Olivia dashed without hesitation toward the ball flying across the grass.
She put every ounce of strength into sending it back. Each time her left foot touched the ground, sparks flashed before her eyes.
The swelling on the top of her foot was growing worse, and the pain intensified.
The grueling rally continued.
Anblin’s return flew in a high arc and landed close to the baseline.
Olivia barely managed to hit it back, but this time the ball landed short, just in front of the net, after striking Anblin’s racket.
The spectators’ heads moved mechanically—whip, whip—following the small ball.
Olivia volleyed it, but Anblin sent it long again.
Olivia’s pace began to slow.
She gritted her teeth against the pain and just managed to return the ball that was falling toward the baseline.
The next moment, Anblin sent the ball close to the net.
“……”
Long, short, then long again.
This wasn’t a simple rally.
I know…
It was like having ice water poured over her head—goosebumps prickled over her skin.
She knows I’m injured. But how?
Olivia had thought it was just an accident in the chaos earlier. In such a situation, anyone could step on or be stepped on. She’d been angry, but had told herself it was just bad luck.
But no—it wasn’t.
In the clear sunlight, their eyes met. Anblin wore a calm smile.
The moment she saw the princess’s face with one corner of her lips pulled upward, her rational suspicion became absolute certainty.
It was intentional.
And the instant she realized that truth, Olivia lost another point.
“You waddle like a clumsy duck.”
“It’s such a shame Marquis Lancelot couldn’t see this amusing sight. What a pity.”
Henry, who had been listening to the noblewomen’s giggles and jeers, sent them a discreet warning glance, then straightened and faced forward.
He could tell Olivia’s composure had been shaken by the unexpected challenge of facing a left-handed player. But at this rate, the upset he was hoping for was unlikely to happen.
Well then—what will you do, Miss Blanchet?
Game score: 1–0.
“Haa… haa…”
Olivia exhaled hot, ragged breaths, checking the scoreboard, her brow furrowing in deep anger.
She slowly lifted her head. Her amber eyes locked perfectly with Anblin’s.
The princess’s cold blue gaze was etched into her eyes—so deep it would never fade.
I won’t lose.
Never.
Her eyes, filled with the image of Anblin, burned a deep, fierce blue.
But the chance to strike back didn’t come easily.
“Haa… haa…”
Olivia’s breathing grew harsher.
The unexpected injury meant that, even early in the match, her movements had noticeably slowed and dulled.
Game score: 2–0.
Having lost her own service game to the princess, Olivia bit down hard on her lip in frustration.
“How dull. I think this will end earlier than I thought.”
“Well, in this heat, that’s probably for the best. By the way, what dress did Her Highness say she would wear to the closing party?”
The noblewomen, bored with a match flowing one-sidedly, began chatting with the princess’s ladies-in-waiting.
It seemed even the thrill of mocking that brazen temptress had worn off, because soon the conversation shifted entirely to tomorrow evening’s party and what everyone would wear.
Pathetic.
Henry frowned. He glanced at the empty seat where Edgar should be, then turned his eyes back to Olivia Blanchet.
Something’s wrong with her.
With the trained eye of a former tennis player, her footwork and strokes looked all wrong—completely unlike the quick, precise movements she’d shown before.
Has the match already been decided?
Stroking his beard in mild bitterness, Henry kept his eyes on Olivia, who was struggling on the court.
Olivia steadied her ragged breathing.
How…
She wiped the sweat dripping from her chin with the back of her hand and stared at the opposite court, confused.
How is she controlling the ball’s direction like that?
A ball that looked like it would bounce left suddenly veered right after spinning on the ground.
Caught off guard, Olivia let the ball pass—she had no time to react.
She tracked the ball’s path carefully, but her judgment failed at the very last moment, every time.
If she turned her body to the left, it would land on the right. If she moved right, it would drop to the left.
Her hesitant, back-and-forth movements were almost comical.
I don’t get it…
Anblin’s first serve came—a ball she couldn’t predict again.
Ah!
Olivia lost another point and began to feel the pressure mounting. Her heart pounded.
Focus, Han Ji-an.
Her sharp, lifted blue eyes locked on the ball.
The second serve of the third game came flying toward her.
There’s no such thing as a meaningless move when creating the shot you want.
She heard her senior’s voice in her ears—back when she’d first played mixed doubles with him.
Watch your opponent.
The gentle yet firm voice rang out in her mind, as warm sunlight poured down from above.
Olivia’s gaze shifted from the ball in her opponent’s hand to the princess herself.
Read her movements, Han Ji-an.
Olivia slowly lowered her stance.
