Gasping for breath, Sara Pavlova glared at Olivia.
Irritating.
The match had gone on for over two hours, but Olivia remained composed. Her movements were precise, her footwork clean.
Was it innate strength? Or maybe her unconventional outfit?
Whatever the reason, one thing was certain—she had to avoid deuce at all costs.
Absolutely.
Olivia controlled her breathing.
Just one point!
Her heart pounded rapidly.
Her gaze locked with Princess Anneblin’s. The princess, her expression unreadable, was watching Olivia intently.
I won’t lose.
Strength surged into Olivia’s legs as they pressed into the grass.
Never!
She bent her upper body. Twirling her racket with both hands, she then gripped it tightly.
The ball flew.
“Haaah!”
With a roar, she easily returned the ball that had bounced within the service box.
At that moment, Sara spotted an open space and swiftly twisted her wrist.
She sent the ball slicing toward the left corner with sharp precision.
“!”
Olivia, who had been positioned near the right line, kicked off the ground and dashed forward.
Victory!
A person—a woman, no less—couldn’t possibly outrun a flying ball.
Sara Pavlova, Anneblin, and the entire audience began to smile in triumph at what looked like a foolish attempt.
“Haht!”
But Olivia stretched out her long, slender legs and slid across the grass, hurling her body like a ghost.
Gripping the racket with both hands, she let out a wild cry as she struck the precariously flying ball with perfect precision.
My God!
She actually made it.
Gasps of astonishment burst from the stands.
Caught off guard by Olivia’s dramatic drop shot, Sara belatedly sprinted toward the net.
But the ball brushed her racket’s head and trickled helplessly behind her.
“Deuce!”
The umpire’s voice rang out beneath the clear sky. Sara Pavlova felt the world tilt.
At the same time, Anneblin’s lips trembled.
After taking in that sight, Edgar’s gaze slowly shifted back to Olivia.
My checkmate.
Under the blazing sun, Olivia panted with her shoulders rising and falling. She looked like a white wolf—small, wild, and untamed.
“Olivia Blanchet, the Fiery Debut of a New Divine”
“The Ice Flame of the Court,” Sara Pavlova, faces a serious slump.
Though she had never taken home a trophy at the Dumblin Tournament, this year’s early defeat—failing even to reach the finals, bested by newcomer Olivia Blanchet—was a shocking blow.
Has the ice melted? Has the flame gone out?
That afternoon, special editions were distributed all across Litton.
Madame Marie had outdone herself.
A dining room overlooking the moonlit Bichen River was set as grandly as a royal banquet.
Elegant tableware, likely sourced from the Lancelot Hotel, and ornate candlesticks completed the luxurious meal.
“To the divine, Olivia!”
Russell Jr. raised his bubbling champagne glass after reading the headline aloud.
Elaine, her husband, and Madame Lauren clinked their glasses.
“Thank you, everyone.”
Their glasses chimed like crystal bells, and Olivia beamed with joy.
Elaine, ever lively, kept the mood bright.
She got along well with Russell Jr.
As their chatter filled the air, candlelight danced on the bountiful table, and laughter echoed.
“Did you not invite the Marquis?” Elaine asked as she carved a leg from the crisp, spice-stuffed roasted duck.
“He seemed busy…”
Olivia trailed off with a faint smile.
A convenient excuse.
That evening, the Lancelot Hotel was hosting a party for players, officials, and press.
He was supposed to be there. She didn’t want to make things awkward.
And if he declined, it might sting a little.
Holding her cutlery, Olivia gazed at the floral arrangement on the table.
“Congratulations on your first win.”
Edgar had been waiting in the hallway as she left the court.
In his hand—a modest bouquet of flowers.
Suddenly, her grandmother came to mind.
At a graduation ceremony, her grandmother had approached a girl surrounded by family, holding a beautiful bouquet, and asked to borrow it for a photo.
She remembered how deeply her grandmother had bowed.
Though she smiled brightly in the photo, the girl had hidden her face in shame behind the flowers.
Flowers, to her, symbolized that memory—poverty and humiliation.
So Olivia just stood there, staring at the bouquet.
“Don’t like flowers?”
“…No, it’s not that. It’s just… the first time.”
“The first time. I like that.”
The man smiled again.
Her heart ached and grew warm—whether because of her grandmother, or because of him, Olivia couldn’t tell. Foolishly.
