Under the midsummer sun, the audience’s parched throats could barely keep pace with the heat. Henry MacDowell’s warning about the strain on the heart wasn’t exaggeration.
Edgar’s normally composed heart began beating erratically under the intolerable tension. He tugged at his tie, unable to look away from Olivia.
Olivia, having received the ball from the ball boy, bounced it in her hand, breathing in time with the rhythm. She reset her stance, closed her eyes briefly, and reopened them—her blue eyes shimmering like the edge of a finely honed blade.
The situation was simple.
Win.
Olivia drew a deep breath, then jumped, bringing the ball down in a final, decisive stroke.
A spark ignited in Anblin’s eyes. At that moment, Olivia’s smash descended with thunderous force, slicing through the oppressive air.
PANG! Anblin returned it crisply—sending a punishing shot aimed at Olivia’s injured left foot deep into her court.
It was torture.
Olivia lunged like a sleek, agile predator at the returning ball.
This is the end.
This time, her wrists steady, she gripped her racket with both hands and struck precisely into an open space.
With a guttural cry, she launched herself forward.
PANG! Her shot surged into the net’s front, bouncing upward—while she lost her balance and collapsed, the pain overwhelming her.
“!”
It was her moment.
Any second, Anblin would close the gap—but Olivia’s fall gave her the opening.
Heart pounding, Anblin swung, sending the ball hurtling into Olivia’s territory.
She wins.
But Olivia, whom Anblin thought was broken and wouldn’t rise again, sprang up as if launched by the ground beneath her.
She sprinted after the ball that had fallen and bounced across the grass.
“W-what…”
PANG! With a resounding snap, the court fell deathly silent.
On the ground lay Olivia. Anblin was already running toward the ball. Their heartbeats pounded like distant drums.
Anblin reached out—and the ball, tracing an uncertain arc, landed softly… on the net.
“…”
The world seemed to pause. Through that still moment, the ball trembled, then dropped.
Suddenly a thunderous roar: “Blanchet wins!” — followed by flashes erupting like fireflies in the summer air. The umpire’s call was swallowed by applause, cheers, and the frenzy of camera flashes.
A new queen had risen.
Edgar’s lips curved upward, savoring the sweetness of that moment—a rush of emotions that left everything else erased: it was only Olivia.
There she was, two hands covering her face, crying—like the only thing that mattered in the world.
“Olivia! Olivia!”
They chanted her name, their praise radiating as fiercely as the sun overhead.
Olivia’s small shoulders shook under the tide of emotion. It felt like a dream—she feared waking and finding it all gone.
Her palm in his grip, the moment she had made real, might vanish like mist.
At that moment, the scene was pierced by excited shrieks of girls among the crowd.
Olivia’s ears rang as she lifted her head.
“!”
The world looked distorted again.
A man in a white suit strode across the grass toward her, one hand in his pocket, a bouquet of ruby-red roses in the other, wearing a radiant smile.
“Ed.”
The scent of roses brushed her like a dream.
As camera flashes flocked like stars in the sky, Edgar dropped to one knee before her.
By the time she grasped what was unfolding, his gentle lips were already on hers.
The girls’ cheers turned into gasps of astonishment from the ladies in the stands.
Olivia threw her arms around Edgar’s neck and whispered into his ear:
“I… I won.”
At her whispered breath, Edgar dropped the roses, instead cupping the nape of her neck, his lake-blue eyes filled only with her. She was unbearably lovely.
“Well done.”
Their gazes locked, and Edgar bowed his head in a smile.
Just then, Anblin collapsed—the stadium became chaos.
Medical staff sprang into action, the prince and ladies-in-waiting rushed to her aid, and photographers snapped feverishly, determined to preserve this moment forever.
Amid the pale silver flashes, Johan stood rooted in place.
He’d come through crashing storms, overturned carriages, bone-breaking anguish—and at the end of it all was this: shock and fury.
Olivia.
Swallowing her name on his tongue like a sweet poison, Johan realized how deeply things had changed.
A chill shrouded his gaze as he watched the back of the woman who had once been his wife embrace another man.
The princess was carried away on a stretcher. The stands slowly emptied until the grand center court stood empty.
His eyes remained fixed on the spot where Olivia had stood—now vacant and achingly cold.
Of all timing, why now?
Fear flickered beneath his fury—fear of these unfamiliar feelings that overwhelmed him so unexpectedly.
The crowd was larger than any in Dunblin Championship history.
People flocked toward the carriage where the new queen would emerge, eager for a glimpse. Photographers leaned in, seeking the perfect shot of this historic moment.
They all craned their necks toward the exit, anticipation humming through the air.
Moments later, the crowd erupted in cheers as Olivia stepped out.
“There she is! Blanchet!”
Edgar held her, and she startled, caught off guard by the uproar.
“Oh my…”
“Put me down, please. I can walk.”
Olivia, cheeks flushed, begged—but he didn’t comply.
Fresh from a costume change, she had emerged from the locker room, unsteady.
Edgar lifted her effortlessly, though she would later regret not leaning on a crutch instead.
“Rest a moment,” he murmured, voice soft as warm silk.
Security cleared the path as he carried Olivia toward the carriage, ignoring the stares and flashing cameras.
After publicly kissing, what did a little gesture like this matter?
The roar of adoration continued, silver flashes raining down, faces around him shimmering with excitement.
Olivia struggled in his arms; her skirt swirled like a white wave.
“Rest…”
How could she? Yet Edgar’s expression was calm—almost serene.
Once inside the carriage, he closed the curtain.
Safe from the glare and the relentless photographers, a measure of his anger seemed to abate—anger that had simmered fiercely over Olivia’s injury, the postponed ceremony, and the ruined press conference.
Anblin’s cowardly escape—unable to accept defeat fairly—felt petty and ridiculous.
A soft gasp came from the attendant.
“You must be in agonizing pain, with those sneakers still on.”
They struggled with the tight, swollen shoes that refused to come off.
“Let me,” Edgar said.
“Don’t—it’s okay…” Olivia rebuffed softly, trying to pull away—but Edgar held her ankle gently.
“Does it hurt?”
“Yes…”
Olivia couldn’t tell whether the pain was from her swelling foot or the touch of his fingertips.
Edgar lifted her skirt. Through damp socks and the tight sneakers, her ankle and calf were revealed—smooth and pale.
He gently freed one hand to cradle her ankle, the other to ease off the shoe.
“Oh my…”
The attendant gasped. Edgar’s gaze darkened.
Her foot was swollen crimson—a bruise like a purple bloom centered where she’d been stepped on.
“You ran for over two hours with this?”
“It wasn’t this bad at first, Ann,” she replied, offering a faint smile as she hid her foot again.
“Come look,” Edgar said.
“It’s okay. Really.”
“Okay? How is that okay?” Edgar pressed.
He bit his lower lip, eyes clouded with steel gray. Anger surged, fierce and relentless—Anblin Grace Britte had crossed every boundary.
“…Did you… see her face?”
