Chapter 61

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Translator: Harry Potta

Chapter: 61

Chapter Title: The Arrival of the End

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To suppress the civil war in the colony, it was decided to dispatch the unit where Prince Mikhail was serving as an officer.

In the Doherty Club in downtown Leiden, a send-off party for the prince was held.

The party that had started in broad daylight was already at the point where no one could stand properly on their own two feet by the time Johann stopped by in the evening.

Under the dreamy glow of red lamps shaded in gold, amid thick cigarette smoke, the nose-stinging aroma of strong liquor, and the fast-tempo dance tunes spilling from the phonograph, they resembled depraved young people chasing the last pleasures in a world where the apocalypse had dawned.

"Isn't the sun going to rise in the west tomorrow?"

All eyes turned to Johann. What wind blew this guy here?

"Brooo!"

Mikhail, his tongue thick and slurred, staggered over languidly and flung himself into Johann's arms.

Johann extended an arm to hold him off at a proper distance and took a seat.

"Will we see each other again?"

"Who knows."

Johann responded indifferently.

"Brother!"

Mikhail let out a shrill cry.

Johann ordered a bottle of bourbon straight up and stuck a cigar between his lips. He despised noisy places, but he intended to linger here today.

Until Olivia's name drifted in from somewhere.

Johann lit the end of his cigar without a care. The table behind him erupted in clamor.

"Thirty minutes, I bet."

"Sara Pavlova? Thirty minutes is generous."

The men snickered. The thought of a beautiful woman being humiliated on the grass stirred a twinge of pity.

"Olivia Blanchett for me."

The loungers whistled and jeered.

"This isn't a beauty contest. Her opponent's the world number one. You forget?"

"If Ms. Blanchett had debuted sooner, Sara might've been number two."

A man who knew Olivia better than she knew herself. Johann glanced over his shoulder.

It was the former Queen of Britt's nephew, distinctive for his red ponytail.

"Oh! You've seen her up close, then."

The man who'd yielded court twelve at the Dumblin Club to a woman just grinned and tipped his glass instead of replying.

They'd divorced.

Johann reminded himself of that stark fact as he pulled out another cigar. He shouldn't care anymore, but it wasn't that simple.

Olivia. Olivia. Olivia everywhere he went.

What a peculiar talent the woman had. He heard her name every single day now after the divorce—more than when they'd lived together.

He set down his crystal glass and flicked his wrist lightly to check his watch. A faint furrow creased Johann's brow.

Thoughts he'd once controlled at will were now spiraling nearly beyond his grasp where she was concerned. Damn it all.

The affliction that had emerged after opening the Pandora's box named Diane Brooke had intensified since their reunion in Britt.

Showing up at this boisterous club he rarely visited after work wasn't solely for Mikhail, of course.

He needed something to fixate on. Otherwise, his mind filled with...

"Why're you here? Not curious about Ms. Blanchett's match?"

Johann exhaled a long plume of cigar smoke.

The Krantz princess had stayed behind with Catherine to cheer for Annblin. Probably out of embarrassment.

Johann attending his ex-wife's match alone would be ridiculous enough; sitting side by side with his fiancée would be outright laughable.

No need to stir up needless gossip.

"No way, brother. You picked me? Came here for little old me?"

"Pathetic."

"I'm touched, brooo!"

Mikhail flailed his arms wide toward Johann once more.

A prince of the realm reduced to this—the monarchy itself seemed in its death throes.

Having drained a full bottle of bourbon, Johann rose from his seat.

Neither the potent liquor nor the end-of-days depravity of the place did much to scatter his nerves.

In the club's center, men and women pressed body to body swayed to a surging sensual melody, dancing the tango.

Mikhail, arm curled around the woman's slender waist, waved at Johann with a wink.

A farewell.

Johann gave a slight nod of his chin and stepped outside. He strolled the street awash in garish lights.

The carriage waiting to carry the duke trailed slowly behind.

Olivia's entrance stirred up yet another commotion.

The murmurs in the stands fell silent for an instant, then exploded back louder than before.

"Good heavens, she's lost her mind. Wearing that..."

The noblewomen clucked their tongues at Olivia as she stepped onto the grass court.

Olivia wore a white short-sleeved pique shirt matched with knee-length shorts and sneakers.

It was utterly audacious.

"A lady in shorts like some boy. Truly, the end times are here."

