Chapter 298

Daphne

[Host. You are supposed to break the harem, not make the main character fall in love with you.]

I choke on the water I’m drinking. I cover it with a cough, managing to keep my composure even as my mind screeches to a halt.

What do you mean? I respond mentally, keeping my face neutral as Elliot walks away to get my cake.

[It seems the MC has fallen for you.] the System responds, its tone carrying that familiar hint of judgment.

What? Isn’t he gay?

[No. In this world, such distinctions don’t matter. What matters is designation. You are an Alpha, Host.]

I feel goosebumps form across my skin, and it has nothing to do with the cafe’s air conditioning.

What? I stare at the counter where Elliot is carefully plating my honey cake. He’s cute, I’ll admit. In a soft, pretty way. Blond curls, big green eyes, that fragile air that makes Alphas want to protect and possess.

But he’s a man.

With male parts.

The same male parts I’m still trying to pretend don’t exist on my own body.

I barely spoke to him for two seconds, I protest. Besides, I prefer the fairer sex. The ones with no dicks. No matter how girly the twinks look.

The System doesn’t respond. Typical.

I take another sip of water, watching Elliot approach with my cake. He’s nervous—I can see it in the way his hands tremble slightly, the way his pulse flutters in his throat.

His pheromones are... noticeable. Sweet. Floral. The kind that’s designed to attract Alphas.

Great. Just great.

"Here you go," he says softly, placing the plate in front of me.

"Thank you, Elliot." I keep my voice neutral. Friendly but distant. Professional. "The presentation is lovely."

He blushes. Actually blushes, a soft pink spreading across his cheeks.

I am in so much trouble.

I focus on my cake. It’s good. Really good. The honey is perfect, I can tell, and there’s a hint of lemon that brightens the whole thing. I make a mental note to compliment Mr. Chen on the way out.

[Host.]

What?

[Your emotional response to his situation is noted. However, your mission parameters remain unchanged. Breaking the harem requires disrupting his attachments to the five Alphas. Making him attached to you instead is counterproductive.]

I’m not making him attached to me. I said two sentences.

[His pheromone levels spiked 47% when you smiled at him. His heart rate increased by 32 beats per minute. His pupils dilated. These are physiological markers of attraction.]

I stab my cake with unnecessary force.

Great. Wonderful. So now I have to break his heart too? Along with dismantling his entire love life and saving the world from nuclear war?

I stay for exactly thirty minutes. Long enough to be polite, not long enough to encourage anything. I compliment Mr. Chen on the way out, leave a generous tip, and don’t look back at Elliot even once.

But I feel his gaze follow me to the door. What have I done?

*

At home, the mansion is quiet. My mother is out—some charity luncheon that I politely declined attending. The servants are scattered throughout the house, but the kitchen, at this hour, is empty.

Except for Vivienne.

She’s at the counter, cooking something. The scent of herbs and garlic drifts through the air. Her honey-brown hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail, a few strands escaping to frame her face.

She’s wearing a simple sundress, something light and summery that makes her look soft and warm and edible.

I sneak into the kitchen when no one is looking. My footsteps are silent—panther habits die hard. I wait, patient as a hunter, until she moves toward the refrigerator.

Then I strike.

I walk toward her, purposeful and quiet, and crowd her from behind just as she reaches for the handle. My chest presses against her back. My arms cage her in, one hand bracing against the refrigerator door, the other reaching past her as if I’m looking for something.

She gasps. A soft, sharp sound that sends a thrill down my spine.

"Just need to get something," I murmur, my voice low against her ear.

I pretend to scan the refrigerator contents, but I don’t move away. Neither does she. After a heartbeat of hesitation, she leans back against me. Just slightly.

Her body is so soft. Warm and pliant and fitting against mine like she was made to be here. The curve of her back, the swell of her hips, the way she tilts her head just slightly, exposing the line of her throat—

Yes. This is what I like.

This is what I need.

I hope some time away from the main character will snap him out of his delusions.

My heart, my body, my soul—they belong to one person only. And she’s pressed against me in a kitchen, pretending we’re both just reaching for juice.

"Sister-in-law," I whisper against her ear.

I feel her shiver. The tiny hairs on her arms rise. Her breath hitches.

These games we play. This knife’s edge we dance on. We build something with every seemingly innocent touch, every lingering glance, every moment like this. We never cross the line—not quite, not yet. But we tip. We tip.

"My bad," I say, not pulling away. "I just wanted the juice."

The words are absurd. There’s juice right in front of her. I could have reached it without touching her at all.

She knows it. I know it.

Neither of us moves.

Then—

Footsteps.

My enhanced hearing catches them before she does. Multiple sets, heading this way. Olga, and at least two servants.

I step away smoothly, creating a safe distance between us just as the kitchen door swings open.

"Daphne! Vivienne!" My mother’s voice is bright and warm. "Oh, are you cooking, dear? How lovely!"

I grab the juice—might as well, after that performance—and turn with a casual smile. "Just getting a drink. Vivienne’s creation smells wonderful."

Olga beams, already bustling toward the counter to inspect the pots. The servants follow, fetching things, setting the table. The kitchen fills with noise and movement.

I catch Vivienne’s eye as I slip toward the door.

Her cheeks are flushed. Her lips are slightly parted. Her chest rises and falls a little too quickly.

I send her a knowing look. Just a flicker of my eyes, a tiny curve of my lips.