She lightly shook her head to clear his image from her mind.
She took a wine glass by the stem.
Through the deep red wine, her fingers glowed crimson in the light.
“So, how’s Seymour as your next opponent?” Elaine asked Russell Jr., watching Olivia’s expression carefully.
She sensed a shift in Olivia’s feelings toward Edgar.
“Seymour?”
Russell Jr. was already cheerfully tipsy.
His first student, Olivia, made him proud—talented, beautiful.
And more than anything, Edgar Langaster Lancelot wasn’t here. So he basked in the rare spotlight.
“She’s not as powerful as Miss Pavlova, but her stamina is incredible. If it goes to deuce, it’ll be a tough match. She…”
Russell Jr. began a lengthy explanation.
He knew the others were bored, but Olivia was gazing at him with bright, eager eyes, and he couldn’t stop.
He wanted that pure, kind gaze to stay on him just a bit longer.
That was all he wished for—
—until the damn doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it.”
Olivia rose from the table, leaving Anne to serve the seafood dish.
The wine they’d ordered extra had probably arrived.
She left the dining room, walking down the short hallway, when Madame Marie came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands.
“I’ll go. That duck was the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten.”
Olivia smiled warmly, thanking the chef for her hard work.
A rare, faint smile crept onto the otherwise stern Madame Marie’s lips.
She nodded and hurried back into the kitchen. The doorbell rang again.
“Coming.”
Olivia skipped to the front door and opened it wide.
A river breeze swept in, making the cobalt ribbon at her waist flutter along with the hem of her white muslin dress.
“You didn’t even ask who it was…”
Olivia blinked up at the man before her. He smiled. The wind that passed over the river carried the scent of roses.
“…How did you…”
“I was passing by.”
He spoke casually, lifting a large bouquet as he flashed a fresh, easy smile.
Behind him, streetlamps spilled orange light over the Bichen River, where a luxurious cruise ship glided by.
Evangeline Seymour was dumbstruck.
Her wide eyes blinked as she took in a breathtaking sight she’d never imagined.
The Seymour estate was lavish by any measure—built with money from a gold mine discovered in her grandfather’s time—but it couldn’t match this sense of class.
This was the Botanic Garden of the Western Palace. A place not just anyone could enter.
Evangeline’s heart thumped in her chest.
The Seymour family had gold aplenty but no noble title, so they were constantly snubbed by high society.
She started playing tennis just for this. To get into elite circles.
Just as Dumblin Club existed for men, for young ladies like her there was a tennis social circle centered around Princess Anneblin. The royal of royals.
“Finally, all my hard work is paying off.”
She smoothed her carefully chosen dress in the darkened glass window.
Just to be sure, she fluffed the pleats of her skirt again and again. Then—footsteps echoed on the stone floor.
Evangeline straightened her posture and clasped her hands neatly.
Voices approached—then, Princess Anneblin appeared, graceful as ever.
“Oh my… she’s really like a porcelain doll.”
Seeing the princess up close, Evangeline froze.
Yet she was close to tears.
“Y-Your Highness, it is an honor.”
Her voice trembled pathetically.
“Nice to meet you, Miss Seymour. Please, have a seat.”
With an elegant smile, Anneblin offered her tea. Evangeline was so nervous she couldn’t even lift her gaze, staring only at her cup.
It was plain white china, with the silver moon from the glass ceiling gently rippling in the surface of the tea.
“I heard you’re not part of any circle yet. What do you think about ours?”
“You mean… the Royal Tennis Circle?”
As Evangeline lifted her teacup, her hands shook and the tea sloshed.
Daughters of merchant families, excluded from aristocratic ranks, were so easy to manipulate.
Even the smallest crumb of kindness made them wag their tails like dogs.
“I think you’re quite qualified to join us.”
“Th-thank you, Your Highness!”
Overcome with emotion, Evangeline didn’t know what to do.
“However, some of the others think differently.”
Anneblin gave a deliberately regretful look.
Evangeline, poor at hiding her feelings, immediately looked heartbroken.
“What should I do, Your Highness?”
“How about proving your skill this time around?”
Anneblin smiled graciously, her voice like a tempting whisper.
“I think you could do it, Miss Seymour. Don’t you?”
Her amber eyes sparkled like starlight—encouraging Evangeline to do whatever it took.
