Chapter 17
The Rose Ball
Olivia stared into the mirror for a long time.
The dark green satin dress, reminiscent not of a rose’s bloom but its fresh leaves, appeared demure when still, yet bold and daring in motion.
With only palm trees printed on it, the design resembled a beach gown, but the neckline plunged deeply between her breasts, and with each step, the hem fluttered to reveal her long legs beneath the fastening.
“I think it’s better to cover this part a bit,” Olivia said, gently covering her chest with her hand as she offered her opinion to Eve, who was adjusting her outfit.
“But it’s beautiful. All the gentlemen at the ball won’t be able to take their eyes off you,” said Elaine, eyes wide as if she couldn’t understand.
“I don’t want to dress for men’s pleasure.”
“Miss Blanchet.”
Eve Loren, who had been observing Olivia from a step back to ensure everything was perfect, placed her hands on her hips and inserted herself into the conversation.
“In my opinion, the human body is at its most beautiful in its primal form—as the gods originally created it. My job is to make that divine beauty shine, not to entertain the eyes of lechers. I hope you realize your comment was an insult to me.”
“I’m sorry if I offended you. I’m just not used to clothes like this…” Olivia trailed off, flustered.
“Stand tall and proud. Walk the same way. Whether you shuffle or walk gracefully, your stunning legs will show anyway—might as well make them look magnificent, don’t you think?”
Eve gently moved Olivia’s hand away from her chest, then went behind her and straightened her slouched shoulders with both hands. She whispered softly into Olivia’s ear:
“Your attitude is you.”
Eve slowly turned Olivia’s shoulders with delicate care.
“There. Look. See how beautiful you are.”
“…!”
Eve’s words, like a sweet temptation, were not a lie. The Olivia in the mirror looked like a sensual spirit of verdant spring who had fallen in love with the blazing sun.
“Tonight, the brightest rose will be you.”
Eve caught it—something within Olivia was awakening.
What was once the flush of shame was now confidence blooming in her cheeks. The eyes that had sought refuge in confusion now shimmered with clarity.
It was time to place the final stroke on her masterpiece. Eve signaled to an assistant nearby, who stepped forward and opened a box he had been holding with great care.
“No way… That’s from the Jules Verne Collection!” Elaine gasped, her face lit by the dazzling reflections dancing out of the box.
The necklace was intense.
And as intense as the necklace was, Olivia’s face was equally clouded with worry. As Eve reached for it, Olivia gently stopped her.
“The necklace… I think I’ll pass.”
“Is it not to your liking?”
Eve Loren’s face was polite, though her expression clearly read, Surely not.
“It’s not that,” Olivia replied.
“Then what is it?”
“It just seems… a bit much.”
A luxury piece like that seemed unnecessary for just one night. The dress and shoes—never to be worn again—were already more than enough.
“It seems too extravagant to wear, and I don’t usually enjoy flashy accessories.”
Olivia spoke calmly as she looked at Eve, not wanting to add a materialistic image to herself.
“There’s a misunderstanding. This piece is only on loan from our boutique. Anne Jules Verne is the pride of Eve Loren.”
With gloved hands, Eve delicately lifted the necklace. Light seemed to scatter with her movement like falling stars.
“Don’t you think it’s too attention-grabbing?”
“I agree,” Elaine chimed in for the first time.
The diamond and ruby necklace was the same one Princess Anblin had worn to last year’s ball.
When Olivia had contacted Edgar about her wardrobe, she never imagined he would manage to persuade the renowned British designer, Madame Loren. And now—this necklace?
What was this man playing at?
It was becoming clear that his intentions weren’t purely friendly. Otherwise, why turn Olivia into a target among the women?
“My neck does feel bare, but this is just too extravagant. Besides, that necklace—”
“You must have forgotten the dress code. This necklace completes the style.”
Eve cut off Elaine mid-sentence with a sharp look, silencing her.
As the cold touch of the necklace brushed her nape, Olivia closed her eyes briefly. The red gem that lay just above her cleavage looked like a freshly bloomed rose.
At last, she was ready to enter the ball.
“If you can’t avoid it, enjoy it.”
