Across a white net, Olivia and Anblin stood on their respective courts.
Inside the center court of the Dumblin stadium, a tense silence hung heavy in the air.
Hoo—Olivia steadied her breathing. Her heartbeat was gradually quickening.
The thought of Edgar faded from her mind as naturally as if it had never been there.
Like the clear blue sky above, her eyes now saw only Anblin—nothing and no one else.
Olivia loosened her body with a few light swings of her racket.
On the opposite side, Anblin also moved about, warming up with measured ease.
Each time she moved, her flared skirt—reaching down to her shins—twirled and swirled, opening and closing like a flower in full bloom.
Then—fweee!—a sharp whistle sliced through the air.
It was the signal flare announcing the start of the finals.
After winning the choice of court, Anblin had also secured the right to the first serve. She took the ball from the staff member.
Bouncing it lightly against the ground and catching it again, her movements were as smooth as flowing water.
Olivia fixed her gaze on her opponent, bent her upper body forward, and pressed strength into her feet on the grass.
Anblin twirled the racket in her hand, dragging out the moment.
She wore an unreadable, unpleasant smile before finally taking her serving stance.
It was just then—when sunlight sharpened in Olivia’s eyes—that it happened.
“……!”
Olivia’s face went rigid. Anblin had switched her racket to her other hand.
Her left hand.
It felt like being struck hard at the back of the head.
This world may favor right-handers, but in tennis, a left-hander has an absolute advantage.
The words of a man—spoken once as they watched Rafael Nadal play together—rang in her ears.
Naturally, the spin and direction are completely different from a right-hander’s. That’s why they often send shots you wouldn’t expect. See? Just like now.
In that moment, Nadal on the TV screen had executed his signature buggy whip shot.
The ball, which looked as if it would land outside the line, suddenly curved in midair and dropped precariously inside.
No way! That’s impossible!
Right?
Her senior had smiled. The little green ball traced a trajectory unbelievable even to the eyes. It was disorienting—and yet…
Princess Anblin… was left-handed.
Olivia stared blankly at the racket in Anblin’s hand.
The princess smiled.
It was a smile full of arrogance—like that of a victor.
“……”
Olivia had never faced a left-handed player before. Her composure began to crack.
The audience, who had been holding their breath in anticipation, also began to stir.
“N-no way… Why is she holding the racket in her left hand…?”
Crown Prince Alex’s brow furrowed sharply.
In Britte, the left hand was considered the hand of the devil—and thus, its use was taboo.
The only reason he had ever treated Anblin harshly was to correct her left-handedness.
As a result, before she even turned thirteen, Anblin had become a perfect right-hander.
You… what on earth are you thinking?
Alex’s glare—heavy with anger—bored into his sister.
Don’t be afraid, Han Ji-an.
“Just do it the same way you did with me. Exactly the same.”
The voice of Edgar—whispered to her before her match with Russell Junior at the Dumblin Club—curled into her ears.
A warm summer breeze brushed her cheeks, and warmth seeped into hands that had been cold from tension.
Though he wasn’t here, it felt as if he were by her side, and her anxiety quickly eased.
Right. There’s nothing particularly extraordinary about this.
Olivia took a deep breath.
“Play!”
The umpire’s voice announcing the start of the match rang over the net cutting across the grass.
At the same moment, Anblin leapt into the air and—Pang!—struck the ball down with terrifying power.
The Leopold cut through the waves, spray bursting white against the hull.
Morris stepped into the cabin—and froze at the sight of Johan’s injured body.
The smooth skin of his torso was mottled in shades of dark purple and deep violet bruises, and in places where wooden shards had embedded themselves, there were severe lacerations.
Yet Johan’s expression remained indifferent as the doctor treated him.
When the physician—fast and skillful—finished wrapping the bandages and stepped back, Johan reached for the shirt Morris had brought, only to pause with a frown.
“Give it here. I’ll do it myself.”
Even with his face gaunt from exhaustion, Johan’s dangerously handsome features were striking. Morris fastened the buttons in silence.
He wanted to ask if it had really been necessary to come watch the finals—but held his tongue.
Wasn’t this the man who had once driven a carriage straight through a storm? With Ritten so close now, asking would be pointless—and it wasn’t as if Johan would reverse his decision anyway.
“I sent word to the Duke of Edinburgh and to the Marchioness of Wellington… What exactly are you planning to do?”
“Pointless meddling.”
At that curt reply, Morris glanced at him sideways as he continued buttoning.
This was a major incident—one that could affect the dignity of the Duke of Leopold.
Who knew when Johan would regain consciousness, or whether his condition might worsen?
At dawn, Morris had sent someone ahead with an urgent telegram to the capital. That was why they were currently headed to Le Mont.
I’m dead. I’m a dead man.
