Chapter 66

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Translator: Harry Potta

Chapter: 66

Chapter Title: Tricks Over Skill

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His ash-gray eyes were utterly devoid of emotion, stark and barren.

Marriage didn't suit him in the slightest, yet she'd shoved an utterly absurd match in his face.

An illegitimate child born from an affair, a filthy bastard she'd use to cover up her own son's failings as the crown prince.

Not satisfied with that, Katrina had cornered Johann again not long after his divorce.

This time, for Rondos. The opponent was a princess from a vassal state, her son's former lover.

There wasn't a shred of guilt. Born into royalty, one had to fulfill the duties and responsibilities that came with it, didn't they?

"You said you were heading to Litton."

Queen Katrina's gaze deepened.

"Not for the princess, surely."

The queen's voice sank even lower.

"Don't tell me... it's for that girl."

Johann twitched his brow under her piercing stare, which cut straight to the core.

He knew full well it was a blatant threat.

No one understood the queen—his aunt—better than he did: benevolent one moment, ruthless the next when it suited her.

He wanted no part of her taking interest in Olivia.

"I'll stand in as regent until Mikhail returns. With that said."

Johann rose from his seat and replied flatly.

He offered a polite bow and exited the study.

Through the tall arched windows, sunlight pierced his eyes from the far end of the grand gardens.

Johann glanced at his wristwatch out of habit.

8 a.m. Olivia's second-round match was about to begin.

"There's a battleship launch ceremony in Waylo, Your Grace."

The crown prince's aide, waiting outside the door, briefed him on the day's schedule.

Johann pulled a cigar from his pocket and placed it between his lips.

He tilted his head to light it, then started walking. The aide's briefing trailed on behind him.

The player lounge at the start of the tournament evoked the image of a ladies' tea party.

Chatter and laughter bubbled up from clusters here and there.

But the bench where Olivia sat was a silent island amid it all.

"That scandalous outfit—she's not even embarrassed. I feel secondhand shame just looking at her."

"If she knew shame, she wouldn't have picked Anne Juber in the first place."

True to noble sports, players from prestigious houses gathered in groups, their scornful gazes fixed unwaveringly on Olivia.

This left Evangeline and her maid in a bind, forced to swap out the tampered water bottle under duress.

Olivia sat primly, inspecting her racket strings.

Blatant jeers flew back and forth, disdainful glares embedding like barbs, but her face, bathed in morning light, remained serene.

Guarding her side was her maid with light brown hair tinged faintly red.

Evangeline's anxious eyes flicked to the clock on the lounge wall. Just 30 minutes until match time—no more delays.

We can do this, right?

She winked conspiratorially at her maid.

Of course, miss.

The maid nodded subtly.

Evangeline stood. As she passed Olivia with measured steps, she suddenly clutched her stomach and let out a scream.

All eyes in the lounge snapped to her, murmurs rising: What happened?

"Aaah!"

Evangeline collapsed at Olivia's feet, writhing dramatically.

"Are you okay?"

A greatly flustered woman bent down to ask.

"It... it hurts so much!"

Evangeline squeezed out tears with all her might.

"Anne! Can you fetch the medical staff?"

At the urgent cry, Olivia's maid bolted out.

Seeing the gravity, other players gathered one by one, encircling the pair.

"You'll be fine. Probably just nerves. Don't worry. Are you... wearing a corset, by chance?"

"N-no..."

Evangeline's ragged breaths came in gasps, her performance hurtling toward its climax.

In that instant, with all attention on Evangeline, her maid crept silently to Olivia's bench and swiftly swapped the bottles.

"Oh, miss! What happened to our miss all of a sudden?"

Only then did the maid cry out in pale-faced alarm.

Evangeline cracked open one tightly shut eye, and her maid blinked rapidly in confirmation.

The signal of mission success—her screams gradually faded.

Her overly labored breathing steadied soon after.

"...I'm feeling better now. Can you help me up?"

With her maid's support, she rose to her feet.

"Really... are you okay?"

Olivia asked with concern.

"Yes. Thank you for worrying. Miss Blanchett."

Evangeline smoothed her disheveled hair. Over her shoulder, the white bottle gleamed on the corner bench.

Just drink that water now...

The golden Lancelot logo sparkled amid sunlit motes streaming through the windows.

It's over.

"Really... thank you."

Evangeline flashed a bright smile.

Her preparations for induction into the Royal Tennis Club—to ascend one rung in high society—were complete.

Edgar's prediction had hit the mark.

Aside from Princess Annblin's matches, seats had been empty before—but now they sold out day after day.

Olivia's matches, in particular, were such hot tickets that scalpers traded them under the table.

