The lights were painfully bright.

Irene wished that all the light in the world would go out, plunging everything into darkness.

He had clearly gone back…….

The ribbon on the white gloves covering her parted lips trembled.

He, he saw…….

The night of Catherine’s birthday banquet, the night she announced her engagement to Johan Leopold.

Irene gave herself to Christian for the last time.

That night meant to be kept as a memory, that night burning with tender passion – this man had seen it.

In an instant, her legs lost strength. Irene collapsed onto the light brown carpet with a thud.

It was horrible.

Irene, her entire body flushed red, trembled with shame. Johan found the princess’s state utterly ridiculous.

‘Please tell me how much I should turn a blind eye to.’

He had intended to quietly overlook it.

It truly was not funny at all.

That day, it was Queen Katrina who called Johan in as he was leaving the palace.

Gratitude for making a difficult decision for Rondos, congratulations on the engagement, and then the main point.

How considerate.

Funding for troops to be dispatched to suppress the civil war that had broken out in the colonies.

In the end, it was a lengthy preamble to asking to borrow money. Tired, Johan gave a positive response and left.

It was just as he was about to turn the corner of the long corridor after passing the audience chamber where he had met privately with the queen.

When he saw the woman the old lady had praised endlessly as a virtuous lady unseen in modern times.

It was in the very reception room where Olivia had been photographed with the crown prince.

Over the woman moaning and crying out in vulgar ecstasy, Olivia’s face overlapped.

For a moment, it felt as if his blood was boiling with disgust.

Bastard.

Johan turned coldly away from the trembling woman and left the office.

His ashen eyes sank coldly in the light diffused through the green lampshade.

A carriage was waiting amidst the brilliant lights of Golden Avenue illuminating the night streets. Johan paused as he was about to step onto the footboard.

The Dumblin Championship banners fluttering on every streetlight disoriented his vision.

‘Not anymore ……’
‘So that watch. Please return it.’

Johan boarded the carriage.

Without lingering, the wheels began to roll, heading towards Litton Harbor.

Johan stared out at the darkness outside, then slowly closed his eyes. He could feel his forehead throbbing.

Late at night, a figure entered Saint Vincent Cathedral.

The figure in an ankle-length black cloak walked silently across the moonlight filtered through colorful stained glass.

Passing by large religious paintings, the figure stopped in front of the confessional at the very back and briefly surveyed the surroundings.

Following that movement, the rose lace veil covering the face fluttered faintly.

At last, the door opened cautiously and the figure disappeared.

Only the Son of God, nailed to the cross, silently looked down upon this scene amidst the flickering red candlelight.

“You’ve come, Princess.”

The middle-aged man on the other side of the partition stood and bowed.

As Anblyn sat down, the man took his seat and slowly slid a piece of paper through the gap under the partition.

“Please check this.”

Anblyn’s gaze slowly scanned down the paper. Her cold, shining eyes gradually narrowed, soon curving sharply.

It was the draw for this year’s Dumblin World Championship tennis tournament.

As always, Anblyn was the number 1 seed.

Her competitors were the number 2 seeds.

That secret rule was observed once again this time.

Moreover, Anblyn’s newly added request for this year: assign top-ranked players to Olivia Blanchet’s seed.

In other words, put her in the number 2 seed. The so-called group of death.

Specifically, have her face Sara Pavlova, who had competed against Anblyn in last year’s finals, in the first round of qualifiers.

Loath as she was to admit it, Sara Pavlova’s skills overwhelmed Anblyn’s.

Fortunately, she valued money more than honor, and was willing to give up the championship for a bribe amounting to twice the prize money.

Anblyn’s plan was to have her utterly defeated in the first match, uprooting the sprout from its roots.

So that lowly bastard child would never dare stand on the court alongside her again.

Furthermore, to prove that it was indeed due to that prized body of hers that she was able to enter the tournament with such miserable skills.

Her red lips curled upwards.

“Good. Proceed as planned.”

Anblyn was quite pleased with the draw.

If you planned a life-changing story of triumph from an ill-fated protagonist, you would never succeed, Ed.

Don’t. Blame me.

In the dim confessional, her amber eyes deepened.

It was you who made me this way.

Anblyn raised her head and glared at the crucifix.

May God’s grace be with me.

In the black darkness, each of their nights was quietly passing.

The capital of the Brit Kingdom, Litton, which begins summer with lush green grass and the sound of tennis rackets hitting balls, was in a festive mood ahead of the Dumblin Championship.

As they entered the capital, that excitement could be easily felt even inside the moving train.

On every streetlight quickly passing by the window, championship flags bearing the Dumblin tournament’s emblem and trophy fluttered in the wind.

