Chapter 60

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Translator: Harry Potta

Chapter: 60

Chapter Title: Dumblin Championship

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During the Dumblin Championship, the entire city buzzed with excitement centered around the stadium.

Hotels threw parties every night, department stores pushed souvenir sales with fervor, and restaurants hustled to lure tourists with special seasonal menus.

Not just them, though. Reporters were just as frantic.

They dashed nonstop between Litton Central Station and Litton Port, covering players arriving from all over and those flying in from abroad, while also attending press conferences for top contenders.

The number of reporters swarming a player was a dead giveaway of their popularity.

Check out this crowd for a single match.

Someone whistled at the packed house of journalists with not a single empty seat.

Olivia Blanchett, who had vanished from the public eye after her last sighting at the Rondos Embassy, was holding her first official press conference.

And right on the dot with Princess Annblin's own timing. It was a blatant challenge, pure psychological warfare.

"Move over a bit more, folks."

"Hey, you in the hat. Bend your knees or switch spots—do the decent thing. Don't ruin the shot."

Not a single reporter had stayed behind at the Britt Palace press room; the Lancelot Hotel's Grand Ballroom was rowdier and noisier than ever.

Overwhelmed by the frenzy, Olivia kneaded her stiff hands. She forced herself to steady her breathing.

"No need to tense up."

Edgar flashed a grin. That charming smile did nothing for her right now.

Standing before the very writers who'd penned those nonstop smear pieces made her chest tighten all over again.

"If it's tricky to answer, just pass it to Russell Junior."

Russell Junior, fussing with his outfit in front of the mirror, shrugged as he spoke.

"Just trust me. Olivia... uh, I mean, Miss Blanchett."

After all this time together, he'd slipped into calling her by name like they were old pals.

Edgar shot Russell Junior a look and chuckled silently. Thankfully, the guy had enough sense to catch it.

"Ready when you are."

Olivia took a deep breath.

"Ready... yeah."

The wavering in her eyes finally hardened with resolve.

"Good."

Edgar placed a light hand on her shoulder.

"Shall we?"

Olivia nodded.

The staff gripped the golden handles of the massive, reddish doors and swung them open in unison.

The murmur swelled, then dropped to dead silence.

Olivia rested her hand on Russell Junior's arm and took her first step.

Shoulders back, expression composed, she stepped into the conference room—and promptly squeezed her eyes shut.

A barrage of camera flashes exploded, blinding her in a whiteout.

The pops like fireworks battered her ears. Her head spun.

"Over here, look this way."

"Miss Blanchett! This side. Over here too."

Russell Junior's voice cut through her ringing ears.

"You okay?"

He tilted his head slightly. Olivia, dizzy for a moment, slowly opened her eyes.

A few blinks, and her vision cleared.

"Yes. Let's go."

To hide her nerves, Olivia sharpened her focus. She even remembered to curve her lips into a smile.

Poised without a hint of falter, she glided elegantly to the podium.

Russell Junior pulled out her chair, sat beside her once she was settled, and the room fell quiet.

Olivia, gazing down at the deep burgundy tablecloth, slowly lifted her eyes.

How to fend them off? The air crackled with predatory intent.

Unfriendly stares burned, poised to pounce.

Olivia drew a deep breath, placed her lace-gloved hands on the table, and steepled her fingers.

Reading the signal that she was set, Russell Junior kicked things off.

"Thanks for coming out despite your busy schedules. This year, I'm here not as a player but as Miss Olivia Blanchett's coach. Most of you know me—Russell Junior Dixon. Anyone not familiar? Haha. Anyway, taking on Miss Blanchett as my player... it was fate, really. It all started when..."

Good grief, does he ever shut up?

Nobody cared. Reporters' faces soured.

Wasting time Olivia actually wanted to use on that lanky noble playboy—what to do with him?

Then it happened.

"Michael Dorset from The Sun Daily."

One reporter shot to his feet, slicing through Russell Junior's ramble.

A commoner would've been crucified for that rudeness, but he was nobility too.

His usual smug swagger felt downright welcome today.

"An honor to meet you, Miss Blanchett."

"Nice to meet you too, Mr. Dorset."