Tonight, Olivia decided to savor the moment without worrying about the judgmental gazes around her. The thought alone made her heart race.
As night fell, cheerful music flowed through the Lancelot Hotel.
Descending to the lower floor with Elaine, they were guided by a line of hotel staff toward the terrace connected to the grand ballroom.
Though she had mentally prepared herself, Olivia couldn’t help but feel tense in her unfamiliar attire. The fluttering of her dress with each step only added to the unease.
She focused her entire attention on walking gracefully, breathing as Eve had taught her.
Laughter and the scent of roses grew thicker. Beyond the Doric columns that held up the terrace ceiling, a rose garden lit with stained glass lanterns unfolded like a dream.
“Isn’t it amazing?” Elaine asked.
“It really is,” Olivia replied.
Tonight, the floral scent was especially intoxicating.
The hotel’s glass doors had been thrown wide open, spilling golden light out into the terrace. Candles flickered in colored lanterns, casting romantic hues over thousands of blooming roses in the warm spring breeze.
“Shall we go?”
Elaine winked and held out her arm.
Olivia gently placed her hand on it and descended the low steps.
As the spring breeze fluttered her skirt like waves, a long leg wrapped in silk stocking emerged through the deep slit—an ethereal vision.
In that moment, the chatter and laughter halted. Only the delicate sound of strings echoed through the vast garden.
Carol, who had come to greet Princess Anblin, stared with wide eyes.
A bastard daughter—really?
“The witch of Rondos really went all out tonight,” she muttered.
Seeing Elaine, whom she had personally pushed out of her social circle, descending the stairs arm-in-arm with Olivia Blanchet made Carol grit her teeth.
“She was flirting with the Marquis of Lancelot at the Grand Bleu. Now this.”
Her friends tsked in agreement.
“That’s why bloodline matters. It hasn’t been long since her divorce, and she shows up dressed like that.”
“Does that include me, then?”
The princess’s cold voice cut through the whispers, and the woman who had spoken turned pale, bowing her head frantically.
“I-I misspoke, Your Highness. Please forgive me.”
Princess Anblin of the Kingdom of Brit had returned three years ago after a brief political marriage with a prince from the Kingdom of Argent.
The diplomatic union had been uneventful, but their abrupt divorce had filled headlines across both nations.
Though the royal family had paid an astronomical alimony, suggesting the fault lay with the prince, the details were never made public.
Touching such a nerve in front of the princess? What a fool.
Carol sneered internally, casting a sharp look at the blabbering woman before turning her attention back to the stairs.
Elaine would’ve been perfect for this kind of subtle social dominance.
She’d hoped Elaine would humble herself and return, so she could accept her—after teaching her a lesson or two.
But instead, Elaine had chosen to support a bastard divorcée.
As Olivia descended, lit by the brilliant hotel lights at her back, foolish men puffed up their chests and began to crowd around.
Pathetic.
Carol didn’t see anything special about Olivia.
She was merely attracting attention because she was once married to the famed Duke Leopold—despite her illegitimate birth.
The fact that one of the men drawn to her was Carol’s own husband only deepened her hatred and gave it purpose.
“Oh my! That necklace—it’s Anne Jules Verne!”
Carol’s voice, full of disbelief, finally drew the princess’s gaze to Olivia. A crack formed between Anblin’s composed brows.
With her hair elegantly twisted up, Olivia’s neck stretched long and graceful like a deer’s.
Diamonds traced her collarbone, and the vivid red at its center made her skin appear even more luminous. Even without the necklace, she would’ve drawn every eye.
“My god. Didn’t anyone stop her? Letting her wear that in public?”
The princess’s attendants were shocked.
“The Divorcée’s Choice: Anne Jules Verne.”
A tabloid headline just waiting to happen.
These magazines loved to compare, judging who wore it better, fueling vanity and competition among women.
Those attending social events had to tread carefully. No good came from being unfavorably compared to noblewomen of higher status—especially if the newcomer wore it better.
And tonight was exactly that kind of case.
Tomorrow’s tabloids would likely say:
“Anblin Grace Brita vs. Olivia Blanchet — Same Necklace, Different Vibes. Who Wore It Best?”
And the winner, undeniably, was Olivia Blanchet.