“There it is! Look at that, Sara.”

“I told you I don’t like crumbs falling.”

Sara Pavlova’s manager, who had been pointing out the window with fingers that had been picking up potato chips, sheepishly wiped his hand on his thigh.

“Ah! Sorry, sorry.”

The manager muttered as if talking to himself.

Sara Pavlova was already somewhat irritable by nature, but as the tournament drew near, that temper was compounded by sensitivity, making her difficult to manage.

Sara, who had been reading a newspaper article, finally turned her head.

What the manager had mentioned was immediately apparent.

Against the sky with white clouds spread like a backdrop, a huge green ad balloon was floating.

Given that it was in the shape of the Dumblin Championship emblem, it seemed the newly unveiled Dumblin stadium was likely in that direction.

“When the Lancelot family builds it, even stadiums are different.”

“The quality of the grass is what matters, not some stupid balloon. Can’t you stop the crumbs from falling?”

“Ah! Sorry, sorry.”

The manager stuffed the remaining potato chips into his mouth at once and crumpled up the paper bag.

Sara irritably crossed her arms and leaned back in her seat, closing her eyes.

“Do you know anything about this Olivia Blanchet woman?”

“How could I? This Dumblin tournament is her debut stage. For the Lancelot family to sponsor a player whose skills haven’t even been verified. She really must have earned it with her body.”

He said, brushing off the salt and crumbs that had fallen on his chest and knees.

Sara recalled the woman’s photo she had just seen in the newspaper.

Olivia Blanchet.

The contours created by slender and soft lines were quite beautiful even to her female eyes.

While it might be enough to bewitch men, she looked far too weak for intense sports.

Sara slowly opened her eyes.

The train was now running through the Litton city streets.

The city, decorated in Dumblin’s symbolic green along with deepening verdure, flowed by quickly.

“I’m curious.”

“Huh?”

The manager, who had been crunching on roasted almonds, asked back. This time, there was a pile of sugar powder.

“Never mind.”

Sara, annoyed, closed her eyes again.

She had no interest in whether her opponent was an illegitimate child, a divorcee, or an adulteress.

Her only interest was the prize money. Or anything equivalent to it.

‘How much do you want?’

Even while fixing the match, the princess was haughty.

How laughable that was. And then to offer merely to return the prize money. Not a chance.

‘Twice the prize money. The original prize was mine to begin with, so shouldn’t I receive at least that much, Princess?’

World No. 1 and the Ice Flame who consistently struggled only in the Dumblin tournament, Sara Pavlova.

She didn’t mind such a stigma.

What use was honor?

In this damn country where women had no inheritance rights, the only way for Sara Pavlova to amass wealth in a short time was through tennis.

Sara, who had been under Princess Anblyn’s check, had been facing top-ranked players from the early stages of the tournament.

She could only laugh bitterly at the draw that was clearly intended to cut down rivals from the start.

But it seemed the princess’s arrow was aimed at a different target this tournament.

“Too bad for her.”

“Huh?”

Sara ignored him.

Regardless of the princess’s intentions, Olivia Blanchet was destined to be thoroughly crushed by her. She felt no regret.

She just wanted to negotiate with the princess again this year as usual.

Should I ask for triple this time? Or maybe quadruple.

The corners of Sara Pavlova’s lips rose coolly.

The train had now arrived at Litton Central Station.

The door of the first-class car where Sara Pavlova was seated opened. Camera flashes went off all at once, piercing her eyes with their glare.

Sara narrowed her eyes in a frown.

“Have you seen the draw, Miss Pavlova!”

“Miss Pavlova, what do you think about Player Blanchet?”

As Sara Pavlova, her silver hair tied up high, stepped off the train, reporters swarmed like bees.

Sara Pavlova, who had descended onto the platform, walked past them indifferently.

With each confident step, her silver hair swayed and wrapped around her nape.

Instead of Sara, who was exiting the station without any response, her manager shouted:

“Please ask questions formally at the press conference.”

Sara Pavlova boarded a carriage. The noisy clamor was muffled by the door.

Even the flashing camera lights disappeared when she drew the thick curtains.

“Ridiculous.”

Sara Pavlova, who habitually crossed her arms and closed her eyes, snorted.

“They’re really ridiculous.”

The manager carefully gauged Sara’s mood and agreed appropriately, still munching on the almonds left over from the train.

“Stop eating already!”

Sara shouted. She was irritated.

The barrage of questions and flashing camera lights, always directed at Princess Anblyn, the perpetual protagonist.

The spotlight she had sold for twice the prize money.

Sara Pavlova was not pleased with this attention focused on her simply because her opponent was Olivia Blanchet.