The lights were brutally bright.
Irenne wished all the lights of the world would go out, that everything would be submerged in darkness.
He had left, she was sure of it…
The ribbon on her white glove fluttered as it covered her agape lips.
He… saw it.
The night of Catherine’s birthday banquet—
The night she publicly announced her engagement to Johann Leopold—
Irenne had given herself to Christian one last time.
That night, which was meant to be kept as a memory.
That night, more passionate because it was so precious—this man had seen it.
Her legs gave out beneath her in an instant. Irenne collapsed onto the light brown carpet.
It was horrific.
Flushed crimson, she trembled in shame. Johann found her pathetic to the point of ridicule.
“Tell me how far I must turn a blind eye.”
He had tried to quietly let it go.
But truly, it was laughable.
That day, it was Queen Katrina who summoned Johann as he was leaving the palace.
She thanked him for making a difficult decision for Rondos, congratulated him on the engagement, and then finally—got to the point.
Of course.
Financial support for troops to quell the colonial civil war.
It all boiled down to asking for money, and the prelude had been excessively long. Exhausted, Johann gave a favorable response and left.
It was as he passed through the audience room where he had met the queen and turned the corner of a long corridor.
There, he saw the woman the old noblewomen praised endlessly as a modest lady from a bygone era.
It was in the very parlor where Olivia had once been photographed with the Crown Prince.
He saw her—moaning lewdly in pleasure.
And over the writhing woman’s face, he saw Olivia’s.
In that moment, blood surged with disgust.
Bastard.
Johann turned coldly from the trembling woman and exited his office.
Under the green lampshade, his ashen eyes darkened.
Outside, Golden Avenue sparkled under the night’s brilliant lights. A carriage waited in the glow. As Johann stepped onto the footboard, he paused.
Championship flags for the Dumblin Tournament fluttered from every lamppost, cluttering his view.
“Not anymore…”
“So give it back. That watch.”
Without further hesitation, Johann boarded the carriage.
The wheels rolled on without regret, heading toward Lytton Harbor.
Johann stared out into the night and slowly closed his eyes. He could feel a vein throbbing at his temple.
Deep in the night, a figure entered St. Vincent’s Cathedral.
Wearing a long black cloak down to the ankles, the figure walked silently over moonlight filtered through colorful stained glass.
Past enormous holy paintings, the figure stopped before the confessional at the very end of the cathedral and looked around.
The rose lace veil that shadowed the face trembled faintly with the movement.
Carefully, the door opened, and the figure disappeared inside.
Only the son of God nailed to the cross, bathed in flickering candlelight, silently witnessed the scene.
“You’ve arrived, Princess.”
A middle-aged man on the other side of the partition stood and bowed.
The sound of Anneblin sitting was followed by the man taking his seat. He slowly slid a piece of paper through the slot beneath the partition.
“Please confirm.”
Anneblin’s eyes traced down the paper. Her cold gaze gradually softened, then curved with satisfaction.
It was the match bracket for this year’s Dumblin World Tennis Championship.
As always, Anneblin was seeded No. 1.
Her competitors were in the No. 2 seed.
This secret rule remained intact.
In addition, Anneblin’s new demand for the year: place Olivia Blanchet in the same bracket as the top seeds.
In other words, assign her to the No. 2 seed.
Also known as the “Group of Death.”
Specifically, she would face Sarah Pavlova—the finalist Anneblin had fought last year—in the very first round.
Though she hated to admit it, Sarah Pavlova’s skill surpassed her own.
Fortunately, Sarah was more greedy than honorable—and would willingly throw the match for a backdoor deal twice the amount of the official prize money.
To utterly destroy Olivia in the first round—that was Anneblin’s plan.
To ensure that low-born bastard would never share a court with her.
To prove that her entry into the tournament was due to nothing but her “fine” body.
Her red lips curled upward.
“Good. Proceed as planned.”
Anneblin was quite satisfied with the bracket.
If someone had dreamed of turning a tragic figure into an underdog hero—well, Ed, you would never succeed.
Don’t blame me.
In the dim confessional, her amber eyes darkened.
You made me this way.
Anneblin raised her head and stared at the crucifix.
May God’s grace be with me.