At the thought of the Marchioness of Wellington’s piercing glare, Morris’s knees almost gave way.
He should have tried harder to stop him—but in the end, he’d failed.
He wasn’t a doctor, but in his judgment, Johan needed at least a month in the hospital.
If only he doesn’t overdo it…
Faced with Johan’s icy stare, the doctor—lacking any real backbone—had given in, allowing him to leave on the flimsy condition that he take it easy. To Morris, traveling to Ritten in this condition was overdoing it. Quack.
“Sir… love is all well and good, but you should take care of your body first.”
What kind of insane stunt is this?—though he didn’t say it aloud.
“Love?”
Johan repeated the word.
Morris, fingers pausing on the buttons, let out a long sigh he had been holding in.
So even that clean, handsome face could wear a dumb expression.
For the first time, Morris felt a sense of camaraderie. The only difference was that Johan was infuriatingly good-looking even when he looked stupid.
“What else would you call this, if not love? Granted, it’s one-sided.”
Johan looked down at him without any change in expression. The more unreadable his face, the more foolish Morris’s own seemed to become.
“…Love.”
As if tasting a foreign word, Johan murmured it—and his expression stiffened.
It wasn’t that he looked offended—just that he found the idea absurd. His brows drew together in mild distaste.
“Yes. Love. And not just any love—a crazy love.”
“You’re insane.”
“That’s what I’m saying. I’m glad you’ve finally regained a bit of reason. Just remember this: you hit your head. Acting crazy wouldn’t be strange at all.”
Johan closed his eyes, raising his left hand to cover them. A faint furrow appeared in his brow—perhaps from pain.
“It’s crazy, yes.”
His dry voice continued. Sunlight streamed through the small cabin window, sliding down the sharp bridge of his nose.
His unnecessarily sculpted face tilted slightly toward Morris.
“But it’s not love.”
If he weren’t his boss, Morris would have snorted. Instead, he shook his head.
“Fine, fine. It’s not love. You’re just a madman. Nice, clean conclusion. I like it.”
Morris continued fastening the buttons.
Whether Johan’s face twisted in pain or not, land began to appear in the distance.
Johan’s gaze stopped somewhere beyond the window.
As Morris raised the crisp white collar and fastened the deep blue tie, he saw it—
A tiny crack forming on the face of a man he’d thought incapable of emotion.
The first sign of a fever called first love.
Her earlier thought—that there was nothing particularly extraordinary—was a grave miscalculation.
Surrounded by lush greenery, Olivia stood on the center court of the Dumblin stadium, breathing heavily.
Without time to recover her breath—Pang!—another powerful strike sent the ball hurtling toward her.
“Fifteen, love!”
The ball she returned landed outside the line.
The ball had curved left, bounced high off the ground, and her backhand return had been weak.
To make matters worse, the foot she’d iced earlier throbbed with pain. A serious problem.
Under the blazing sun, she pushed damp strands of hair from her forehead and tried to steady her breathing.
In contrast—
To face a left-handed player, Olivia needed to reverse every strategy she had used in matches until now.
The problem was that while her mind could make the switch quickly, her body couldn’t keep up.
“As expected, the queen of tennis is in a league of her own.”
The noble ladies sighed in admiration at Olivia’s struggle.
It was a reaction starkly different from the scorn they’d shown earlier, calling left-handedness “the devil’s hand.”
Tch. Spineless creatures.
Henry McDowell scoffed inwardly.
With her graceful posture and elegant swing, the princess looked as leisurely as a swan gliding across a calm lake—infuriatingly so.
Having wagered a hundred thousand francs on Olivia Blanchett, Henry was starting to feel anxious.
The veins stood out on the back of Olivia’s racket hand as she lowered herself into position, eyes locked on the opposite court.
The ball was coming.
It hit the court in a gentle arc—then bounced higher than she’d anticipated.
She sprinted to the drop point, leapt into the dazzling sunlight, and stretched out her arm.
But—ouch!—with a jolt of pain, her return barely cleared the net before falling back onto it.
“Thirty, love!”
The umpire declared the princess’s point.
Waaah! The crowd erupted in wild cheers, chanting Anblin’s name.
“How did she even make it to the finals with that skill? I guess having the event sponsor as your lover makes it possible.”
“Now all her past victories seem suspicious.”
Hidden behind their fans, the ladies tittered and whispered.
Bouncing a fresh ball lightly on the grass, Anblin smiled with ease. Olivia ground her teeth.
Strong, high balls were no problem for her forehand. But with the backhand, it was a different story.
She just needed time to adjust.
Yes. That was all.
Pull yourself together, Han Ji-an.
She gave her head a short shake and fixed her gaze straight ahead.
Don’t get swept away.
Like a predator toying with its prey, Anblin smiled faintly, drawing out the moment.
Then her face went cold as she tossed the ball upward.
It’s coming!
