QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL)-Chapter 110: Mine

Chapter 110- Cedric POV

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I tug the hat even lower when a group of ladies pass by me, their perfumes overwhelming, their voices light and careless like feathers drifting through a storm.

They don’t recognize me. Of course they don’t. Why would they?

They giggle and step up beside me, standing just a few paces away from the painting. Her painting.

"Oh goodness me, you can tell from the brushstrokes this Mr. Han loves the Duchess’," one says with a dreamy sigh.

Another one corrects her with a laugh, "It’s been a year—former Duchess."

"Oh! My bad, she was Duchess for so long it’s hard to change it."

"Yeah, but look at these." The third woman steps closer, tilting her head.

"I can’t blame her. No wonder she left."

My jaw tightens.

"I mean," one of them continues, "I heard from a friend of a friend of a friend’s cousin who knows the Duchess’ maidservant, and she says that Mr. Han literally worships the ground she walks on."

"Gods," someone murmurs.

"Can you imagine being the sole attention of your lover?"

"My husband brought in another concubine last month," one groans. "And he thinks I don’t know."

"Can only dream," says the last, wistfully.

More swoons. More sighs.

I walk away before I say something that would ruin my cover—or worse, let the bitterness show.

I keep my head down as I move past more paintings. Their voices fade behind me, replaced by the low murmur of other viewers, the quiet rustle of gowns and boots across polished floorboards. The air smells like lavender and old paper.

It burns in my chest.

Worships the ground she walks on?

Ha.

We’ll see if that will last long.

Love always fades. Devotion sours into obligation. Obsession curdles into resentment. They’ll learn. Eventually.

Everyone does.

I scoff quietly, but the sound dies the moment I turn and see it—

Another one.

It’s of her again. Evelyn.

Not the cool, calculating noblewoman who managed the estate with perfect poise.

No.

She’s laughing in this one.

Laughing.

Barefoot in a stream, her skirts pulled up just enough to show her calves, droplets of water catching the light like stars. Her hair is loose—tumbling in golden waves around her face—and her cheeks are flushed, eyes crinkled with joy. Her head is tilted back like she’s mid-spin, mid-run, mid-life.

Wild.

Free.

And... real.

My mouth dries.

Because I’ve never seen her like that.

Not once.

My hands curl into fists. I force them to relax.

I glance around—none of the guests notice me brooding. They’re too busy admiring, swooning. The gallery’s full, and still the noise seems to fade away.

I notice a group of three surrounded by guards. Of course I recognize the queen, tall and poised in her silks. But next to her—a head hidden beneath a traveling hat, a glimpse of golden hair catching in the lamplight, and beside her, a slender man with his hair tied into a neat ponytail.

I freeze.

My heart kicks hard in my chest.

No. It can’t be.

But even before I see her face clearly, I know. That tilt of her chin. That elegant stillness. It’s her.

Evelyn.

My throat dries.

And the man beside her—him. He’s standing close. Too close. His hand rests near her lower back, like it’s a habit. Like it’s a place it belongs.

My fingers curl slowly, tightening.

She smiles at something the queen says and the man leans in, murmuring into her ear. Her smile softens—genuine, quiet, and real. A kind of smile I don’t think I ever got to see. Not really. And it cuts.

I step back into the shadow of the pillar behind me. I shouldn’t be here. I knew it was dangerous coming. I knew it when I saw her in the first painting. I knew it every time I returned and pretended I wasn’t looking for them.

And yet—

She’s radiant. At ease. The tight perfection she once wore like armor is gone. She stands there—no corset, no powdered mask, no stiff title—and she’s alive.

The queen hid her well. I searched and searched for Evelyn to no avail. Months wasted sending messengers in circles, hiring discreet trackers, bribing old contacts for whispers that led to dead ends.

Finally, though... here she is. In front of me. Real.

I can see her.

She’s radiant. At ease. The tight perfection she once wore like armor is gone. She stands there—no corset, no powdered mask, no stiff title—and she’s alive.

And I—

I’ll convince her.

I’ll get rid of the concubines if that’s what she wants. Well... not really. But I’ll say what I have to. She was always the rational one. I just need to get her alone. Talk sense into her.

