Chapter 59

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Translator: Harry Potta

Chapter: 59

Chapter Title: Each One's Night

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The light blazed with brutal intensity.

Irene wished the entire world's lights would snuff out, plunging everything into darkness.

He had clearly left...

The ribbon on the white glove covering her gaping mouth trembled faintly.

I saw it...

The night of Catherine's birthday banquet, the night they announced the engagement with Johann Leopold.

That was when Irene had given herself to Christian one final time.

The night she meant to cherish as a memory, the night that burned even more tenderly with affection—this man had witnessed it.

Her legs gave way in an instant. Irene crumpled onto the light beige carpet.

It was horrific.

Blushing from head to toe, Irene trembled with humiliation. To Johann, the princess's spectacle was utterly laughable.

'Tell me how much more I have to overlook.'

He had tried to quietly look the other way.

But really, it wasn't even amusing.

That day, it was Queen Katrina who had summoned Johann as he was leaving the palace.

Thanks for the difficult decision made for Rondos, congratulations on the engagement, and then the main point.

As expected.

Funding for the army to be dispatched to suppress the civil war that had broken out in the colony.

It was a long preamble for what boiled down to a request for a loan. Exhausted, Johann gave a positive reply and slipped out of the room.

It happened as he passed the private audience chamber where he'd met the queen alone and rounded the corner of the long corridor.

That's when he saw the woman whom the elderly lady had praised endlessly as a chaste gentlewoman rare in these modern times.

It was the very reception room where Olivia had posed for photos with the crown prince.

Over the woman writhing and moaning lewdly, Olivia's face seemed to superimpose itself.

For a split second, disgust surged through him like blood boiling in reverse.

That bastard.

Johann turned coldly from the trembling-shouldered woman and left the office.

His ash-gray eyes sank coldly in the light filtering through the green lampshade.

A carriage waited amid the dazzling lights of Golden Avenue illuminating the night streets. As Johann stepped onto the footboard, he paused.

Dumblin Championship banners hung from every lamppost fluttered in the wind, cluttering his vision.

'Not anymore...'

'So give me back that watch.'

Johann boarded the carriage.

Without lingering, the wheels rolled onward, heading straight for Litton Harbor.

Johann stared into the darkness beyond the window before slowly closing his eyes. He felt the pulse throbbing in his forehead.

Deep into the night, a lone figure entered Saint Vincent Cathedral.

The figure, cloaked in a black mantle reaching their ankles, walked silently over the moonlight filtering through the stained-glass windows in a rainbow of colors.

Passing grand religious paintings, the figure stopped before the confessional at the farthest inner wall and glanced around briefly.

The rose lace veil draping their face quivered faintly with the movement.

At last, the door creaked open cautiously, and the figure vanished inside.

That scene was witnessed only by the Son of God, hanging silently on the cross amid the red flickering candlelight.

"You've arrived, Your Highness."

The middle-aged man on the other side of the partition rose and bowed.

As Annblin took her seat, the man sat back down and slowly slid a single sheet of paper through the gap beneath the partition.

"Please confirm."

Annblin's gaze slowly scanned down the paper. Her coldly gleaming eyes gradually narrowed, then curved into a deep smile.

It was the draw sheet for this year's Dumblin World Championship tennis tournament.

As always, Annblin was seeded number one.

Her rivals were seeded number two.

Once again, that secret rule had been upheld.

Additionally, the new demand Annblin had made this year: assign top rankers to Olivia Blanchett's seed.

In other words, place her in the number two seed. The infamous group of death.

Specifically, pit her against Sara Pavlova, whom she'd faced in last year's final, in the first round of qualifiers.

She hated to admit it, but Sara Pavlova's skill overwhelmed even Annblin's.

The silver lining was that Sara valued money over honor, and for a bribe double the prize money, she'd happily forfeit the title.

Annblin's plan was to crush her utterly in the opening match and uproot any chance from the start.

So that lowly illegitimate child would never stand side by side with her on the court.

And to prove that her spot in the tournament came solely from that impressive body of hers, not her pitiful skills.

Her red lips curved upward.

"Perfect. Proceed as is."

Annblin was quite pleased with the draw.

If you thought you could turn the tragic heroine into a comeback legend by winning the championship, you'd never succeed. Ed.

Don't blame me.

Within the dim confessional, her amber eyes deepened.

You made me this way.

Annblin lifted her head and glared at the cross.

May God's grace be with me.

In the pitch-black darkness, each one's night quietly passed.

