Chapter 62

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Translator: Harry Potta

Chapter: 62

Chapter Title: Blanchett VS Pavlova

-----------------------------------------------------------------

“Such a pretty face was all she had.”

Ladies whispered behind their fluttering fans. Cutting through the mocking murmurs came a sharp pang that echoed across the court.

“Thirty, love!”

Olivia had given up another point.

“Haa...”

Olivia wiped her forehead with her forearm and let out a heavy breath.

She couldn’t focus. Her eyes kept meeting those of the Krantz princess.

A cold stare flew at her, as if rebuking her for that day’s events. Each time, the strength drained from her grip on the racket.

Nothing happened.

Did Johann not explain?

Strictly speaking, it hadn’t been Olivia’s fault.

She had been the victim, forced to spend the night there with no other choice.

Of course, she knew those truths would offer no comfort to Johann’s fiancée.

It would sound like an excuse, just like every adulterous pair in the world denying anything happened.

What if she thinks I still have feelings for my ex-husband?

The thought of such an absurd misunderstanding gnawed at her.

“Forty, love!”

By the time Olivia snapped back to reality, the ball she’d mishit had rolled helplessly past her feet.

Olivia raised a hand to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

Edgar sat there, legs crossed elegantly, arms folded, gazing at her impassively.

Focus, Olivia.

She was putting on her worst performance yet.

Edgar’s eyes slowly slid past Olivia toward the opposite side.

He stared straight at Annblin, who had shifted from tragic heroine to embodiment of vengeance.

Their gazes locked. The princess flashed him a perfectly fresh smile.

Her curving eyes looked utterly refined, as if she’d been waiting for his reaction.

How brazen.

Kidnapping was just the start—then match-fixing, and now psychological warfare.

The woman was truly formidable.

Even focusing solely on the game, Sara Pavlova was no easy opponent. And Olivia right now...

“Forty, love!”

Olivia, dragged along powerlessly, ended up surrendering the first set. A faint shadow crossed Edgar’s face.

Get it together, Han Ji-an.

Olivia squeezed her eyes shut.

As she tried to push aside her thoughts and visualize the tennis ball, its shape suddenly morphed into the sharp features of the Krantz princess.

Olivia shook her head and bit her lip.

Shoulders slumped, she trudged to the opposite court.

Poor thing.

Annblin’s lips curved upward. Her red-painted mouth stood out vividly against her all-white outfit.

How had someone with such skill even stepped onto the Dumblin courts?

She’d known from the moment Olivia dared wear Anne Juber so boldly—the woman had no shame.

Whatever vain ambition had driven her to play tennis, it ended today.

Olivia would only face humiliation now. Annblin felt a twinge of pity, but that was all.

She decided to leave.

There was no value in enduring the intensifying sun just to watch.

“The winner’s already clear. Shall we go?”

“Let’s!”

Catherine, suffering in the sweltering heat where fans offered no relief, shot to her feet.

Annblin, who had smiled at the sight, smoothed her outfit and was about to stand when—

“Olivia! You’ve got this!”

A woman in the stands leaped up, cupping her hands around her mouth to shout. Frowning stares converged on her.

“!”

Olivia’s eyes widened.

It was Bianca Elaine.

She came.

Elaine, locking eyes with Olivia, waved both hands wildly over her head. Olivia’s nose stung.

Olivia finally broke into a radiant smile.

Thank you, so much.

Her gaze, lingering on Elaine, slowly swept across the stands before halting at one spot.

Annblin Grace Brita.

She was smiling.

Olivia bounced the ball on the ground slowly, never breaking eye contact with the princess.

In the next instant, her eyes sharpened as she gripped the ball tightly.

Olivia steadied her breath.

She tossed the ball up. Springing off the ground, her back arched like a bow.

Pang!

The sound was different.

The second set began with Olivia’s counterattack. Her brilliant blue eyes gleamed fiercely in the sunlight.

“Ann?”

Catherine called to Annblin, who had paused mid-departure.

“I changed my mind.”

As Annblin sat back down, Catherine blinked her wide eyes and glanced at Irene.

She hadn’t moved an inch since the start, staring intently at the server.

Olivia served again.

“Hah!”

The ball whistled through the air as her racket struck it. A blistering serve rocketed over the net unimpeded.