The crowd shifts and I press further into the shadows behind a marble column, adjusting my hat to hide my face. They haven’t seen me yet. Good. Let them walk through the gallery, let them admire the paintings, let that bastard hold her hand and play the devoted consort.

But I’m here now.

I watch her laugh again, head tilted slightly, her fingers brushing the edge of a painting’s frame like she can feel the memory inside it. Like she’s the one who belongs here.

My jaw clenches.

That should have been me.

She looks soft like this—too soft to be left out in this world, especially by someone like him. That artist. That pretender.

I’ll wait. I’ll watch. And when the time comes, I’ll step forward. I’ll tell her the truth.

That I still want her.

That I’m willing to take her back.

Because Evelyn was mine first.

And I don’t care who stands in the way.

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***

I watch for hours. Patient. Focused. The Queen’s security detail is tight—too tight. Even when they’re just walking around town, every step is choreographed, guarded, shielded.

There are no gaps. No careless moments.

None.

Until now.

Today, I got lucky. Or maybe I made my luck. A few coins slipped into the hands of a careless servant, a stable boy with loose lips. He didn’t know who I was. Just a man asking too many questions with too much silver in his purse.

He told me everything I needed to know.

They’re leaving. Tonight. No formal sendoff. No crowd. Just a simple carriage ride out of the capital—headed west.

I had no gaps before. But now?

Now I have one.

I wait near the west gates, obscured by shadows, cloak drawn high. The evening is quiet, save for the murmurs of guards and the creaking wheels of noble wagons. Horses snort and stomp, restless in the cool air. My heart pounds in my chest, fingers twitching inside my gloves.

And then I see it.

The royal carriage—not gilded, not flashy. Simple. Modest. Hidden in plain sight.

But I know it’s them.

I spot the flash of gold hair beneath a travel hood. Evelyn. She turns to say something to someone inside the carriage. I can’t see his face, but I already know who it is.

My jaw tightens.

This is my chance.

I step forward, slow, deliberate.

The hired thugs I paid off earlier cause a stir just outside the town gates—nothing too violent, just enough chaos to lure him out. And like clockwork, the slender man gets down from the carriage to investigate.

Perfect.

I take my chance.

I move toward the carriage quickly, and before the guards can spot me, I pull the door open and step inside.

Evelyn gasps in shock, her hand flying to her chest. Recognition flickers across her face—then horror.

"What—what are you doing here?" she breathes, voice sharp with disbelief.

"Shh," I say quickly, raising my hands.

"Just listen to me, Evelyn—please."

She recoils, her back pressed against the opposite side of the carriage. Her posture is guarded, ready to leap out if she has to. She doesn’t trust me. Not that I can blame her.

"I don’t want to hurt you," I say, voice lower now, trying to find some calm.

"I just... I had to see you."

"You’ve seen me. Now get out." Her voice cuts like glass.

I take a step closer. Her fingers twitch near the curtain, poised to call for help.

"Please leave, Your Grace," she says through clenched teeth, her voice tight with restraint.

I scoff. "Oh come on. Is this the life you want to live? Look at you."

Her eyes narrow. "I’m not unhappy. I chose this life. I don’t understand what you’re doing here."

"You think that bloke—what is he, a peasant?—you think he’ll be loyal to you forever? I’m doing you a favor right now by offering to take you back."

Her answer is immediate. "I’ll take my chances with him before I ever go back with you."

I feel the words like a slap.

My jaw tightens. "Evelyn, be realistic."

"Realistic?" she repeats, bitter amusement dancing in her voice. "Our marriage was never about love, Cedric. I don’t know why you’re here playing the wounded husband. I simply left the cage you built for me."

"Regardless, you were my wife."

"You have four other wives!" she snaps, sitting taller.

"You have three children! I even left you a list of possible replacements to make your transition easier."

My mouth twitches. She’s not wrong. The list was efficient, detailed—even thoughtful in its own detached way. But none of them have been able to fill the void. One of them, her cousin, does an okay job, but she’s ambitious, power-hungry. The others fight, argue, demand.

"And how’s that going?" she asks, as if reading my thoughts.

"They can barely do a good job," I admit bitterly. "They want the duchess position."

Her lips curl, not in a smile, but something between pity and derision. "Of course they do. They want the title. Not the burden."

I look away, ashamed of how true it is.