Olivia sat ramrod straight and returned the greeting.

Her heart pounded like mad, but keeping a serene smile was as tough as holding back a sneeze.

"You're debuting in a major tournament. Do you feel qualified?"

The Sun.

The paper that branded her a brazen harlot devouring her ex-husband's rival.

One of the outlets peddling absurd claims she'd slept her way to a wildcard spot, twisting and fabricating truths with the worst malice.

"I'll let my results in this tournament speak for me."

Olivia's gaze hardened like a frozen blue lake.

"Isn't that overconfidence?"

Michael Dorset sneered openly as he pressed on.

"Your first opponent is Miss Sara Pavlova. Are you saying you can beat her?"

Olivia met his scornful, dismissive eyes head-on, her expression growing even more composed.

"I'll give it my all."

"What's your relationship with Marquis Lancelot?"

"......"

What an impudent question.

Michael Dorset smirked vilely, staring down Olivia's discomfort.

Reporters, thrilled at his jab, shifted their gazes to her.

A unfamiliar chill flickered in her eyes.

The Grand Ballroom, thick with overheated press fervor, felt suffocating.

"I said we won't take personal questions. Rephrase it or pass to someone else—"

"This is directed at Miss Blanchett."

Russell Junior glared at Michael Dorset, who had cut him off cold, grinding his teeth.

Furious at the audacity, he jiggled his leg under the podium.

Meet me off the record sometime.

Edgar, arms crossed and leaning against the doorframe, slid his gaze to Olivia.

Her refined face remained impassive, eyes fixed on the reporter, unreadable.

What thoughts swirl in that little head of hers?

When she saw me as a pawn to use and discard, what did she make of me?

Edgar's shadowed eyes darkened to abyssal depths as he watched her idly.

Olivia decided not to run. She had done nothing wrong.

"If I answer, will you report it accurately?"

Her face, locked on the reporter, was astonishingly calm.

She had always feared people's eyes.

Knowing how they saw her, she'd hidden away—but no more.

"Or will you twist my words into whatever story suits you?"

Michael Dorset looked slapped.

The woman he'd expected to flush crimson and tremble with shame stood tall in a poise no one foresaw.

It was almost elegant.

Her steady silence worked wonders.

The sleazy questions they'd prepped—necklace scandal, Princess Annblin ties—ground to a halt.

"I played some tennis while staying at Lancelot Hotel. Mr. Lancelot saw my skills and made the offer. Our meetings were strictly sponsor rep and sponsored athlete, nothing more."

Olivia smiled, even tossing the question back.

"Truth's boring, isn't it? Anything else, Mr. Dorset?"

"......No. ...Thank you for answering."

"Looking forward to The Sun's piece tomorrow."

Olivia let anticipation show as she slowly scanned the room.

"No one curious about my playing style?"

She asked sweetly at the dumbfounded reporters gawking up at the podium.

"I could share some intriguing tech tips."

Olivia's smile gleamed brilliantly under the Grand Ballroom's ornate chandeliers.

Not quite the response he'd hoped for, but Edgar smiled wordlessly.

Pale and rigid like a bloodless corpse moments ago, now she danced them on her palm.

Does that well, yet acts all fragile.

Edgar's gaze trailed from her prim face, past her neatly folded hands, down her deep navy skirt to her slender ankle.

The ribbon on her glossy cream satin pumps quivered faintly.

He stifled a laugh, ducking his head and covering his mouth with his hand.

Olivia desperately wished this would end quickly.

Olivia Blanchett, huh...

Sara Pavlova watched from the back, slumped crookedly against the wall.

True to her moniker "Ice Flame," her cool eyes quietly ignited.

And then Olivia spotted Sara Pavlova in her sightline.

Their gazes clashed in midair.

Sara tugged one corner of her mouth into a long smirk.

Lancelot House's first sponsored woman player.

Whether her skills shone in bed or on court—she'd find out tomorrow.

Sara straightened from the wall and turned away.

Her high silver ponytail sparkled like transparent ice in the chandelier light.

And the next day, fireworks announcing the Dumblin Championship's opening boomed across Litton's sky.