"What even are those unheard-of clothes..."

"So indecent, I can scarcely bear to look."

The old ladies' apocalyptic gasps and the young misses' bewildered head-tilts at the novel attire all reached Olivia's ears.

She drew a deep breath and closed her eyes. Then she shut out every distraction.

Focus.

Stray thoughts floating like dust in the air—she let them settle.

Slowly. Ever so slowly.

Then she gathered the light seeping through her lashes.

The pinpoint grew, swelling into a sphere until it formed a perfect tennis ball. Only then did she open her eyes.

Only this. Think only of this.

Her gaze, now resolute, gleamed serene beneath the midsummer sun.

Olivia approached the net.

Sara Pavlova, clad in a white blouse and ankle-length flare skirt, came forward as well.

This is the world number one.

Her eyes burned even fiercer than at yesterday's press conference, locking onto Olivia.

Up close, the woman exuded a chill impression, true to her moniker of Ice Flame.

'Her power serve is her signature. No real flaws—that's her edge, and our hurdle.'

Olivia understood completely. Sara Pavlova betrayed no openings.

A frigid aura trailed down her silver hair, kissed by sunlight.

The two stared, probing like fencers, before extending hands over the net in unison.

"Please do your best."

"And you."

Just as their hands neared, the referee called out.

"All rise and pay respect!"

The crowd in the blue-fenced stands shot to their feet as one.

Sara withdrew her hand first and pivoted sideways. Olivia turned slowly too.

"!"

The unannounced arrival was Annblin Grace Brita.

She was entering the VIP box. Trailing her was Princess Catherine—and next, the woman descending the stairs with graceful poise.

Why...

Olivia's face went slack.

None other than the Krantz princess. Johann Leopold's fiancée.

Flashes erupted in a frenzy against the clear sky with the princesses' entrance.

In a nation mad for tennis, royals at matches was commonplace.

But showing up unheralded like this? Rare indeed.

Wasn't this Olivia Blanchett's match—the one tangled in affair rumors with Annblin's marquis lover?

And now Duke Leopold's ex-wife, with his fiancée the Krantz princess in attendance...

Litton's gossip mill, churning nonstop lately, had photographers firing shutters till their fingers blistered.

The stands buzzed with excitement. Far juicier than the game itself.

Gunpowder hung thick in the air. Olivia's fragile calm shattered.

She'd assumed she'd returned to Londos with that man.

Never dreamed she'd appear here.

'...Does he know?'

'What.'

'That I'm here. At your hotel.'

Johann had said simply, yes.

Why come, then.

It must displease her.

She can't want to see me.

Olivia bit her lip. The still summer air felt suffocatingly hot.

"Ms. Blanchett."

The announcer's call snapped her back.

"Y-yes."

"Pay your respects to Her Highness."

Players were bound by protocol to bow to royalty.

Olivia hesitated, then forced her feet forward.

She approached the VIP box alongside Sara Pavlova.

As the distance to the Krantz princess shrank, Olivia's heart hammered like a felon's.

She lacked the nerve to meet Johann's fiancée's eyes.

Olivia walked in silence, eyes fixed on the blue grass yielding beneath her white sneakers.

Annblin gazed down at Olivia Blanchett bowing before her.

She savored the moment, the chasm between her station and the lowly bastard reborn in stark relief.

How masterful her wiles to ensnare Edgar.

She inclined her head with elegant grace.

Forgetting neither to bestow impartial smiles on both players.

This instant thrilled her to the core, yet Annblin hadn't dragged Catherine and Irene—who'd politely begged off citing illness—to Olivia's debut for mere spite.

To shatter her poise.

Olivia froze at eye contact with Irene.

Annblin stifled a laugh. Her gaze pierced Edgar across in the opposite box.

Her eyes narrowed, dark as a clouded winter sky.

Watch closely, Ed.

See your checkmate crumble.

Olivia Blanchett wavered.

The midsummer sun blazed fiercer.

Much like the duel between bastard divorcee and world number one.

Spectators' heads whipping to track the ball—a Dumblin staple.

Yet Edgar's stare remained locked on Olivia Blanchett.

"Fifteen, love!"

Olivia's drop shot snagged the net—a fault.

As expected. Nothing special.

Annblin in the box, Sara fresh off her serve, and the crowd drawn to gauge the brazen seductress—all concurred.

In the end, it was all about the body.