The coach politely pulled out Anblin’s chair for her.
Only then did Anblin, setting aside her suspicion, take a seat.
Just as the coach was about to begin his briefing on the player she would face in the semifinals, Anblin’s eyes snapped to the newspaper on the table with sharp irritation.
“Newcomer Olivia Blanchet—The New Empress of the Court?”
“If you didn’t place that there on purpose, could you please remove it?”
Her voice was laced with thorns.
“Oh! I’m sorry, An.”
Kyla hastily folded the paper in half and handed it to the maid standing behind her. The maid retreated quickly and vanished from view.
“That woman.”
Anblin narrowed her eyes slightly as she turned to Kyla.
“Have you watched her matches?”
Her neatly swept-back red hair looked even darker under the overcast sky.
She didn’t seem like the same woman who had been sobbing and on the verge of collapse just days earlier. There was a chill to her now—as if she were not the burning sun of midsummer, but a cold, frozen sun.
“She seems like a difficult opponent. Her skills are incredible.”
Kyla had watched every recent match of Olivia Blanchet. It had practically been a command from Anblin herself, who couldn’t move freely due to the Crown Prince’s restrictions.
“Her reflexes are the best I’ve seen—well, except for you, of course,” Kyla added, as always, instinctively reading Anblin’s mood.
It was a habit ingrained from a lifetime of living under pressure—ever since she was a child.
“She’s a strong server, her footwork is precise, and she wastes no energy on unnecessary movements. Like in her match against Sara Pavlova, if it drags into a long game, she might have the advantage.”
It was a report not much different from the glowing praise in the papers.
Anblin’s cold gaze seemed to ask, Is that all? Kyla, flustered, blinked several times, her ears turning red.
It was unfortunate.
Anblin quietly bit her lip.
All her plans had failed. She had underestimated a lowborn bastard too much.
While she had remained hidden, the rising star had only continued to soar—shining brighter with each passing day.
People were already buzzing about the crowning of a new queen on the court.
Once was enough to wound her pride. She had already tasted humiliation because of Edgar—that man.
She could not lose her tennis throne to that lowly illegitimate girl. Absolutely not.
“She must have at least one weakness, right? A habit, or a superstition. Think carefully, Kyla.”
Kyla frowned slightly, lost in thought for a long moment before answering.
“Other than her slightly weaker backhand… I didn’t notice any real flaws or habits.”
She glanced at Anblin. She knew it wasn’t the answer the other woman wanted—but she had nothing else to offer.
The Olivia Blanchet that Kyla had seen was flawless. Her serve, strokes, and swings were all clean and precise, with no unnecessary movement.
“I see.”
To Kyla’s surprise, Anblin’s response was unexpectedly calm.
“Her backhand…”
A backhand is a stroke in which the back of the hitting hand faces the opponent.
Unlike the forehand, where the arm extends naturally, the backhand—requiring a twist—was a common hurdle for even elite players.
Anblin’s amber eyes stared into the air, heavy with thought. The sun that had peeked out for a moment disappeared again behind the clouds.
Even the most impenetrable fortress had a weak point—somewhere to strike. And if it didn’t exist…
Anblin moved her lips, as if speaking to herself.
“Then I’ll make one.”
Her expression was utterly serene. The gathering storm clouds cast a shadow over everything, and in that dark light, Anblin’s eyes gleamed ominously.
“Where is Mikhail?”
“Still no sign, sir…”
It was the same answer Morris had given multiple times that day, each time more awkward.
It had already been a week. If all had gone as planned, Prince Mikhail should’ve arrived in Leiden two days ago.
But he had vanished somewhere along the Rondoce–Argente border.
Given his past, where he shamelessly enjoyed the privileges of royalty while ignoring his responsibilities, they hadn’t exactly expected him to come willingly—but now was the time he needed to fulfill those royal duties.
In two days, the Dumbleyn Championship finals would be held—Olivia’s final match.
Johan had to leave this cursed Leiden by tomorrow at the latest.
“Find him.”
Still seated, staring out the window, Johan gave a low command.
A thick mist had risen from the royal forest lake, blurring the view outside.
The weather didn’t match mid-summer in Leiden. Johan’s gaze, watching the fog, was clouded with a deeper, heavier anger.
Just as he moved to sit again, a knock came at the door.
“Marchioness Wellington is here to see you, Your Grace.”
