“All you’ve got is a pretty face.”
A hush rippled among the ladies behind fluttering fans—mocking whispers interrupted by a sharp clap echoing through the air.
“Thirty-love!”
Olivia lost the point again.
Haah… She pressed her forehead with her forearm, gasping for air. She couldn’t focus—her eyes kept drifting back to Princess Krantz.
That cold, accusing stare hit her every time, loosening grip on her racket.
Nothing had happened, really. Could she have missed some explanation from Johan?
Technically, it wasn’t Olivia’s fault. She was the victim, forced to stay one night in that situation. Yet she knew none of these truths could comfort Johan’s fiancée. It would only sound like excuses, as if clinging to a past marriage. She worried about being misunderstood.
“Forty-love!”
When Olivia snapped back to reality, the dramatically sliced return rolled off her racket and dribbled harmlessly off to the side.
Brushing stray hair behind her ear, she crossed one long leg over the other and folded her arms. Edgar watched her with a quiet gaze.
Focus, Olivia.
She was in terrible condition today.
Edgar’s glance drifted slowly past her to the other side—locking onto Anblin, aristocratic and statuesque, gone from tragic heroine to avenging spirit.
Their eyes met. The Princess offered a bright, composed smile, her curved eyes elegantly poised.
So shameless, Olivia thought. Kidnapping scandal, bracket rigging, psychological warfare—it’s astounding what lengths she’d go.
Even without Anblin, Sara Pavlova is a formidable opponent. But today’s Olivia…
“Forty-love!”
She lost the first set without resistance. Edgar’s visage tightened.
Get it together, Han Ji-an.
Olivia squeezed her eyes shut. As she tried to refocus, the tennis ball in her mind suddenly morphed into the sharp face of Princess Krantz. She recoiled and bit her lip, walking slowly back toward her side of the court.
Pity her.
Anblin’s lips curved upward. Her stark red mouth stood out against her pure white attire.
She’d shown up arrogantly, flouting honor—and now was about to humiliate herself.
Anblin decided to leave. There was no value in enduring this with the sun growing hotter.
“Looks like the outcome’s decided—shall we go?”
“Let’s go!”
Princess Catherine, overcome by the heat and exhausted, stood with relief.
At that moment, Anblin adjusted her outfit and readied to rise—when someone called out.
“Olivia! Cheer up!”
Bianca Elaine rose from the stands, cupping her hands around her mouth to shout encouragement. Angry stares shifted toward her.
Olivia’s eyes widened.
It was Bianca Elaine. She came after all.
Olivia, catching the wave of her gaze, saw Elaine waving arms overhead. It moved her—deep in her chest.
She finally smiled—bright and warm.
Her eyes, tracing Elaine’s from the stands, paused at a figure—Anblin Grace Britt.
Anblin smiled.
Olivia bounced the ball slowly, keeping her gaze fixed on the Princess.
But then her eyes changed.
Olivia inhaled sharply, released the ball, and launched herself, back arched like a bow.
Whack!
The sound was different.
The second set began with Olivia’s sweet counterattack, her cobalt-blue eyes glinting sharply in the sun.
Princess Catherine called:
“Anne?”
Stopping midway out, Anne paused. Catherine blinked at her, then looked toward Irene.
Irene remained seated, never having stood in the first place, eyes focused on the server.
Olivia served again.
“Haah!”
The racket cut the wind as the serve flew forcefully and clean over the net.
A scream echoed—excitement returned.
Next to Edgar, Russell Jr. clenched his fist beside him as he watched Olivia, wide-eyed.
This is it. This is everything.
Well done, Olivia!
Now the real match begins!
Sara Pavlova raised her arm. Her wrist snapped as she struck, launching a risky return that clipped the net.
“Thirty-love!”
A collective sigh of disappointment rose—not at Sara’s miss, but because everyone so wanted Sara to humiliate this defiant woman.
As Sara groaned and bit the inside of her cheek in frustration, that serve—even for her—felt more than just luck.
So it was planned.
Regripping her racket, Olivia felt her wrist ache. She’d let down her guard.
Sara, struck painfully by Olivia’s return, paused in her motion and glared.
Olivia lobbed the ball again.
Here it comes!
Whack!—the ball sliced through sunlit air with ferocity.
The second set was mind-blowing—through focus, resolve, and defiance, Olivia had transformed the match.
