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Chapter 47
Since the Rose Ball, Olivia Blanchet had been at the center of gossip. Initially, most articles were negative. But after the Dumblyn Club incident, public opinion shifted in her favor. Yet lately, old rumors have resurfaced with fresh intensity.
“…They’re really awful,” she whispered. Every day brought new, intentionally provocative articles slandering Olivia—calling her a brazen seductress cozying up to the rival of her ex-husband, a homewrecker who stole a princess’s necklace, lover, and now her designer. What next—will she claim the title of tennis queen?
Even those indifferent to tennis began showing abnormal enthusiasm for the tournament. “Our tennis-queen princess must never lose to that shameless homewrecker,” read countless headlines. The public had rallied behind her.
“Don’t mind it, Anne,” Olivia said, narrowing her eyes in front of the mirror as the sunlight danced through the window. Anne, trying not to show her distress, gently fastened the buttons on Olivia’s new tennis dress.
“Shouldn’t we ask the Marquess to publish a rebuttal?” Anne asked hesitantly. The Marquess Lancelot could easily do it, and Anne felt it baffling why she didn’t seek his help—he’d been her savior time and again.
Olivia smiled lightly. “I’ll show them with my performance.” She knew rumors about her—whispers that she’d only earned her place in the tournament by force. If she responded to each article, she’d lose her focus. Everyone sees what they want; she’d show them the truth on the court. “I’ll do my best—that’s enough.”
Dressed and ready, Olivia walked out of the locker room and descended the elegant stairs, crossing the Hall of Fame. Eyes followed her—some due to her attire, others drawn to her perfect beauty.
She entered the spacious stairwell leading to the tennis courts. As she stepped on Court 12, the ball-striking sounds fell silent. Russell Jr., warming up ahead, blinked in surprise at her entrance.
“Ahem,” he cleared his throat, awkward about where to look.
“This outfit…” he murmured, struggling for words as her white limbs glimmered in the sunlight.
“Yes, I tried it on to feel how it fits. How is it?” Olivia asked with her usual gentle smile, leaving Russell speechless.
“It’s… um, lovely. It looks refreshing,” he finally managed, glancing at her white headband, buttoned-front dress, and skirt above the knees. The daring cut highlighted her slender limbs. Men were entranced, ladies shocked.
“Shall we begin, coach?” Olivia asked. Russell hurried behind the baseline. Olivia was already loosening her arm with the racket; the skirt swirled gently with each movement.
Russell served with a nervous sigh—but underestimated her. Within moments, his heavy breathing echoed as he chased returns, unable to find his rhythm. Olivia’s lightweight outfit made her swift and agile. Spectators gasped. Betting began: Would the princess face off with Olivia? Who would win?
The once-unpopular women’s singles became Lytton’s most-watched match. Club members planned to place bets on Olivia—they knew her skill. Anne watched as Olivia finished a glass of water and began eating, until someone sat across.
“They say the Duke Leopold is coming?” the man across asked, interrupting his meal.
“What?” Olivia froze, face pale in the slanted sunlight, more than just the meal caught in her throat.
“You didn’t know?” Russell Jr. leaned in, passing her the glass.
Olivia nodded quietly—she had thrown herself into training, blistered hands and aching muscles, trying to avoid the sting of malicious press.
“I need to head out… I’m sorry, coach.” She dabbed her lips with a napkin. She couldn’t continue eating.
Oh no—the ex-husband was on his way. Johan Edinborough Leopold was coming. She’d left Rondos to escape him—never expected to see him there. Her heart pounded with confusion.
Later, aboard the ship:
“It’s time to prepare to disembark.” Johan nodded, extinguishing his cigarette. A sigh escaped as smoke curled in the golden light. As he dressed in a dark suit, his eyes caught the blue tie being adjusted—a view through the porthole showed Lytton’s shore growing closer.
‘If anyone deserves Hell for this, it isn’t me—it’s you, Duke.’ Diane Brook’s insult echoed in his mind. He straightened his tie.
“Anything uncomfortable, Your Grace?” the valet asked. Johan shook hiss head. He slid on his gloves, his gaze drifting to his wrist.
‘Did you know, Johan… while I looked at only you, you checked your watch nine times? Do you know that?’ That was Olivia’s voice echoing from memory. His stern face remained unreadable as the golden second hand flashed.
“All set, Your Grace.” He nodded and his valet stepped back.
Lytton Harbor drew near. He lit another cigarette; smoke drifted like mist over Great Hill.
Olivia’s heart pounded. She saw herself in a tragic vision—dying broken and mad, ropes around her neck… But she shook her head—no, that wouldn’t happen.
“Are you okay?” Russell Jr. asked at the carriage stand, noticing her pallor. Even without knowing Johan well, he sensed her fear—a woman frightened by the Duke’s presence.
“I’m fine, coach,” Olivia smiled faintly. She would be okay. Nothing would happen. She calmed her nerves, resolved to return after the hotel’s opening—no overlap or encounters. She vowed to stop thinking negative thoughts.
“Can you go alone?” Russell asked kindly, and Olivia nodded—stronger now, determined not to let this derail her.