In the blackness, each person’s night passed quietly.
The capital of the Kingdom of Britt, Lytton, began its summer with lush green grass and the sounds of tennis rackets striking balls, all in anticipation of the Dumblin Championship.
Even aboard a speeding train, the excitement was palpable.
Every streetlight flew past, bearing flags with the Dumblin Championship’s emblem and trophy design, fluttering in the wind.
“There it is! Look, Sarah!”
“I told you, I hate getting crumbs everywhere.”
Sarah Pavlova’s manager pointed out the window with a greasy finger before quickly wiping it on his pants, sheepish.
“Ah! Sorry, sorry.”
He muttered to himself.
Sarah Pavlova had always been on edge, but as the tournament approached, her temper and nerves became a nightmare to manage.
After finishing the newspaper article she’d been reading, Sarah finally turned her head.
What her manager pointed to was obvious at a glance.
A huge green balloon floated in the sky, backed by white clouds.
Clearly, a new promotional balloon shaped like the Dumblin emblem. Likely marking the location of the newly unveiled arena.
“Typical Lancelot Co.—even the stadium is extra.”
“It’s the grass quality that matters, not some stupid balloon. Can’t they make one that doesn’t shed flakes?”
“Ah! Sorry, sorry.”
Her manager crumpled the empty chip bag after stuffing the rest into his mouth.
Sarah crossed her arms in annoyance and leaned back, eyes closed.
“Do you know anything about Olivia Blanchet?”
“Not a clue. I heard this is her debut at Dumblin. Lancelot’s sponsoring an unproven player? Did she really earn it with her body or something?”
He brushed crumbs and salt off his lap.
Sarah recalled the photo from the newspaper.
Olivia Blanchet.
Her delicate, refined features were stunning—even to another woman.
She may be enough to mesmerize men, but she looked far too fragile for a grueling sport.
Sarah slowly opened her eyes.
The train had entered the heart of Lytton.
The city, decorated in Dumblin’s signature green, blurred past with deepening greenery.
“I’m curious.”
“Hm?”
Her manager was munching almonds again, this time coated in sugar.
“Forget it.”
Sarah shut her eyes again in irritation.
She didn’t care if her opponent was a bastard, divorcee, or adulteress.
She only cared about the prize money. Or something worth just as much.
“How much do you want?”
Even while fixing matches, the princess remained arrogant.
It was laughable. And she only offered the prize money in return?
“Double the amount. The original prize was mine anyway. Don’t you agree, Your Highness?”
Sarah Pavlova—world No. 1 but forever struggling at Dumblin.
She didn’t care about disgrace.
What use was honor?
In this cursed country where women had no inheritance rights, tennis was the only path to wealth for her.
Anneblin had long targeted her with skewed brackets—always pitting her against top seeds early.
But it seemed the princess had a new target this year.
“Poor girl.”
“Hm?”
Sarah ignored him.
Regardless of the princess’s intentions, Olivia Blanchet was destined to be crushed by her.
No sympathy.
All she wanted was another deal with the princess.
Maybe she’d ask for triple this time. Or four times.
Sarah Pavlova smiled coldly.
The train pulled into Lytton Central Station.
The door of the first-class car opened, and camera flashes exploded, stinging her eyes.
Sarah narrowed them.
“Did you see the bracket, Miss Pavlova?”
“What do you think about Blanchet as your opponent?”
Silver-haired Sarah Pavlova stepped off the train, and reporters swarmed like bees.
She walked past them indifferently.
Her confident steps made her silver ponytail swing and coil around her neck.
Without a word, she left the station, her manager shouting:
“Save your questions for the press conference!”
Sarah boarded her carriage. The noise was muffled by the closing door.
The flashing cameras disappeared behind thick curtains.
“Ridiculous fools.”
She crossed her arms and scoffed with her eyes closed.
“Truly ridiculous.”
Her manager muttered agreement, watching her mood carefully while chewing the leftover almonds.
“Will you stop eating?!”
Sarah yelled, annoyed.
The flurry of questions and camera flashes—once reserved for Princess Anneblin—now turned to her.
Attention she had sold for double the prize money.
And all because her opponent was Olivia Blanchet.
Sarah Pavlova was not amused.
