Chapter 9

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Translator: Harry Potta

Chapter: 9

Chapter Title: Little Beast

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Haah!

With a ragged breath, the woman thrust her arms toward the sky. It felt as though time itself had frozen, leaving only her—Olivia Blanchett—in motion.

Clear morning sunlight poured into her as she leaped.

Edgar let out a small sigh.

Her blouse slipped free from her waistband, riding up to bare her skin. At the same time, she swung her racket without hesitation, smashing the ball.

The woman landed lightly and cheered in triumph.

Leaning obliquely against the window frame, Edgar gazed down at her impassively.

Her fresh cheeks were flushed the color of roses blooming in spring. He couldn't tear his eyes away.

The way she lightly shook her tennis racket looked utterly familiar. Her ponytail, bound up in one, swayed gently with each motion.

Before serving, she had a habit of tapping the toe of her shoe with the racket, then always bouncing the ball on the ground exactly three times.

Once more, the little beast growled.

Like a predator lunging at its prey, she leaped toward the ball she'd tossed up again.

"Haha!"

The exhilarated breaths leaking from her rosy face seemed to carry all the way here.

There was power in the clean motion as she sent her opponent's ball over the net, no excess movement whatsoever. The woman moved with fluid grace, like a sleek black panther.

But when her strength flagged, she'd resort to a two-handed backhand. Always accompanied by a shout that could wake the dead.

Edgar burst out laughing.

In tennis—the sport of gentlemen—neither spectators nor players were supposed to make a sound. Ladies, in particular, received the ball with unerring elegance. They never hurled themselves through the air like that.

She was a woman with a terrifying obsession for victory.

Edgar's gaze deepened.

Did Johann's wife have such talent?

Britt was a kingdom mad for roses and tennis. The endless Litton Flower Festival and Dumblin Tennis Tournament each year were prime examples.

The newly completed Dumblin stadium had been contracted and built by the Lancelot family.

The stadium next to Dumblin Club featured 19 championship grass courts, 22 practice grass courts, 8 clay courts, and 5 indoor courts. It was on a scale rivaling the world's best.

Complete with a museum, restaurant, cafe, and souvenir shop.

With pity for the tennis-mad deviant prince, Edgar planned to turn the prince's territory of Dumblin into a tennis mecca.

And after five years of effort, the results would come in two months.

Olivia Blanchett.

Edgar's gaze deepened as he contemplated the woman darting across the grass.

For that successful launch, she could serve as the perfect promotional tool—no better choice. Especially in the women's singles, now a headache thanks to Princess Annblin.

The illegitimate child abandoned by Duke Johann Leopold, proof of infidelity and a stunningly beautiful divorcee, champion of the Dumblin Trophy.

No story could be more dramatic. Her unique playing style would provide plenty of spectacle, too.

The only question was whether she had any interest in the Dumblin Championship.

Edgar's lips curved softly.

The friendly match between the two ladies ended quickly. The victor's face lit up with joyous triumph, sparkling in the morning sun.

Feeling quite satisfied, Edgar finally turned away. He ran a hand through his tousled hair as he walked to the side table and rang the bell. Gerald entered soon after.

"I'll wash up quick and head over there. Scrambled eggs with mushrooms and cheese, and coffee for me."

"Right away."

Olivia smiled brightly in response to Elaine's order. The two had decided to share a late breakfast in Olivia's suite.

After parting from Elaine in the elevator, a smile crept onto Olivia's face. It felt liberating to have worked up a proper sweat for the first time in ages.

"Weren't you bored?"

"Not at all. It was fun."

Anne replied with a laugh.

She'd told Elaine she sometimes played with Johann, but Anne knew that was a lie. Still, she hadn't pried.

Anne had watched over her since she was six. Perhaps she dimly sensed it—the real Olivia Blanchett wearing her shell.

"Is there... something you want to say?"

"Huh? Oh, no."

Olivia shook her head as she walked, glancing at Anne's profile.

"Let's play together next time. I'll teach you."

"No way. I'd get chased out of the tennis court before I even stepped in."

Anne shook her head vigorously. Upon reaching the suite, she pulled the key from her handbag and inserted it into the lock.

"...Miss. Did I forget to lock the door?"

"What's wrong?"

