QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL)-Chapter 101: Weak

Chapter 101 - Daphne POV

I scream, but the sound never reaches past my throat.

My body is frozen, limbs bound by invisible chains, my wrists anchored in midair by the system’s restraints. I can’t move. I can’t speak. All I can do is watch.

[You must not interfere with the main storyline, host. Violation of plot integrity—]

"Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!" I scream inside my head, throat raw, heart pounding so loud it eclipses everything else.

The door to Evelyn’s chambers slams open. I see her flinch. Frida stumbles back, her cheek already red where he struck her.

Then I see her.

Evelyn.

Hair down, robe loose, eyes wide. Standing over Frida, trying to shield her like she always does. Regal. Terrified. Beautiful.

And then I see him.

Cedric.

I want to tear through the system’s chains and rip him apart.

He raises his voice, spitting accusations. Something about betrayal. About dignity. About his title.

And then his hand wraps around her throat.

No. No. No. No—

[Warning: Interference will result in system penalty—]

"I don’t care! Let it kill me! Let it wipe me out, I don’t care, let me go to her!"

But I can’t move. I can’t move. I can’t do anything.

The look in her eyes—

It’s not fear.

It’s heartbreak.

And that’s worse.

Because she doesn’t cry. She doesn’t scream. She just endures.

She looks at him with cold fury and says, "Leave, Your Grace. I will think of this as you being drunk."

I want to hold her.

I want to cover her in blankets and lock every door and whisper that no one will ever touch her like that again.

But I can’t even blink.

So I scream. And scream. And scream. Until my vision blurs and my voice is hoarse and the system still won’t let me go.

Because this is the cost of breaking the plot.

And I would break a thousand stories to protect her.

Let me go. Please. Please.

Let me hold her.

Let me kill him.

Please.

It’s not even a scream anymore—it’s a prayer. A plea. A curse. Whatever the system wants to call it.

Finally, the chains shatter. The invisible force holding me back snaps like fraying thread and I stumble forward, breath catching.

My boots pound against the floor, reckless and fast. I don’t even know if he’s still in the room. I don’t care. All I see is her.

She’s standing—barely. Her face is unreadable, calm in a way that only people who’ve learned to hide their hurt can manage. But I see it. The tremble in her shoulders. The redness around her neck. The way her hand keeps twitching toward her throat, like she still feels his fingers there.

I don’t say anything. I don’t have to.

I pull her into my arms. Hard. Desperate. Like if I squeeze tight enough I can erase it all.

She lets out a sharp breath—not a gasp, not a cry—but something caught between relief and collapse. Her fingers claw at the back of my shirt. I feel her knees give way and I lower both of us to the floor.

"I’m here," I whisper, voice shaking.

She says nothing. She just buries her face in my neck, and for a moment, it’s like she’s trying to disappear into me.

I hold her like she’s the only thing anchoring me to this world.

And she is.

"I’m sorry," I whisper, my voice cracking under the weight of everything I couldn’t stop.

Being unable to protect the person you love—it’s not just helplessness. It’s a form of torture that carves itself into your bones.

"I’m so sorry," I say again, the words trembling as they leave me. They feel useless, small in the face of what she endured. But they’re all I have. All I can offer until I can give her more—until I can make the one who touched her suffer.

She doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t flinch.

Instead, her voice is muffled against my shoulder. "What are you apologizing for?"

I squeeze her tighter, feeling the fine tremors running through her body. fгee𝑤ebɳoveɭ.cøm

"For not being there for you."

She pulls away just slightly, enough to cup my face in both her hands. Her touch is warm, grounding, even as the words she speaks cut through me.

"And if you were?" she asks softly. "What would you have done?"

"I—"

"You would have raised your hand against the duke," she says, her eyes steady, unreadable.

"Look at the rage in your eyes."

I try to look away, ashamed. But she holds my gaze firm.

"And then what?" she continues, her voice still gentle but unyielding.

"The guards would have come in. They would have taken you away from me. Is that what you want?"

The words hit me like a slap of cold water.

I deflate, all that fire inside me flickering low. Powerless.

"No," I whisper.

Her thumbs brush over my cheeks. "It’s okay," she says. "I’ll handle it."

I want to protest. I want to scream that it’s not okay, that it never will be. But she leans in, presses her forehead to mine, and all I can do is breathe her in.

"I hate this," I murmur.

"I know," she says.

A beat of silence.

"Trust me."

I close my eyes.

"I do."

But it feels like I’m swallowing glass.

She smiles—small, tired, but still so her—and brushes her lips against my forehead.

"I’ll be fine," she murmurs.

"I’m staying with you tonight," I say, voice low and firm.

She doesn’t argue. She just nods, and the look in her eyes says she needs this too.

So I help her into bed, pulling the blankets up around her as if they can shield her from everything outside this room.

Her back presses gently against my chest, and I wrap my arms around her, pulling her in until there’s no space left between us. Her fingers search for mine beneath the sheets—and when they find them, they hold on like a lifeline.

The moonlight spills in through the balcony window, soft and silver, illuminating the edges of her face. She looks calm now. But I know it’s a fragile kind of peace.

I press my lips to her shoulder, just once, afraid I’ll fall apart if I try to say anything more.