QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL)-Chapter 72: Stalker

Chapter 72 – Daphne POV

I have a stalker.

A bad one.

Not the creepy-breathing, hiding-in-your-wardrobe kind.

No, this one’s... elegant.

...And cute.

And clumsy.

The Duchess.

Duchess Evelyne Callum.

My not-wife-but-sure-feels-like-it-sometimes.

I’ve seen her.

I think everyone in this castle has seen her.

But since she’s—you know—the duchess, no one’s saying a word.

She lurks.

On balconies.

In garden paths.

Behind columns.

Once, I caught her pretending to look at a bush. A very dead bush. For ten full minutes.

She thinks she’s subtle.

She’s not.

It’s even funnier because she wears those enormous gowns—layers of silk and structure and dignity. She’s basically a mobile tent made of lace.

And yet, there she is now.

I head toward the stream, basket of cloths in hand, and in the distance—there she is.

Blonde hair coiled like spun gold.

Blue eyes trying desperately to not make eye contact.

She’s doing the whole leaning-casually-against-a-tree act, as if it’s perfectly natural to be standing on damp moss in designer brocade.

It’s adorable.

And so out of character.

’System, is this what she was like in the original narrative?’ I ask mentally, eyebrow twitching.

[Of course not.]

’Any explanation? Because I’ve done nothing to the original narrative. You’ve seen that. I’ve been on my best fake noble behavior.’

[It’s out of character. I don’t know what’s going on.]

Great.

---

I arrive at the stream with the grace of a woman who’s long given up on pretending to be scandalized.

Jane, as always, knows when to disappear. She murmurs something about collecting herbs nearby and vanishes like mist.

Good girl.

I undress slowly, folding each layer with practiced ease. The corset peels off like a second skin. My shift follows. Then the underthings.

Until I’m bare.

Completely.

The breeze is light today, teasing across my skin as I reach for that coarse, fat, rectangular thing they call soap.

At least they’ve figured out how to add oils to it now. It no longer smells like disappointment and despair. There’s a touch of lavender. Maybe citrus.

I step into the water.

It’s cold, but bearable. Familiar, even.

And then—that feeling.

The weight of a gaze.

I pause.

Huh. Still?

She usually runs away by now.

I glance casually toward the trees. Nothing.

But I can feel her.

She’s getting bold.

Feeling mischievous I walk straight into the stream. Naked. Unapologetic.

In full view.

I stretch my arms again—slowly. Gracefully.

I begin to wash. Purposefully slow. Hands gliding down my neck, across my collarbone.

Still there.

Still watching.

God, what is going on today?

I move to my hair, lathering with care. Letting suds glide down my spine. I make a show of it—nothing obscene, just enough grace to blur the line between sensual and sacred.

Then—my chest.

I trail my hands there slowly, like I’m in a perfume ad.

And—

CRACK. STUMBLE. THUD.

Footsteps.

Rushing. Panicked.

She runs.

I snicker.

It’s so fun.

***

Evelyne POV

The bath is warm.

Fragrant, even.

Rose petals float across the surface, soft and bruised at the edges, while steam curls around the edge of the wooden tub like silk unraveling.

But I feel cold.

Inside.

I sit motionless in the water, my knees pulled close, arms limp at my sides.

Shame.

And obsession.

They curl inside me like twin serpents, tightening around my ribs until it’s hard to breathe.

I don’t understand it.

I’ve always understood myself. My purpose. My role.

I knew what I wanted.

Power. Safety. Distance.

But ever since her...

I’ve been unraveling.

Why am I like this?

What is it about Lady Daphne that undoes me?

She says nothing. She keeps to herself. She wears that polite, dull expression like a mask—yet I see through it. I know there’s something else there. Something sharp and warm and dangerous.

I see it in the way she moves.

In the way she looks at me sometimes.

What do I want from her?

I don’t know.

I wish I did.

It’s unnatural.

These thoughts.

These... feelings.

But they don’t feel new.

They feel like echoes of something I’ve felt for years.

Like a memory I shouldn’t have. A bond I never forged.

I’ve heard the whispers.

Tales of nobles and soldiers laying with men instead of women. Of courtesans who favored the embrace of their own sex.

Always spoken in hushed, scandalized tones.

Vile.

Unholy.

But here I am.

A woman.

Sitting in a bath, heart racing over another woman’s body. Her voice. Her smile. Her bare skin glinting in the sun like a myth made real.

Am I no different from those men?

A question I can’t answer.

The petals swirl around me.

Pink and red. So delicate. So perfectly arranged to soften a truth that refuses to be softened.

I want her.

Not in the polite, distant way a duchess is allowed to want things. Not in the manner of courtly favor or strategic alliance. Not even in the shallow desire of a nobleman claiming a mistress.

It’s not like that.

It’s worse.

It’s—

This is wrong.

It’s inappropriate.

But it doesn’t feel wrong.

That’s the worst part.

It feels like something buried deep inside me is finally trying to surface, like something old and half-forgotten pressing against the skin of this life I’ve built like a bruise just beneath the surface.

I want to talk to her.

I want to ask her—what she meant when she hugged me. If you think about it’s her fault for holding me like that for budding these emotions in me.

My maid knocks at the door, muffled.

"Your Grace, the water will cool soon. Shall I bring the robe?"

I don’t answer right away.

My eyes flick to the surface of the water.

The petals have stilled.

I rise slowly.

"I’ll dry myself."

"Yes, Your Grace."

She leaves. I step out of the bath and wrap the towel around myself.

My decision is already made.

Tomorrow, I’ll speak to Lady Daphne.Privately.

Enough hiding around and tip toeing. Time to put an end to this.