a grand fountain came into view at the central intersection of the paths.
As she watched the powerful jets of water rise, a certain man suddenly came to mind. Edgar Langster Lancelot.
The grand fountain of the Lancelot Hotel. The tennis match. And the day she played against him.
Should I ask for his help?
Olivia considered the idea but quickly shook her head.
No. Definitely not.
Things were already complicated enough with that man and Princess Anblin tangled up together. She couldn’t afford to make matters worse.
A romantic relationship with him?
Just thinking it was absurd, and yet her neck flushed hot. Olivia reached up to rub the back of her neck awkwardly—just then, a small building hidden behind some landscaping trees caught her eye.
The width of its walls matched the length of a tennis court.
Her blue eyes sparkled like sunlight shimmering on a lake’s surface.
As she approached, she saw a large padlock on the door and a gold plaque at the center reading: Equipment Storage.
Rising onto her toes, she peeked in through the window. Fortunately, it didn’t seem to be used as living quarters.
Olivia pulled a racket from her white leather bag and stepped back a reasonable distance.
“Ah, Young Lady?” Anne said, confused.
“That’s right. I’m going to practice here, Anne.”
Olivia smiled brightly and began to stretch.
She bounced a ball lightly off the ground, exhaled slowly, inhaled sharply, and tossed the ball into the air.
“Young Lady!”
Pop!
The sound of the racket hitting the ball echoed crisply in the air.
Anne, half-expecting the glass windows to shatter, had buried her face in her hands. She peeked out nervously.
Her worry was unfounded. Olivia’s shot landed precisely where it was meant to.
The ball rebounded sharply off the wall, and Olivia returned it without pause. Her breathing gradually grew heavier.
Dodging the windows while returning the ball was harder than expected, and her calves started to ache.
Her pale cheeks flushed with the color of spring roses, and beads of sweat formed on her brow.
The once-quiet club now rang with the sound of tennis balls smacking against walls.
What on earth is going on…?
One by one, passersby began to stop, eyebrows raised.
The woman they had assumed had gone home quietly was now battling against a wall, and it was quite a sight to see.
“She’s going to break a perfectly good window at this rate.”
Some men scoffed.
“Should we start betting on how many she breaks?”
They chuckled mockingly. At this point, one would expect her focus to waver—but the woman continued her rally, undisturbed.
The spectators, initially watching with crossed arms and skeptical expressions, found themselves drawn in by Olivia’s textbook form.
Her relentless shots aimed at a single spot were impressive. Every time a precise shot avoided a window, stifled gasps of admiration escaped the crowd.
When a ball nearly crashed into the glass, they would hold their breath—only to release it in relief when it grazed the frame instead.
“She’s insane. Seriously.”
The crowd clicked their tongues in disbelief.
Olivia checked the time as she casually wiped the sweat from her forehead with her forearm. Twelve fifteen. Time to wrap up.
After catching her breath for a moment, Olivia prepared her final serve.
The ball soared skyward, and her body rose with it. It was one of her favorite moments.
As her gaze followed the green ball upward, she caught sight of a third-story window behind the equipment shed—on the main building. A man was resting his arms on the windowsill, looking down at her.
“!”
It was hard to see clearly from the distance, but she knew. More than sight, it was instinct.
Edgar.
Lost in the moment, she missed the ball falling toward her. She hastily swung her racket—and moments later, a loud crash echoed across the quiet club grounds.
Oh no!
Startled, Olivia thought she heard a man’s laughter carried by the breeze. It was a light, cheerful laugh.
Under the midday sun, Olivia’s face turned bright red.
Despite all this, the members of the club did not change. On the fourth day, at exactly 8:55 AM, Olivia stood properly in front of Court No. 12—again.
As always, she waited politely for the match to end.
“Let’s just give up already, Chairman,” Charles, the club’s facilities manager, pleaded, glancing anxiously at Russell.
“Even the other members are starting to talk.”
Dumblin Club members were now divided into two camps: the conservatives betting on when Olivia would finally break a window, and the sympathizers who thought it was petty to block someone over a single court.
She had the Lancelot Group behind her—even the club owner sided with her. If she wanted to, she could easily use her connections to secure a court. It would be as easy as taking candy from a baby.
But Olivia only did what she could on her own.
That attitude was enough to stir something in the more old-fashioned men.
“At this rate, Dumblin will get a reputation for being petty and small-minded.”
Russell remained unfazed, pretending not to hear.
“And if this hits the press, what happens to our image?”
Even Charles’ concerns didn’t elicit a reaction from Russell.
She humiliated my son. She has to pay for that.
Russell had orchestrated the other members into occupying every court.
Thanks to the united front of offended men, Olivia Blanchett had yet to set foot on any court. Russell’s mustache twitched.
“You’re really being stingy, sir.”
“What was that?”
Russell looked up from his documents sharply.
“Am I wrong?”
“Charles!”
“Yes, Chairman!”
Charles shouted back. His voice rang in Russell’s ears.
He was livid. If this was going to be the outcome, they shouldn’t have allowed her in from the start.
Toying with people like this—making her wait in front of a dusty shed with nowhere proper to sit—was cruel.
“Please, sir. Just say the word and make them stop.”
“I won’t.”
“Chairman!”
Their glares locked, about to spark fireworks—when a staff member burst through the chairman’s office door, panting.
“What is it? How dare you come in without knocking!”
Russell exploded.
The poor staffer had unintentionally become the target of his misplaced anger. Nervously, the staffer opened his mouth.
“Um, that is…”
“That is what?!”
“Miss Blanchett has started practicing.”
“What?!”
Russell and Charles, who had been glaring daggers at each other, simultaneously turned their gazes to the staffer.
“W-Where?”
They asked in unison.
“Court No. 12.”
It was now 9:00. Olivia turned calmly. She was about to walk toward the storage shed when a voice called out from behind.
“You’re right on time today.”
Startled, Olivia spun around.
Her blue eyes widened as she saw the man walking off the court. It was as if she were seeing snow in the middle of summer.
As he passed her, the man wiped his sweat with a towel handed to him by a staff member.
“Do your best,” he said with a nod.
He asked for a drink to be brought to the lounge and turned to leave. Olivia, staring blankly at his retreating figure, called out urgently.
“Why… Why did you change your mind?”
Her voice trembled. The man turned slowly.
“Dumblin’s tradition is a source of pride for people here.”
“….”
“That tradition was broken.”
He met her eyes.
“If the woman who broke that tradition wins the second sacred ground, maybe it’ll heal some wounded pride. That’s all.”
He gave her a crooked smile, then looked back again.
“Total nonsense.”
“Pardon?”
“Three hours of doing this—it just wore me out.”
“….”
“It’s damn exhausting.”
He let out a short laugh and walked off. Olivia stood watching him until he vanished into the green foliage of the landscaped trees. Then she suddenly burst into laughter.
“Damn exhausting.”
That one playful line blew all her frustration away like a popped bubble.
I’ve won.
Taking a deep breath, Olivia slowly stepped onto the court.
Just one week—it had taken just one week. The grass beneath her feet felt especially soft.
Olivia closed her eyes, enjoying the gentle touch of the lawn. The breeze stirred her hair, tickling the back of her neck. Her chest swelled with emotion, and her eyes began to sting… until she suddenly opened them wide.
She looked across at the empty court opposite and murmured,
“But… who am I supposed to play against?”
A true case of out of the frying pan and into the fire.
It was of no use to him to get the cap.