“Are you okay?”
Russell Jr. grabbed Olivia urgently.
“Ah… yes.”
Her eyes darkened. Her instep throbbed, but she could still walk. It was fortunate—yet not entirely okay.
Why must it always end up like this?
A wave of anger, long buried deep inside, rose within her. She felt sick to her stomach as Olivia slowly turned around.
“Today is the last day of my match,” she said clearly. “Isn’t there a reporter curious about the game?”
Her voice calmed the chaotic crowd in an instant.
“Of course the expectations are high, but—Miss Blanchett, shouldn’t we uncover the truth behind these rumors that have been circulating?”
Olivia cocked her head. Standing with poise and a relaxed smile, she faced the man.
Her grace, utterly at odds with the rumors of a lowly illegitimate child, made the reporters gulp in silence.
“In my humble opinion, what matters more than the final’s outcome is the phantom that brought misfortune to one woman.”
It was Michael Dossett from The Sun, notorious for his rude questions at pre-tournament press events.
“I’ve heard your loyalty to the royalty is profound.”
Olivia smiled quietly.
“That loyalty is both my pride and my dignity.”
The man leaned back, beaten by her words.
“Let’s see if that loyalty remains strong once the truth behind the ghost is revealed.”
Her cryptic comment stirred murmurs among the journalists. Dossett stared at her, noticeably unsettled.
“There will be an official press conference after the tournament. Until then, please wait. May I go in now?”
The reporters, realizing they’d lost their leverage, backed away.
Though curious about the ghost and royal loyalty, they let her pass.
Olivia acknowledged them with a bow and started moving forward.
“Ow!”
She bit her lip. A sharp pain like electricity shot through her left instep where she had been stepped on.
Her face betrayed a feeling of bitter defeat.
Among the crowd, Hans watched, a knowing twitch curling his lips.
Just then, a carriage adorned with the Lancelot royal crest slipped into the sunlight.
In it was the tournament’s champion, the Queen of Tennis—Princess Anblin.
Her fiery red hair was tightly braided and adorned with pearls, exuding elegance and grace.
Attendants rushed to smooth her pristine gown as she stepped into view.
Despite the bright lights flashing around her, she remained composed, exuding an untouchable nobility.
She posed patiently for photographers from all angles.
Her cream-lined chiffon skirt rustled softty with every movement.
The photographers, having been unruly earlier, now treated her with utmost respect.
It was incredible.
“I’d just ignore all that noise,” Russell Jr. muttered, teeth clenched.
He wanted nothing more than to brush past, but as a loyal subject of Britte, decorum demanded respect for royalty.
Damn it. How much more of this nonsense did he have to endure?
“Shall we finish now?”
Princess Anblin’s voice, soft and alluring, cut through the tension. No one dared object.
The reporters bowed and muttered thanks. Russell Jr. glared at them.
Then he caught her gaze. Startled, he bowed reflexively.
One by one, Elaine, Anne, and Olivia followed suit.
Princess Anblin approached, deliberately slow—an impulse born of something deeper.
Edgar… simply not being here was enough to spur her decision.
A murmur ran through the crowd:
A princess facing a commoner. The archduke’s ex-lover facing his current betrothed.
What were the odds of this happening in the Dumblin final?
Photojournalists snapped into action, sensing a historic moment.
As Princess Anblin drew nearer to Olivia, the air between them froze.
The tension was electrifying—truly gripping even before the match began.
Olivia folded her hands, bracing herself as the princess approached.
They stood beneath the green ivy wall—the symbol of Dumblin.
“Your Highness.”
Anblin regarded Olivia gracefully as the third woman bent in greeting.
Her sapphire eyes glowed beneath lowered lashes.
This wasn’t the tense face she had seen during Sarah Pavlova’s match.
Anblin’s gaze drifted—then firmly fixed on one thing.
Olivia’s left hand—bare, unadorned—hovered for a moment.
She hasn’t accepted yet.
That sight brought both relief and shame.
All because of that person.
“…If you so much as touch a finger—your life ends, An.”
Still, the poisoned dagger Edgar put into his chest at the Leopold Hotel’s opening party felt sharp and raw.
“This… is our second meeting.”
Anblin smiled with poise.
“I’ve long awaited this day.”
Olivia wondered—what was so appealing about her?
Anblin met her gaze with a mild incline of her head.
The woman’s gaze was icy, challenging. Without permission.
“Come to think of it, it’s been six years. Since I first participated and won this tournament.”
Anblin whispered as if sharing memories with a close friend.
“That’s when Edgar and I started our relationship.”
Her amber eyes lost in nostalgic glow.
“He’s escorted me at every match since. Busy as he was.”
Seeing the pale, drained look on Olivia’s face, Olivia finally felt a bit… vindicated.
She relaxed, managing a small smile.
I know what you’re doing, Princess.
Still…I can’t stop feeling bitter.
“I formally escorted her.”
His tidy handwriting flashed in her mind.
Her as the one ceremonially escorted, rather than me—hers was the memory that existed in his time.
It hurt terribly—but she held back her expression.
“So… what did you want to say?”
Olivia asked evenly.
“Seeing you again, despite Edmund’s absence—it made old memories come back. And reminded me how easily I get bored.”
Anblin smiled—a harmless smile, yet sheathed with venom.
“Today… will be anyone’s day.”
Anblin extended her hand.
“Let’s do our best. Together.”
She smiled bright—then her gaze turned cold.
And in that moment, Olivia saw it: her composure cracking.
Behind that steady grace flashed hidden sparks of anger, jealousy, and fear.
“I will do my absolute best—not to disappoint you.”
Olivia took her hand.
Flash! The cameras caught them.
In that shared moment before their beautiful contest, countless silver explosions lit the midsummer sky.
“Lately… you’ve been busy.”
During the Dumblin Championships, the organizers being busy was no surprise.
But the Duke calling his late and resentful son for formal questioning in the early morning wasn’t expected.
Despite his coldness, Edgar answered calmly, glancing down at the paper.
“Mm.”
The Duke placed the newspaper on the desk with a sigh and lit his cigar.
“Not worth getting worked up over,” he said.
Edgar looked at the headline:
“Big Match of the Century: Anblin Grace Britt vs. Olivia Blanchett—Who Will Claim the Dumblin Title?”
Olivia’s photo was clearly inferior—an obvious sign of media bias.
His patriotism was petty and disgraceful.
“The sort you’d take to bed for one night,” the Duke sneered.
He was always cynical and distant. Hating his wife, he resented his son.
Edgar’s impassive face was like looking at his deceased wife—chilling.
“Isn’t it time to let go?”
“I didn’t know you were so interested in my private life.”
“But he’s my son. I have the right to be.”
The Duke exhaled smoke that filled the room like fog, then dissipated from Edgar’s vision.
Without his thick mane of hair, his impudent face sharpened into view.
Edgar looked up at his father—eyes void of emotion, and thought of his mother again.
It sickened him.
Even after 28 years, he could not forgive her.