His attendant announced the visit of his maternal grandmother, Margaret. Johan’s expression hardened.
Even through the door, he could feel her formidable presence—and it was already exhausting.
He stared out the misted window for a moment longer before giving a nod.
Rising from his seat, Johan straightened his collar and smoothed his jacket as he buttoned it. Just as he finished, Margaret entered.
“You’re here.”
“You’re harder to see than Her Majesty these days.”
Her sharp tone carried reprimand, as expected.
Without waiting for Johan to offer a seat, Margaret sat in the highest chair and slapped something down on the table with a loud thud.
“Explain.”
Johan’s eyes dropped to the object.
It was the front page of a newspaper featuring side-by-side photos of himself and Princess Kranz. That wasn’t new.
The problem was the headline:
“Engagement Ends Right After Return From Litten—Was It the Ghost of Olivia Blanchet at the Leopold Hotel?”
Johan’s eyes darkened. He slowly lifted the paper.
The reporter had used the most vulgar language possible, writing the article like a tawdry soap opera.
The witness testimony claiming to have seen a red lipstick stain on Johan’s collar, and the state of the rumpled bed in Room 3016, was more than enough to feed disgusting speculation.
Lowering the newspaper, Johan met Margaret’s gaze with a calm indifference. She sighed deeply.
“So this is the reason?”
“No.”
Johan folded the paper neatly and placed it down.
“Then what is the reason?”
“If I truly understood women, I wouldn’t be divorced, would I?”
A chilling tension settled between them.
Margaret’s face flushed red, then darkened with fury.
Her hand, gripping the armrest, began to tremble—signs of a scolding storm about to burst.
To block the unwelcome nagging, Johan spoke coolly.
“I have to leave soon.”
Margaret stared straight at him.
Johan—her grandson—was, in her eyes, the perfect fit for this office of the Crown Prince.
Far superior to the hedonistic Christian. And though there was a spare prince, Mikhail was a warmonger—not fit to rule.
The princess, too, was too weak, taking after her father’s temperament.
If this were the Kingdom of Britt, across the sea, Margaret’s son-in-law would have become king, her daughter queen—and Johan and his siblings, the princes.
“If you’re busy, I’ll keep it brief.”
No one could predict how the future would unfold.
“If you intend to remarry, choose Lady Josephine.”
Wherever he might end up someday, he needed to be above reproach. Margaret looked at her grandson firmly.
Johan furrowed his brow.
Olivia Blanchet—an illegitimate daughter thrown into the marriage market with nothing but her family’s debt.
His grandmother had strongly opposed that marriage.
She hadn’t even attended the wedding, and when they visited her together afterward, she refused to open the door.
They’d lived estranged—until the divorce forcibly brought them back into contact.
Johan rubbed the corner of his eye with his finger. The edge of his wristwatch gleamed like a golden ring in the light.
“If Lady Josephine doesn’t suit you, we’ll find another. But she’s a rare gem, Johan. She doesn’t care about the engagement’s reason. How many virtuous women like her exist today? And her lineage—she’s the only daughter of the Argent royal family. Think of the fortune. And who else would inherit that title?”
Her voice was draining. He didn’t want to hear any more.
Johan twisted his wrist to glance at his watch. His patience—for her—had run out.
“As for my partner—”
His low voice rose like a wall between them.
“I’ll find her myself, Grandmother.”
Johan’s face was expressionless. He didn’t want to be emotional.
Despite the coldness of Great Hill and the indifference of her affection, Margaret had been one of the few to offer him something close to care. She deserved at least that much.
“It’s time I go.”
Margaret studied him carefully, hiding her temper.
His gray eyes were sunken, razor-sharp. His face had grown leaner, giving him a colder, more dangerous edge.
She knew from experience—when Johan wore that expression, it was time to back off. She rose from her seat.
Among all her grandchildren, Johan was the most precious.
The final, fragile piece her beloved daughter had left behind.
“Mom… Please… protect Johan…”
Margaret parted her lips slowly.
“I hope I don’t see your face in the paper again for some nonsense like this. I trust you understand what I mean. I’ll take my leave.”
Her firm footsteps echoed through the Crown Prince’s office.
Only after she disappeared did Johan raise his bowed head.
His eyes landed on the portrait of the Crown Prince hanging on the wall.
The idiot’s smug face, grinning as if nothing could touch him, was enough to make Johan feel powerless.
