QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL)-Chapter 100: I am the duke

Chapter 100: I am the duke

Chapter 100 – Cedric POV

The dinner is over, but something nags at me.

I should be heading to my quarters. The halls are quiet this time of evening, servants bow and clear the way. But my feet don’t turn toward the eastern wing. Instead, I find myself heading west. Toward the duchess.

I tell myself it’s nothing. A formality. I should speak to her. After all, she’s my wife.

My most important wife.

We haven’t spoken in weeks outside of estate matters. She’s always composed, always poised, but... lately, something feels off. The way she glances across the table when she thinks no one is looking. The way Lady Daphne seems to always arrive or leave at the same time. Something isn’t right.

I climb the stairs to the upper floor of her wing. Her guards—her personal guards, I note bitterly—stand at the hallway entrance.

"Your Grace," one of them says, bowing stiffly.

"I’m here to see the duchess."

A pause.

"I’m afraid she hasn’t informed us of any visit."

I raise an eyebrow.

"Is that so?"

The guards remain still.

"She is my wife," I say slowly, the weight of the words deliberate.

"Yes, Your Grace," the older one says carefully, "But she instructed us not to admit anyone without express permission."

My jaw clenches. "Is that what she said?"

"Yes, Your Grace."

I look between the two of them. Neither so much as flinches. Loyal. Too loyal. I don’t know whether to be impressed or furious.

I take a step closer, lowering my voice.

"Do you understand what it would look like if the rest of the court learned the duchess barred her own husband from her wing?"

Their expressions shift—just slightly.

I press on. "Would you like to be remembered as the men who kept the duke from his own wife’s door? Or shall I remind you that I am still lord of this estate?"

That does it.

After a tense beat, one of them nods and steps aside. The other opens the door without a word.

I walk in.

The halls are quiet. Too quiet. Dimly lit with golden sconces, the smell of lavender drifting faintly through the air.

My boots echo against the polished stone as I move forward.

I don’t know what I expect. I tell myself this is simply a check-in. A reminder. A gesture. That’s all.

But my pulse is loud in my ears.

The staff I see here look stunned to see me, but regardless of everything, I press forward, forcing a calm I don’t feel. I walk, searching the faint memories of the original Cedric, trying to navigate the unfamiliar halls of the duchess’ wing. They are quiet, too quiet—there’s no nervous fluttering of maids, no scurrying of feet. This part of the estate has always felt like a separate world.

I reach her room.

Just as I’m about to knock, her personal maid—Frida, I think—appears, clearly startled to see me.

"Your Grace," she says with a stiff bow, her body half-blocking the door.

"What are you doing here?"

The tone makes my blood boil.

"You speak as if I am not allowed," I say, my voice tight.

"I am the duke."

She doesn’t move.

"At least allow me to inform her of your presence first—"

I push past her.

"Your Grace! This is uncalled for!" she yells, trying to stop me.

I slam the doors open.

She reaches for my arm and I strike her without thinking. The slap echoes too loudly in the silence. Frida stumbles, falling to the ground.

A white figure rushes from within the room.

"Oh my goodness, Frida!" Evelyne’s voice cries out, horrified.

She kneels beside her maid. "Are you okay?"

Frida clutches her cheek, breath shallow. "I’m fine, Duchess."

Evelyne turns toward me then, eyes blazing.

"I will not stand for this behavior," she snaps.

"Frida is my maiden."

"Then you should’ve taught her better," I snarl.

"I am the Duke."

She rises to her feet, barefoot, her robe cinched hastily over her nightgown, hair unbound and falling like a curtain down her back. She’s never looked more furious—or more stunning.

That’s when I see them.

Marks. Red. Angry. Barely hidden by the collar of her gown.

My gaze trails lower. The swell of her chest is flushed. Bruised.

Fingers.

Teeth.

They’re not mine.

Rage blooms fast, acidic, blinding.

"Who?" I hiss.

She doesn’t answer, only lifts her chin defiantly.

I step forward, but Frida rises unsteadily, stepping between us. "Please, Your Grace. That’s enough."

I raise my hand again—

"Frida, stand down," she says.

"But Your Grace—"

"Stand down, Frida. That’s an order."

The maid hesitates, eyes still locked on me, jaw clenched in fury, but she moves aside. My hand is still raised, trembling slightly.

"You come into my quarters, hit my maiden?" Evelyne steps forward now, eyes sharp and livid. Her voice is calm, but it cuts like a blade.

"Who do you think you are?"

"I asked you—who the fuck is he?!" I growl and grab her by the throat before I even register the movement. My fingers dig into her skin, not enough to bruise, but enough to assert the rage coiling inside me.

She doesn’t flinch.

Her hands don’t rise to fight me off.

Her gaze doesn’t even falter.

"Leave, Your Grace. I will think of this as you being drunk," she says coldly.

Her calmness enrages me more than if she’d screamed.

"Ha! You’ll lay with some bastard but not your husband? Need I remind you—I am Duke Callum! You are the Duchess of Callum!"

Her fingers wrap around my wrist. Not to pull it away. Just to still it.

"And being Duke of Callum doesn’t give you ownership over my body," she says, her voice like ice, every syllable striking hard.

"I told you to leave. Do not touch me again."

My grip loosens.The silence in the room is deafening.

Her skin is red where I held her. Her chest rises and falls—too quickly. But her eyes... they never waver. Not even once. She’s staring at me like I’m something rotten.

Like I’m the one who’s betrayed her, she’s the one acting like a slut. Disgracing me.1

Says the man planting his penis in almost all the maids smh