The moment Johan identified him, Edgar vanished like a bolt of lightning. It was then that Johan burst out of the carriage.
“Sir?”
Startled, Morris followed him out in a daze.
“Is something wrong? Are you feeling unwell?”
Ignoring Morris’s concern, Johan strode purposefully to the driver’s seat. The coachman, equally startled to be face-to-face with the Duke instead of the prince, blinked in confusion.
“I’m going to ride that horse,” Johan said, pointing.
“Excuse me?” the driver replied, taken aback.
“That horse. I want to ride it now.”
Morris stared incredulously at Johan’s disheveled appearance.
“Are you serious? Absolutely not!”
Johan’s right arm was supported with a splint and bandage, draped limply over the carriage armrest.
“To ride holding only the reins in one hand? Impossible,” Morris pressed on.
“Unless you’re planning to perform in a circus, get back in the carriage!”
“Move,” Johan said sharply, but Morris stood firm. He knew well that if the Duke were hurt, Lady Margaret Wellington would tear him into pieces.
“I said it’s not going to happen,” he repeated.
“Do I look like I’m asking for permission?” Johan’s ash-gray eyes radiated cold steel.
“Then step on me and I’ll let you—otherwise, there’s no moving me.”
Morris sighed but wouldn’t budge. He even lay down in front of the horse with his eyes closed.
“Don’t,” Johan murmured, sending a chill down Morris’s spine.
When Morris peeked open one eye, Johan appeared ghostly pale—so unnerving that he quietly removed the bridle.
With a single push of his foot into the stirrup, Johan mounted the horse—no saddle, no hesitation.
“Sir…?” Morris stammered, as the horse sprang forward, racing between the carriages like a startled steed.
“Are you really out of your mind?!” Morris shouted as he scurried to his feet.
Johan thundered ahead, hoofbeats echoing on the stalled road.
Edgar appeared.
It felt like the faint thread of hope she’d been hanging onto snapped.
“He… isn’t coming. You focus on the match, Ann.” Alex had said that from the waiting room…
Stunned as if slapped, Anblin watched in disbelief as a man holding a bouquet of red flowers descended the staircase.
In the dazzling summer light, his enchanting smile for Olivia Blanchet shone like silver.
Everything that had once been hers, stolen back in a single moment.
The match turned entirely around.
Set score: 1–1.
Anblin—who had stormed the early game—was slipping. Olivia scored consecutive points and captured the first game of the final set.
“Where have you been?” Henry asked.
“Had some business,” Edgar replied, his gaze locked on Anblin’s left hand.
“She must’ve been thrown off,” Henry said.
“At my age, even I wouldn’t be able to take this thrill. My heart couldn’t stand it.”
Yet the old man seemed thrilled.
His gaze, narrow-lidded, shifted from Anblin to Olivia, now rising from her seat.
Her hair, tied neatly to shoulder length, wore a white lace headband instead of the pale-blue one he’d gifted. She knew it broke the rule—but she didn’t care.
Her faint smile toward him—half-there, half-invitation—made Edgar frown.
His stride was off.
“Play!”
At the umpire’s call, Olivia served to begin the second game of the third set. The fierce summer sun glinted off her smooth legs clad in white shorts. Olivia, known for her powerful flat serves, jumped lower than usual and landed purely on her right foot.
Edgar’s eyes turned icily sharp.
“She seems injured—what kind of player management is this?”
Henry clicked his tongue in disapproval, but Edgar didn’t hear a thing. He folded his arms and leaned back, eyes dark with worry fixed on Olivia and Anblin playing across the grass.
Anblin Grace Britte. Just last night, Edgar had stared at Olivia’s leg—perfectly healthy then—as Anblin looked on. Now the desperation in Olivia’s left-handed shots told of how cornered the princess was.
No left-handed player unless backed into a corner. The very thought of her resorting to such underhanded tactics seemed less surprising.
Edgar twisted his lips into a distorted smile as the crowd’s cheers erupted when Olivia scored.
Game score: 2–1.
Both players fiercely contested their service games in a brutal tug of war. Anblin had become frantic—her aristocratic grace abandoned long ago. The serene swan on a placid lake had vanished.
“Forty–Thirty!” Olivia scored again, and the crowd’s roar shook the stands. Sweat dripped from Anblin’s brow to her chin as she stood, gasping.
Set score: 1–1, game score: 5–4.
It mustn’t end like this.
Anblin bit her nails until they bled.
Match point for Olivia—
Anblin shook uncontrollably as she gripped the ball to serve. The air in the stadium was still and oppressive. The audience held their breath, silence broken only by faint throat clearing. All eyes on the princess.
She couldn’t serve yet, time dragging like hours.
But Olivia waited calmly.
Finally, Anblin exhaled, took a deep breath, and tossed the ball high.
Pang!
A thunderous crack. The ball shot forward like light. Olivia came at it like a hawk—sprinting, drawing every ounce of strength.
With a cry, Olivia swung, gripping the racket with both hands.
This is it…
In that instant, her left foot buckled with pain, a blinding jolt racing through her. Her wrist twisted just slightly.
Please…
The ball sped across the scorching midday court, rallying the crowd.
Please…
Anblin sprinted, but before her racket could reach it, the ball—barely staying in—slammed into the ground near the left line and hopped outward.
“…”
Silence erupted, then the crowd murmured in chaos—out or in?
The umpire’s voice rang out:
“Out!”
Relief and celebration erupted in the VIP box. Edgar’s face tightened in anger.
“Deuce!”
Olivia limped forward to the umpire.
“I swear I landed on the line.”
She looked up, voice trembling, “From where I stood, it was outside. Please, check the ball—there should be a mark. I beg you.”
The umpire’s glare was frost cold.
“If you keep disputing, you may be disqualified. Last warning. Return to your position, Miss Blanchet.”
It felt like speaking to a giant ice wall. Olivia turned away.
The sky was clear, the sun merciless. Her foot throbbed. The judge’s bias. The heat.
She closed her eyes.
One point at a time.
Keep it simple, Han Ji-an.
His voice—so vivid in her mind—came on a breeze of memory.
Her teeth unclenched. She opened her eyes slowly and met Anblin’s gaze.
She could do this.
The princess was just as exhausted.
Deuce.
If Olivia took two points, the set would be hers 2–1. But if Anblin scored first––an agonizing continuation.
Olivia stared at her swollen left foot—it was beyond what she could ask of it.
She removed the ice pack. The swelling remained, but the burning heat eased slightly.
She dried it and pulled on her sock, then slid her foot back into her shoe. She laced it neatly, took a sip of water, then stood.
Edgar’s gaze met hers once more.
Win this.
A faint smile flickered over Edward’s composed face.
The knuckles on her hand pressed tight on the racket.
Under the blazing noon sun, Olivia and Anblin stood facing each other again.
“Play!”
With the umpire’s call, Olivia sprang up—sleek and poised like a black panther.
Pang!
Her racket slapped through the ball, sending it flying. A long rally ensued, both tense not to make a mistake.
Olivia struck a return with a strong grunt. Anblin lunged but the ball bounced atop the net before falling lifelessly.
“Oh!” Cries of both disappointment and joy echoed around the court.
The prince watched, heart pounding, his palm growing clammy.
Anblin bit her lip—ripping it to the point where it bled.
Only one point remained.
Again—Olivia Blanchet’s match point.
