QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL)-Chapter 102: Cold war

Chapter 102 - Cedric POV

For the past couple of weeks, there’s been an unofficial war brewing inside the estate. The kind where no blood is drawn, but blades are constantly being sharpened in silence. My vassals whisper, the staff walk on eggshells, and the air is so thick with tension it could be sliced clean through with a knife.

The Duchess’ people avoid mine. Her wing has become a fortress in itself, and the guards stationed there glare at mine with open hostility. It’s ridiculous.

All my hard work, my achievements, my transformation—they mean nothing now. Because she’s angry. And when the Duchess is angry, the entire estate holds its breath.

People have grown cautious. They remember who her family is. They remember that her sister is the Crown Princess and her brother-in-law is the heir to the throne. That kind of power casts long shadows, and I am suddenly aware of how small I am beneath it.

It’s summer, yet the halls feel cold. Chilly in a way that has nothing to do with weather and everything to do with her silence.

No one says anything outright, of course. But I feel the eyes. The weight of judgment in every glance, every stiff bow. Even my own people have started to treat me differently. Cautiously. As if proximity to me could be dangerous.

Ha.

I grit my teeth, pacing my office.

It’s not fair. I am Duke Callum. I am the reason the estate flourishes. I fixed the sanitation crisis, the economy, the damn reputation of the house.

And now? Because of one night—one moment of rage where I may have overstepped—I am made into the villain.

I sit down heavily, slamming my hand against the desk.

How dare she? A lover?

I don’t know what to believe. Part of me thinks it’s absurd. Ludicrous.

Another part—a growing part—can’t stop replaying that night. Her hair loose. The way she looked at me like I was filth.

I can’t divorce her. It’s not like the modern world. Here, divorce would bring disgrace, scandal, and ruin. Not just to me, but to the entire duchy.

Besides... why would I? She’s everything a duchess should be. Impeccable. Composed. Unshakable.

She’s just forgotten her place.

And her duties, apparently—because everything she should be doing, is not.

The concubines are so far into their pregnancies that they can’t lift a finger, and Lady Daphne, as luck would have it, has taken to bed with some illness. So naturally, all the burden has fallen on me. Again.

It’s absurd. Utterly ridiculous.

Why do they need permission for the most mundane things? The type of food being served, the linens being dyed, the seasonal wardrobe changes for the maids. Every petty little thing requires approval—and because she refuses to be seen or summoned, they all come to me.

I, the Duke, have become the glorified steward of the estate.

And worse, the staff no longer greet me with the same warmth. They’re... cautious. Measured. Like they don’t know where they stand anymore.

No—like they’ve already picked a side.

My jaw tightens as I sign another request form, this one about candle wax types for the drawing rooms. Candle wax.

She’s doing this on purpose. She must be.

*

Trust me, she said.

And I did. Foolishly, completely. I would have followed her to the ends of this world and any other. But now, it’s been weeks. Weeks of silence. Weeks without her voice, her laughter, her touch. Not even the mud pit brings me peace anymore. The mud beneath my boots feels hollow. The roar of the crowd is meaningless.

Because she’s not there.

So I stay in this room.

And I paint.

The brush moves in rhythm with the ache in my chest. Each stroke feels like it’s carving out the space where her smile used to live in me. Her face emerges again and again on every canvas—different poses, different lighting, different colors. But always her.

This one, though—this one I’ve been working on for weeks. It’s nearly complete now.

The lighting is soft. Like the candlelight that used to flicker in her chambers. Her hair is loose, falling over one shoulder, eyes half-lidded and dreamy. She looks peaceful. Like how she looked, asleep against my chest. I painted it from memory. And what a cruel, beautiful memory it is.

I step back, staring at it. My heart twists.

A knock breaks the silence.

I don’t move. Not at first. No one knocks here unless it’s urgent.

Then Jane’s voice. Quiet. Tentative.

"My lady... you have a visitor."

My brush stills.

"Who?" I ask, already knowing the answer. Hope is a dangerous thing.

"The Duchess."

Everything inside me seizes.

My hand trembles around the brush. Paint drips onto the floor. My knees almost give out.

I turn.

"Let her in," I whisper.

And for the first time in weeks, I dare to breathe again.

I turn in my chair, and I come face to face with her.

She’s real.

No longer wearing that corset that makes her as stiff as a statue. Just a dress. Simple in shape—expensive in make, yes—but it doesn’t suffocate her. It lets her move. Breathe. Be.

Her hair is down.

It’s the first thing I notice.

Let loose around her shoulders, catching the soft light from the tower window like a spill of gold. She’s radiant. More than I remember. As though absence has made her more vivid. As though memory couldn’t quite do her justice.

"Hey," she says.

And smiles.

It’s soft. Gentle. A smile that wraps around my ribs and squeezes.

"Daphne—"

But I don’t let her finish.

I’m already rising, already closing the distance between us. I cup her face, fingers trembling, and I kiss her.

Her breath hitches against my mouth—just for a second. A moment of surprise, or maybe hesitation. And then she melts into me.

Her lips press against mine, tentative at first, like she’s making sure I’m real. Like she’s afraid I’ll vanish again.

I deepen the kiss, because I need her to know I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. Not this time.

Her hands rise—slow, almost reverent—and settle on my waist. She holds me like she’s anchoring herself, like I’m the only thing tethering her to the ground.