QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL)-Chapter 107: Alone

Chapter 107 – Cedric POV

It’s been a month since the duchess left, and I’m getting a headache.

It turns out, she was the one putting the ladies in order.

They are insane.

Absolutely, utterly insane.

I had to order house—well, room arrest—for all three of them before they killed themselves or each other.

Lady Clarissa tried to have Lady Miriam’s maid fired over some absurd slight about who received the freshest fruit at breakfast.

Lady Viola accused Clarissa of using "black magic" to steal the favor of the household.

Miriam cried every other day, setting the entire east wing into chaos.

All of them are pregnant, yet somehow, they find the energy to wage psychological warfare.

And I—

I sit at the center of it all like a king with a crumbling court.

The steward resigns.

The head maid petitions for early retirement.

Even the vassals begin to send carefully worded letters asking if I require assistance managing internal affairs.

Which is polite noble-speak for: You are losing control.

I lean my head back against the leather of my office chair, massaging my temples.

"How did she do it?" I mutter under my breath.

No screaming.

No violence.

No endless meetings.

Evelyn had held it all together with little more than sharp glances and cutting smiles.

And somehow made it look easy.

I miss her.

I grit my teeth at the thought.

No, not her.

I miss the order she brought.

The efficiency.

The competence.

Without her, I’m trying to steer a ship that’s already half-sunken and leaking from a hundred unseen holes.

And the worst part?

The estate is bleeding money.

The market contracts she painstakingly built are crumbling.

Merchants delay shipments.

The local council eyes me with thinly veiled disdain.

They don’t say it aloud.

No one dares.

But the message hangs in every bow, every empty smile:

"You are not her."

I slam a fist against the arm of the chair, making the tea tray on my desk rattle.

Gods damn it.

This was supposed to be my story.

My chance to rise.

And yet, it feels like every success I thought was mine was only borrowed—from her.

I shove back from the desk and stand, pacing.

I could send envoys to her.

Demand she return.

But some bitter, stubborn pride in me recoils at the thought.

I would rather choke than crawl back.

Still—

The practical part of me—the one that grew in this world of power and manipulation—knows I can’t survive like this for long.

Without Evelyn, I will fall.

It’s only a matter of time.

A knock interrupts my spiraling thoughts.

I turn sharply. "What?"

A nervous maid peeks in. "Your Grace, Lady Miriam is crying again. She says she saw Lady Viola putting something strange into her tea."

I close my eyes.

Breathe.

Gods give me strength.

"I’ll handle it," I say, my voice cold.

Because if I don’t...

If I don’t regain some form of control—

The estate, the vassals, the entire title of Duke Callum—

It’ll all slip away.

And I will have no one to blame but myself.

***

"Dammit!"

The goblet flies from my hand, shattering against the stone wall with a sharp, brittle crack. Red wine splashes across the floor, staining the gray stone like blood. I stand there, breathing hard, my fists clenching and unclenching at my sides.

Where is she?

Where did she go?

I thought... I thought she would linger near the capital, or perhaps throw a tantrum and retreat to her family’s estate. I thought she would be angry, prideful, but reachable. That I could send a letter, offer some apology, some excuse—and she would return to her place, because it was hers by right.

But she’s gone.

Vanished without a trace.

And it’s not just her.

Lady Daphne disappeared too, like a shadow whisked away by the wind. Not that I care about her disappearance—but she was part of the duchess’s strange little world, and now both of them have slipped through my fingers.

The town criers know nothing.

The ports have no record of her passage.

The estates whisper but offer no real leads.

It’s as if they’ve been swallowed whole by the earth itself.

I slam my fist onto the heavy oak desk, sending papers scattering across the surface. The maps, the missives, the estate accounts—all of them feel pointless now. A cruel joke.

All my work, all my careful rebuilding of this place, undone because I let the only person holding the foundation steady walk away.

The worst part?

The staff look at me differently now.

The vassals whisper behind their hands.

The concubines, heavy with pregnancy, give me pitying looks when they think I don’t notice.

The Duke Callum who couldn’t keep his duchess.

I pace the office, each heavy footstep echoing against the walls. Anger burns in my gut, but beneath it—worse still—is the shame.

This life was supposed to be my second chance. My rise. My redemption. I was supposed to win—power, respect, a legacy.

I drop into the chair behind the desk, the leather creaking under my weight. I rake my hands through my hair, breathing hard.

I should have controlled her better. I should have punished her pride when I had the chance. I should have... something. Anything.

I close my eyes, pressing the heels of my palms into them until stars bloom behind my lids.

Where are you, Evelyne?

What bastard stole you away from me?

I will kill him when I find him.

I glance around the hollow, opulent office—the polished wood, the crystal decanters, the carved stone—and feel nothing but a heavy, aching emptiness.

The duchy is mine. The titles are mine. The wealth is mine.

But nothing feels like mine anymore.

Not really.

I lean back, staring up at the heavy beams of the ceiling.

The wood is old, darkened with age, and polished by generations who came before me—dukes, rulers, men who held their power tightly in their fists and were remembered for it.

I wonder if they ever sat like this.

Alone.

At some point, Merin knocks softly on the door, slipping inside with a tray of tea and reports. She moves quietly, like she always does now—afraid to draw

too much attention.

I barely glance at her.

"Leave it," I mutter. My voice sounds rough, unused.

She sets the tray down carefully and retreats without another word.

And I’m alone again.