It was here. The grunt!

Russell Junior, sitting beside Edgar and watching Olivia’s play with bated breath, clenched his fist in excitement.

Yes, that’s it. This is her.

Well done, Olivia!

Now the real match began.

Sara Pavlova reached out. Her wrist snapped, sending the ball wobbling dangerously before it clipped the net.

“Thirty, love!”

Regretful sighs erupted here and there—a stark contrast to the reactions when Olivia lost points.

They’d all hoped as one for Sara Pavlova to crush the shameless harlot.

Annoying.

Sara wrinkled the corners of her eyes and ground her inner cheek.

Was this powerful, precise serve just a lucky fluke? She knew better than anyone how unlikely that was.

So it was a strategy.

As she readjusted her grip, her wrist throbbed. She’d let her guard down.

Blindsided by this entirely different intensity, Sara hunched over and glared at Olivia.

The woman tossed the ball up again.

It’s coming!

Pang! Piercing the blinding sunlight, the ball came fast and furious.

“I’m not blind.”

Her dry tone cut like a blade.

The executive reading numbers from the report like a machine fell silent.

Rain poured outside. Thick raindrops drummed against the conference room windows.

Johann twisted his propped-up wrist to check his watch. The match should have started by now.

Olivia Blanchett’s first match—his former wife.

Johann stroked his chin with oiled fingers. The meeting dragged on tediously.

“So. What’s the plan?”

People expressed anger in varied ways.

Johann’s were gray eyes darkening into an eerily calm stillness, like right now.

The executive, caught in the eye of the storm, swallowed dryly and mumbled evasively.

“...Withdrawal seems best.”

Rondos Colony’s Hessen civil war had tanked the stock of Hessen Steel, acquired by House Leopold.

They’d just been reciting the damages.

Amid the unstable politics, riots had struck factories and companies owned by Rondos merchants indiscriminately.

To minimize casualties and losses, withdrawal now was optimal.

“That’s your conclusion.”

“...”

Under the piercing gaze, the executive fell silent again.

Now the executives just exchanged glances, peeking at the head of the table.

Johann’s eyes drifted to the fogged window.

Sara Pavlova, was it? He recalled her winning record from the papers.

Can she win? No matter how he tried, he couldn’t picture Olivia playing tennis.

“Capture the king and it’s over. Why should I withdraw?”

Executives’ attention snapped to him at the weary drawl.

Just nab the leader of the armed rebels called ‘Hessen’s Torch.’

But his whereabouts were unknown, a headache. So the queen deployed an assassination unit.

Mikhail’s Rondos elite special forces, the Black Shadows.

“Let’s watch a bit longer.”

Johann checked the time out of habit.

“That risks—”

“Situation will resolve in a month.”

Johann said boredly.

“Next item...”

“End it here. I have plans.”

“...”

Johann snatched his jacket and rose abruptly from the head seat.

The executives gawked blankly at him.

Johann Leopold, of all people, standing mid-meeting.

“Sir?”

Morris stared, baffled, at his boss’s retreating back, striding away purposefully.

What urgent schedule had him hurrying out like that?

It was a dead heat, pure and simple.

Sara Pavlova was a top ranker, fine. But where had this woman been hiding until now?

Spectators marveled at Olivia Blanchett, who’d appeared like a divine intervention—even in women’s singles, no, across men’s singles and doubles, it was a rare razor-sharp contest.

Sara Pavlova trailed 1-3 early in the second set.

Mistakes piled up in her signature volleys, forcing her to cede the set to Olivia.

Now, first to one more set wins.

Damn it!

Sara Pavlova furrowed her brow viciously and lobbed the ball high.

Pang, and Olivia dashed toward it.

A grueling rally ensued, no quarter given.

Her long skirt wound around her legs up to her shins.

The thin cotton long-sleeve blouse clung to her sweat-slicked arms, hindering her movements.

Sara had never sweated this much before.

Damn it all!

A curse slipped out.

Sara shot Olivia a glare. The seemingly fragile body was surprisingly sturdy.

She showed no signs of fatigue. That alone made Sara anxious, her blood running dry.

Game score 5-4, a slim lead.

Please, just one point!

Sara grew desperate.

She had to end it before Olivia forced deuce at 5-5.

But Sara’s stamina was already hitting rock bottom.