Chapter 72
Chapter 72. Ghost of the Leopold Hotel
2023.12.11.
The coach politely pulled out Olivia Blanchett's chair.
Anne Boleyn, having finally put aside her suspicious gaze, sat down.
The coach was just about to start briefing her on the player she would face in the quarterfinals.
Anne Boleyn's eyes landed nervously on the newspaper placed on the table.
「Rookie Olivia Blanchett, Will She Ascend as the Empress of the Court?」
"If you didn't put it there on purpose, could you please remove it?"
There were sharp thorns in Anne Boleyn's voice.
"Ah! Sorry, Anne."
Kyla quickly folded the newspaper in half and gave it to the maid behind her. The maid retreated backward and quickly disappeared from sight.
"That woman."
Anne Boleyn, who had been watching the scene with a slight frown, asked Kyla.
"Did you watch any of her matches?"
Her neatly combed red hair looked even darker under the cloudy sky.
It felt as if she was looking at a cold, frozen sun rather than the scorching sun of midsummer, and Kyla felt a chill.
The figure who had been sobbing and seemed on the verge of collapsing just a few days ago was nowhere to be found.
"She seems like a tough opponent. Her skills are amazing."
Kyla had been watching Olivia Blanchett's matches without missing a single one these days. It was a request, almost an order, from Anne Boleyn, who was not free to move around due to the Crown Prince's orders.
"Her reflexes seem to be the best I've ever seen. Ah! That's only excluding Anne, of course."
Kyla habitually checked Anne Boleyn's expression. It was a habit ingrained in her from living her entire life.
That was the life Kyla had been forced to live since she was a very young child.
"She's a Power Server, and her steps are clean. So, she doesn't waste unnecessary energy. As you saw in Sara Pavlova's match, it's disadvantageous to go into a long game."
It was a report that was no different from the praise in the newspaper articles.
A cold gaze stared at Kyla as if asking, 'Is that it?' Embarrassed, Kyla's ears turned red, and she blinked her eyelids a couple of times.
It was truly unfortunate.
Anne Boleyn quietly bit her lip.
All plans had failed. She seemed to have underestimated the lowly bastard too much.
While she was secluded, the newly emerging star was on a winning streak, shining brighter with each passing day.
People were already making a fuss, anticipating the rise of the new Queen.
It was enough to have her pride hurt once. She had already tasted humiliation with Edgar, that man.
She couldn't let the throne of tennis be taken away by that lowly bastard as well. Absolutely not.
"But she must have at least one weakness, right? A habit or a jinx. Think hard, Kyla."
Kyla looked bewildered and thought for a long time before finally giving an answer.
"Other than her backhand seeming a bit weak, there weren't any other weaknesses or habits..."
She glanced at Anne Boleyn. She knew it wasn't the answer she wanted, but she had no other words to make up.
The Olivia Blanchett that Kyla had seen was, in a word, perfect. Her serves, strokes, and swings were all clean and accurate without any unnecessary movements.
"I see."
Fortunately, Anne Boleyn's reaction was unexpectedly indifferent, breaking Kyla's expectations.
"Backhand..."
The backhand was a way of hitting the ball so that the back of the hand hitting the ball faced the opponent.
Therefore, compared to the forehand, which hits the ball with the arm extended, the backhand, which hits the ball with a bend, was a wall that all tennis players had to overcome because it was weak and unstable.
Anne Boleyn's heavily sunken amber eyes stared into the air. The sun, which had been briefly shining, disappeared behind the clouds.
Even a castle that is difficult to attack and does not fall easily has a gap somewhere. Even if it doesn't.
Anne Boleyn moved her lips as if talking to herself.
"Then we'll just have to create one."
Her expression was utterly calm. As dark clouds gathered in an instant, darkening the surroundings, Anne Boleyn's eyes flashed fiercely.
\*
"Where is Mikhail?"
"That is, not yet."
Maurice, giving the same answer for the umpteenth time today, was in a difficult situation.
It had already been a week. If everything had gone according to plan, Prince Mikhail should have arrived in Leiden the day before yesterday.
But the Prince had vanished at the border between Rondos and Argent.
Judging from his usual behavior of putting aside his responsibilities and duties as a member of the Royal Family and only picking at his rights like grapes, there was no expectation that he would be willingly dragged here, but now was the time for him to faithfully carry out the things he was burdened with as a Prince.
The Dumblin Championship finals, Olivia's last match, were in two days.
Yohan had to leave this damn Leiden no later than tomorrow.
"Find him."
Yohan, who was leaning back in his chair and looking out the window, said in a low voice.
The fog flowing from the lake in the Royal Palace's lush hunting grounds made the view opaque.
Anger, thicker than the fog, filled Yohan's eyes as he silently stared at the weather that was out of place for a midsummer Leiden.
The sound of knocking came just as he was about to sit back down.
"Duchess Wellington has come to see you, Your Highness."