"The door."

Anne's face stiffened.

"...It's open."

Olivia and Anne's eyes widened as they stared at each other.

Anne swallowed hard, then pressed her ear flat against the suite door.

Someone was inside.

'What do we do?'

Anne signaled with her eyes.

"Let's go in."

"N-no, Miss! What if it's a thief? I'll get someone."

Anne's tension was plain; she whispered just loud enough for Olivia to hear.

"If it's some clumsy thief who can't even lock a door properly, the two of us can handle it. Anne."

Besides, it was too bright everywhere for burglary. Unless they were idiots, not at this hour.

"Still..."

Anne hesitated.

Olivia—or rather, Han Ji-an—was skilled in martial arts and shooting. She couldn't take down burly men barehanded, but weapons changed things.

Olivia gripped her racket like a wooden sword, and Anne raised her parasol like a longsword.

The two steadied their breaths, exchanged a glance.

One.

Two.

Three! They flung the door open.

"Have you just arrived?"

"..."

The maid in uniform paused her work and bowed her head. Olivia and Anne were the flustered ones. Olivia recovered first.

"Did you put up the 'Do Not Disturb' sign for cleaning?"

"No, Miss."

Olivia and Anne slowly turned toward the woman.

"Lord Lancelot sent me. I'm Marie, assigned to attend you during your stay. Pleased to meet you."

The woman bowed deeply once more.

Olivia scanned the suite with cool eyes. Everything was impeccably tidy—the clothes strewn in haste, slippers, bedding, vanity—all spotless.

Gratitude took a backseat to irritation at the invasion of her private space.

Olivia set her racket on the table and stepped forward. Now her sharp gaze examined the woman.

"Is this service provided to all guests?"

"Only VIPs."

The tall, lean woman with dark brown hair and eyes replied politely but stiffly.

Olivia raised her brows slightly, feigning surprise.

"This is my first time here."

"Lord Lancelot sets the VIP criteria."

"I see. Then I'm deeply grateful."

No odd vibes from the woman—no tension at being caught, no hiding anything.

Still, Olivia didn't want strangers in her space.

"Could you relay a message to him?"

"Of course."

"Thank you for the kind consideration, but I politely decline. Please tell him that."

As the woman lifted her bowed head to meet Olivia's eyes, emotion flickered across her face for the first time.

"Did I make a mistake? Or is the room not to your liking?"

"It's perfect. Impeccable."

"Then why...? May I ask the reason?"

"I just want to rest easy."

"..."

The woman hesitated briefly, then bowed.

"Understood. Rest well."

The maid retreated carefully, without turning her back.

Anne hurried to the dressing room first, checking the hidden compartment in her trunk for the International Bank guarantee, checkbook, ID, passport—everything intact. Olivia laughed.

"Anne, she's from the hotel owner himself. She wouldn't steal."

"Better safe than sorry."

Anne lived by "test the bridge before crossing." Even if the King of Britt had sent her, she'd check.

"Fine. I'm hungry, Anne. Order the same as Miss Elaine for me."

Olivia said with a smile.

"Yes, Miss."

Anne went down to the restaurant for room service, and Olivia headed to the bathroom.

After a quick shower, Olivia emerged in a flannel robe and stood by the window overlooking Litton's cityscape, towel-drying her wet hair. A knock sounded.

'Quick.'

Olivia crossed the suite, opened the door with a big smile.

"Come on in...?"

Her eyes widened like full moons in shock. It wasn't Elaine.

Why here...?

Edgar Langcaster Lancelot looked down at her with amused eyes.

The woman wore a robe.

The thin flannel clung dizzyingly to her slender yet voluptuous curves.

Between the overlapping front, dark brown strands wet from the shower draped over her pale, full bosom, setting his nerves on edge.

To Edgar, women were merely objects to slake his desires—nothing more, nothing less.

That's why he never invested effort in mere bedwarmers for a night. No need.

With a similar lust—or perhaps a subtly different craving—he now couldn't look away from Olivia Blanchett's body.

Color rose to her cheeks, then her forehead, her neck—slam! The door shut.

"W-wait! Just a moment, please!"

Her urgent voice carried from beyond the door, leaving only a faint rose scent.

Edgar's lips curved slyly.