Lush green lawns and the thwack of tennis rackets meeting balls heralded the start of summer in the capital of the Britt Kingdom, Litton, which buzzed with festival energy ahead of the Dumblin Championship.

As the train entered the capital, the excitement permeated even inside the speeding cars.

Every lamppost flashing past the windows bore Dumblin tournament banners emblazoned with the event emblem and trophy, flapping wildly in the wind.

"There it is! Look at that, Sara."

"I told you I hate crumbs."

The manager, pointing out the window with potato-chip-greasy fingers, awkwardly wiped his hand on his thigh.

"Ah! Sorry. Sorry."

The manager muttered to himself.

Sara Pavlova was prickly by nature, but as the tournament neared, her temper sharpened further, making her a handful to manage.

Sara, finishing her newspaper article, finally turned her head.

She didn't need to ask what the manager meant; it was obvious at a glance.

Against a backdrop of white clouds, a massive green advertising blimp floated lazily in the sky.

Shaped like the Dumblin Championship emblem, it likely hovered over the new Dumblin arena.

"Lancelot builds arenas on another level."

"Grass quality matters, not some stupid balloon. Can't you keep the crumbs off?"

"Ah! Sorry, sorry."

The manager popped the last potato chips into his mouth and crumpled the bag.

Sara, visibly irritated, crossed her arms and leaned back, closing her eyes.

"Olivia Blanchett—know anything about her?"

"No way. It's her debut at this Dumblin. Lancelot sponsoring an unproven player? Must've earned it on her back or something."

He brushed salt and crumbs from his chest and lap as he spoke.

Sara recalled the photo of the woman from the newspaper.

Olivia Blanchett.

The delicate, soft lines of her silhouette were strikingly beautiful, even to Sara's eyes as a woman.

Enough to enchant men, perhaps, but far too frail for intense athletics.

Sara slowly opened her eyes.

The train was now racing through Litton's city streets.

The verdant cityscape, decked out in Dumblin's signature green, whipped by.

"I'm curious."

"Huh?"

The manager, crunching sugar-dusted roasted almonds, looked up.

"Forget it."

Irritated anew, Sara closed her eyes again.

She couldn't care less if her opponent was a bastard child, a divorcee, or an adulteress.

Her sole interest was the prize money. Or whatever equivalent.

'How much would you want?'

Even while rigging the match, the princess had been haughty.

How ridiculous that had been. And her offer? Just the prize money back. As if.

'Double the prize. It was mine to begin with anyway, right, Your Highness?'

The world number one, the ice flame who always struggled at Dumblin—Sara Pavlova.

She didn't mind the nicknames.

What good was honor?

In this damned kingdom where women couldn't inherit, tennis was Sara Pavlova's only path to quick wealth.

Under Annblin Princess's scrutiny, Sara had faced top rankers from the early rounds before.

The blatant intent to eliminate rivals early drew only a hollow laugh from the draws.

But this tournament, the princess's arrows aimed elsewhere.

"Poor girl."

"Huh?"

Sara ignored him.

Regardless of the princess's schemes, Olivia Blanchett was doomed to a crushing defeat. No regrets there.

All Sara wanted was to negotiate with the princess as always this year.

Maybe ask for triple this time. Or quadruple.

The corners of Sara Pavlova's lips curved refreshingly.

The train pulled into Litton Central Station.

The first-class door where Sara rode opened, and camera flashes erupted in unison, stabbing her eyes.

Sara squinted.

"Have you seen the draw sheet, Miss Pavlova?"

"Miss Pavlova, what do you think of player Blanchett?"

As Sara Pavlova descended, her silver hair swept high in an elegant updo, reporters swarmed like bees.

Stepping onto the platform, Sara strode past them indifferently.

With each confident step, her silver tresses swayed and brushed her nape.

Ignoring them completely as she exited the station, Sara let her manager shout instead.

"Save questions for the press conference."

Sara boarded the carriage. The clamor dulled behind the door.

The flashing camera lights vanished too, blocked by thick curtains.

"What a joke."

Sara, habitually crossing her arms and closing her eyes, scoffed.

"Total clowns, right?"

The manager chimed in appropriately, gauging her mood, still munching the leftover train almonds.

"Stop eating already!"

Sara snapped. She was pissed.

The barrage of questions, the blinding flashes—they'd always been for Annblin Princess, the eternal star.

The spotlight Sara had sold for double the prize money.

And now it irked her that attention turned her way simply because the opponent was Olivia Blanchett.