The attendant announced the visit of his maternal grandmother, Margaret. Yohan's expression hardened. He already felt a sense of fatigue from the unusual energy emanating from behind the door.
He stared blankly at the hazy window before nodding his head.
Yohan stood up from his seat, smoothed out his shirt collar and the wrinkles in his jacket, and buttoned it up. In the meantime, Margaret entered.
"You've arrived."
"It's harder to see your face than it is to see Her Majesty the Queen."
As expected, there was a rebuke in her stern voice.
Margaret sat down in the seat of honor before Yohan could even offer her a seat, and placed what she was holding in her hand on the table with a thud.
"Explain yourself."
Yohan's gaze slid downward.
He was already used to seeing photos of himself and Princess Krantz side by side on the front page of the newspaper. The problem was the headline.
「Divorce Immediately After Riteon trip, Is It Because of the Ghost of the Leopold Hotel That Appeared to Olivia Blanchett?」
Yohan's brow furrowed. He slowly picked up the newspaper.
The reporter had cleverly selected only frivolous words and filled the article with vulgar content.
The content was so sensational that it seemed he had a much better talent as a writer of sordid love affairs than as a reporter.
The statement from an anonymous witness who claimed to have seen red lipstick marks on Yohan's collar when he came out of room 3016 that day, along with the statement that the bedsheets in the room in question were terribly crumpled, was enough to fuel base imaginations.
His gaze, which had been cast down halfway over the page, met Margaret's. His attitude was quite indifferent. She sighed deeply and asked.
"Is this the reason?"
"No, it is not."
Yohan neatly folded the newspaper and put it down, denying it concisely.
"Then, what is the reason?"
"If I knew women's hearts so well, I wouldn't have gotten divorced."
A cold current flowed between the two.
The face of the old woman, who was over seventy years old, was turning red and then pale.
The fingertips gripping the armrest were trembling, a sign that a barrage of nagging was about to pour down like a rainstorm.
In order to preemptively block the unwelcome interference, Yohan said calmly.
"I have to leave soon."
Margaret looked directly at Yohan.
Not just because he was her grandson, but Yohan was a person who perfectly suited this position, the Crown Prince's office.
He was incomparable to the dissolute Christian.
Although there was one more as a spare, the war-crazed Mikhail was also not fit to be King.
The Princess, who resembled her father's temperament, was the same.
If this were the Kingdom of Brit across the sea, Margaret's son-in-law would have become King, and her daughter would have become Queen Consort. And Yohan and his brothers would have been Princes.
"Since you're busy, I won't say much."
No one knows how things will turn out.
"If you're going to remarry, do it with Josephine."
In the future, no matter what position he rises to, there should be no room for criticism. Margaret looked at her grandson sternly.
Yohan narrowed his brow.
Olivia Blanchett, who had been burdened with the Blanchett family's debts and thrown into the marriage market.
She was the maternal grandmother who had vehemently opposed the marriage to such a lowly bastard.
Of course, she did not attend the wedding, and even on the first day after they became a couple when they went to pay their respects, she did not open her stubborn gate.
After that, they cut off contact and lived separately, and their relationship was forcibly restored at the same time as the divorce.
Yohan rubbed his eyes with his fingertips. The bezel of the wristwatch revealed under his sleeve sparkled in the light like a gold ring.
"If Josephine is not to your liking, I will look for another lady. But I think that child is a pity, Yohan. Josephine doesn't care what reason you divorced for. Where else can you find such a virtuous lady in this day and age? And what about her family? She is the only daughter of the Argent Royal Family. Where will all that wealth go? And to whom will the title of that family go?"
It was a voice that made people sick of it. He didn't want to hear any more.
Yohan twisted his wrist and looked at his watch. His patience allotted to his maternal grandmother ended here.
"In the future, my partner."
A low bass voice divided the two like a thick wall.
"I will look for her myself, Grandmother."
Yohan had no expression. He didn't want to treat his maternal grandmother emotionally.
She was the one who had occasionally given him the only attention that could be called affection amidst the coldness and indifference of Greathill, so he should.
"It's time for me to leave."
Margaret suppressed her anger and looked across at Yohan.
His gray eyes were sunken and sharp. The contours, which had become sharper as he lost weight, exuded a desolate aura.
She knew from long experience that she shouldn't touch Yohan when he had that expression. She rose from her seat at this point.
To Margaret Wellington, Yohan was the most special of her grandsons.
The most painful finger, left in the world by her beloved daughter.
'Mom... ...Yohan. ...Protect... ...him.'
She parted her tightly bitten lips.
"I hope I don't see you in the newspaper with articles like this anymore. I believe you understand what I mean. I'll be going now."
Her steady footsteps echoed through the Crown Prince's office.
Only after his maternal grandmother had disappeared out the door did Yohan slowly lift his head, which he had lowered in greeting.
His gaze was fixed on the portrait of the Crown Prince hanging on one wall. The face of the bastard who made it impossible for him to do anything was smiling peacefully.