Not surprising, after she'd crushed powerhouse favorite Sara Pavlovova.

Her skill was now beyond dispute, proven beyond a shadow of a doubt.

Henry smiled with satisfaction, surveying the packed stands filled with nobles in splendid attire.

"A product's a product, my boy. You're a natural, Lancelot."

Edgar, eyes fixed on the entrance where Olivia would soon appear, replied belatedly.

"You're too kind."

Russell Junior sat to his left, Henry McDowell to his right.

Edgar, who had wanted to watch Olivia's match quietly, already felt fatigued.

"It's beastly hot since morning. Olivia's in for a tough one."

Under a cloudless sky, ladies in the stands fanned themselves incessantly.

Yet their sidelong glances at Edgar were relentless.

Attending Princess Annblin's match together yesterday was tantamount to announcing their formal courtship.

Litton's many ladies sighed in lament, while gentlemen without rivals rejoiced.

Small wonder the women's stares burned hotter than the midsummer morning sun.

Just then, under the dazzling sunlight, Olivia and Evangeline emerged side by side onto the impeccably manicured blue-green grass court.

Flashbulbs popped furiously from the press box, gunpowder smoke drifting on the breeze.

"Good luck."

"You too, Miss Seymour."

Evangeline turned with a vivacious smile, pearls studding her coiled updo gleaming softly.

Olivia watched her retreating back.

She's no powerhouse like Miss Pavlovova, but her stamina is incredible. In a drawn-out deuce like today, she might give me real trouble.

Mulling Russell Junior's advice, Olivia stepped onto the court.

Far off in the stands, Edgar caught her eye. Smiling attractively, as befitted the man dominating today's headlines.

Olivia smiled back.

The stands buzzed, but she tuned it out.

Quick and decisive.

That was her sole focus.

Assigned their court by the referee, the two headed to their benches.

Olivia set her racket bag down and placed her water bottle on the table.

"......"

If only she'd take a sip before the match...

Evangeline watched Olivia intently, praying fervently—but luck didn't come early.

Bang! A crisp strike cleaved the blue sky, and Olivia Blanchett's second-round qualifier began.

"Fifteen, thirty."

Evangeline, holding serve, faulted and wrinkled her nose.

She was overwhelmed by her opponent's momentum.

Olivia Blanchett was nimbler than expected, her movements clean and efficient, without a wasted motion.

She blocked Evangeline's shots every time. Fast, powerful balls reminiscent of Sara Pavlovova.

Hands on knees, heaving for breath, Evangeline reset for serve, regripping her loosely held racket.

The short toss met racket and flew to Olivia.

Olivia returned it effortlessly; Evangeline scooped it back. A long rally ensued.

In the merciless sun without shade, only the racket's thwacks echoed for a time.

In the stands, fanning quickened; Henry dabbed his brow repeatedly with a handkerchief.

Edgar remained still, his calm gaze fixed on Olivia.

On the deep green grass, she burned fiercely, like a candle at its brightest peak of life.

Watching her stirred his heart, much like that night their lips had met.

Edgar...

Unconsciously, her arms unfolded; long fingers brushed her lips.

She soared again. The ball slammed into the opponent's service box off her forceful overhead.

A fantastic drop shot drew cheers from the stands—until they realized it was Olivia Blanchett's doing, and lips sealed as if by agreement.

"Fifteen, forty!"

Handing over the service game.

Evangeline bit her lip.

Acknowledging the skill gap didn't make defeat any sweeter—especially against lowly riffraff inviting noble scorn.

Princess Annblin wasn't present, but members of the Royal Tennis Club sat in the front row of VIP seats, watching her.

Imagining their words over her pathetic errors soured her mood further, plunging it into the pits. Impatience gnawed.

I have to win. No matter what.

Courts switched; serve went to Olivia Blanchett.

Evangeline glared daggers, steeling herself.

Olivia bounced the ball lightly, then snatched the rising bounce.

Her sky-blue eyes flashed predatorily for an instant. The ball went up.

"Hah!"

A short, fierce grunt—and the ball hurtled unyielding. Like a honed blade slicing air.

"!"

Evangeline's wrist buckled on return. The mishit ball caught the net's center and plopped down.

...N-no way.

"Fifteen, love!"

Monstrous speed. A fastball surpassing Sara Pavlovova.

Evangeline's wrist throbbed.

Only now did she understand Pavlovova's defeat.

Lancelot Company's meddling, no doubt. She'd assumed as much subconsciously—but no.

It was raw skill.

Evangeline gnawed her lower lip. But soon reclaimed her poised smile.

The world always favored schemes over skill anyway.