Beneath her smooth white forehead, her deep blue eyes suddenly sharpened, glinting like a blade.
Anblin tossed the ball into the air.
Her left-handed racket swung high, nearly brushing her back, as she served.
Olivia imprinted every detail into her mind—the toss, the jump, the angle of her extended arm—and rushed forward to the net.
Pain shot through her foot like lightning, but she fought it off and sent the ball flying back into Anblin’s court.
The intentional rallies meant to wear down her foot continued for several exchanges.
Then, for the briefest instant, Anblin’s expression changed.
“!”
At the same time, a flash went off in Olivia’s mind. Every one of Anblin’s movements imprinted in her vision as if in slow motion.
Anblin, confident in her finishing blow, leisurely watched Olivia chase the ball.
It bounced tight along the left line.
No way she can return that—not with that injured foot.
Anblin lifted her hand to push back the loose strands of hair blown by the wind, a satisfied smile forming—
Pang!
With a sharp cry, Olivia hit the ball cleanly.
“……”
The ball she’d been certain was going out came back over the net.
Anblin’s calm smile broke for the first time in the match.
“Fifteen all!”
It must have been luck…
Anblin’s face froze cold.
Yes—luck.
Biting her lip in irritation, she quickly schooled her expression.
The moment Olivia scored her first point and Anblin conceded her first, camera flashes erupted toward them, accompanied by a wave of applause and cheers from one corner of the stadium.
Anblin turned toward the crowd.
As expected, the ones making noise in a sport that valued decorum were commoner women.
At the umpire’s stern call for silence, the arena fell quiet again.
Anblin shot Olivia a brief glare, then readied her stance and tossed the ball.
Pang! Pang!
The ball flew back and forth over the net. Heads in the stands swiveled in unison to follow it.
Anblin once again sent the ball sharply to the sides and front, but it didn’t work this time.
“Fifteen–thirty!”
…Impossible.
Anblin’s eyes shook violently.
As if to prove it wasn’t coincidence, Olivia returned the shot cleanly again.
The pale green ball dropped just over the net, far from where Anblin stood behind the baseline, and rolled away helplessly.
Anblin, staring down at the ball in shock, lifted her head.
Across the court, Olivia stood with a faint smile on her lips, looking straight at her.
She’s read my movements.
In that moment, the reality of the bastard’s presence became chillingly clear. On that injured foot—when just returning the ball should have been hard enough.
Anblin resisted the urge to smash her racket and accepted a new ball. Her fingers trembled around it.
Calm down.
Even if Olivia Blanchet could read her movements, it didn’t mean her foot would magically heal.
If she dragged the match into a long game, Olivia would surely collapse.
Anblin readied her serve.
Like predators, their eyes met midair, clashing for a moment.
She was just about to serve when the VIP seats, which had been silently watching, began to stir.
Anblin’s brow furrowed.
In tennis, the serve was when a player was most tense and focused.
How dare they…
Her concentration broken, she let her gaze follow the source of the disturbance toward its center.
“!”
Her amber eyes froze as if struck by an icy wind.
Olivia, following Anblin’s gaze, turned her head as well.
The carriage carrying Johan left Litton Port. Plain and unadorned, the black carriage sped away from the harbor without pause.
Outside the window, the festival atmosphere was livelier and busier than during his last visit, but inside the carriage the air was cold and empty.
Johan, as was his habit, glanced at his wrist and frowned.
“Eleven ten.”
He hadn’t realized the absence of his watch would make Morris so bothersome. Every ten minutes, the man asked him for the time.
Johan’s watch was currently in for repairs at the Pateks Le Mont branch.
He’d refused the watch brought from White Gable, which meant Morris would have to serve as his timekeeper for at least a week.
Johan turned his gaze toward the sky outside the window.
In the distance, the championship’s symbolic balloon, like a small cloud, floated in the air over Dunblin.
After a brief glance, he closed his eyes.
Since the opening of the Leopold Hotel, Johan’s body had been pushed to its limits. The bright sunlight slid across his lean, tired face.
The carriage had been running smoothly until it suddenly stopped with a loud crash.
Johan opened his eyes slowly.
“Seems there’s been an accident,” the coachman called.
Johan pulled back the curtain and looked outside. The road was completely blocked, with no sign of clearing anytime soon.
“Damn it.”
He muttered a curse.
As he tugged at his tie in frustration, his hand froze. Leaning close to the window, his face dark with fatigue, Johan stared intently outside.
His sharp gaze tracked someone quickly—a man riding a horse.
A pitch-black horse, and atop it a man with equally black hair—Edgar Lancaster Lancelot.
