QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL)-Chapter 71: Longing

Chapter 71 – Daphne POV

So awkward.

This whole tea party is one long, silent war served with pastries and passive-aggressive nods.

Apart from a few rehearsed compliments and veiled comments, everyone hates each other.

You could cut the tension with a butter knife. I watch the three women exchange looks like dueling peacocks—beautiful, poised, and one second away from gouging each other’s eyes out with a jeweled hairpin.

The Duchess, meanwhile, looks bored out of her mind.

She finally sets her cup down with a soft clink, her expression unreadable.

"I’m sure I sent my personal maid to inform you," she begins, voice smooth, "but it’s time for an heir."

Straight to the point, I guess.

She doesn’t bother to sugarcoat it. No poetic metaphors about legacy or duty. Just: I need a baby. Somebody get pregnant.

"Also, I’ve been told there’s been clashing on the days."

Ah. Here we go.

"I will not speak of the schemes, I just need someone—anyone—to fall pregnant."

She says this while staring forward, expression calm, as if she were discussing the weather.

"In hindsight, the fault was mine," the Duchess continues.

"There should have been a proper schedule to prevent... what happened. Lady Viola. Lady Clarissa."

She finally turns to look at them.

Oof.

That incident.

Everyone in the castle heard about it.

Apparently both Lady Viola and Lady Clarissa had decided to spend the night with the duke on the same day. Neither backed down. There were rumors of hair-pulling. Screaming. One of them supposedly barricaded the door with a chair.

Dramatic.

"Am I clear?"

"Of course," the two women say in perfect sync, bowing slightly—even if the tension between them is crackling like dry wood.

"To avoid that," the Duchess says, brushing a nonexistent crumb from her sleeve, "we’ll come up with a schedule. For all four of you."

Four?

Oh no. No no no. Nope.

I raise my hand slightly, feigning delicacy.

"Pardon me, Duchess," I say, voice trembling just enough to sound soft and sickly sweet.

"Lady Daphne," she acknowledges, and suddenly all eyes are on me. I channel every inch of frailty I can summon.

"Is it possible... for me to decline? I... I don’t wish to be with the Duke... that way.... Not yet."

I lower my gaze like I’m embarrassed, folding my hands in my lap like some fainting Victorian flower.

There’s a pause.

A long one.

Then the Duchess speaks.

"Oh? Ladies, is that fine with you?"

"One less competitor? I don’t mind." Lady Viola smirks.

"As much as I hate to agree with her, I don’t mind either." Lady Clarissa says with her usual coldness.

"I don’t care," Lady Miriam shrugs, finally contributing.

"Very well. We’ll exclude Lady Daphne from the schedule," the Duchess says, calm and clinical.

"Thank you," I murmur, bowing slightly.

Dodged that arrow.

The Duchess clears her throat.

"Since there are three of you, each will have two designated nights with the Duke—"

I mentally zone out.

Let the harem manage itself.

I’ll be in my tower, with my brush, pretending none of this is real.

***

Evelyne POV

I have a problem.

A very specific, very inconvenient, very unacceptable problem.

I can’t stop looking for her.

Lady Daphne.

It’s gotten worse.

I find myself glancing at doorways she might walk through, lingering just a little longer in the halls she frequents. Adjusting my routes through the estate on the off chance I’ll see a glimpse of her in the gardens.

I tell myself I’m simply keeping order among the harem. A Duchess should be attentive. Observant.

But deep down—I know the truth.

I’m searching for her.

And I can’t help it.

One thing I’ve noticed—painfully and with growing awareness—is that she’s clean.

Too clean.

She smells like soap and herbs and flowers instead of the usual mix of powdered wigs, stale perfume, and whatever brand of despair lingers in castle corridors.

At first, I chalked it up to coincidence.

But then I found myself noting her schedule. Subconsciously, at first. Then deliberately.

I started bathing more frequently. Daily.

Now I can’t go a day without one.

And it’s her fault.

All of it is her fault.

She always wears this mask—that delicate, "don’t mind me" mask of a well-bred noblewoman. Pale. Soft-spoken. Frail, plain and pleasant in that forgettable way certain background characters are written.

But one time—I saw it fall.

I hadn’t meant to.

It was after the tea party, just outside the garden walls. She thought she was alone, speaking to her maid, her expression completely different.

The softness vanished.

She looked—

Confident. Sharp. Amused.

Like someone who could command a room if she wanted to, but chose not to.

Not timid. Not sweet.

Calculated.

And for a moment... I felt something twist inside me.

Something dangerous.

It was like watching a curtain fall off a statue and realizing it wasn’t made of stone at all—but fire.

Since then, I’ve been... unsettled.

I keep thinking about the hug. The way she held me like she knew me. The way she trembled like she had found something and lost it again in the same breath.

She looked at me like I meant something.

And I hate that I want to know what.

What it is she saw in me. What she meant by that name. Why she looked at me like that—like I was someone precious.

Like I was someone loved.

I hate that I keep thinking about it.

I hate that it’s getting worse.

From the second-story hallway window, I watch her ascend the narrow spiral staircase tucked behind the east wing. Most people forget it exists—it leads to the oldest tower in the estate. The upper floor is dusty, mostly unused. Forgotten.

But not by her.

Lady Daphne disappears up those steps nearly every day after breakfast, her skirts swaying softly behind her like she’s not climbing into some drafty ruin but returning home.

The maids say she paints up there.

Hours pass before she returns. Sometimes, she skips meals entirely.

I wonder what her paintings look like.

Are they florals? Portraits? Landscapes?

Are they dark?

Does she paint in silence? Or does she speak to herself like she does when she thinks no one’s listening?

I’ve thought about going up there—more than once.

But the floors creak. The staircase is too narrow. It would be impossible not to alert her.

And if I was caught—

No.

I’m too much of a coward.

So instead, I find myself here.

Again.

Leaning against the balustrade of the second-floor gallery, positioned just right to catch a view of the tower window across the courtyard.

My maids linger behind me, trying their best not to seem curious. But I can feel it in the way they glance at each other. The way one of them tilted her head when I asked for this route again. They’re wondering.

What’s wrong with the Duchess?

Why is she acting strange?

I don’t know either.

I don’t know.

All I know is that when I’m near her, I feel something I thought I’d left behind years ago.

Something like...

Longing.

And I don’t know what to do with it.