QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL)-Chapter 119: Boring

Chapter 119 – Daphne POV

I let Julie handle my accommodations—bug sweeps, camera scans, emotional energy readings. The usual. He insists on checking for hexes now, too. "Just in case, darling," he said, tapping his glossed nails against a compact mirror laced with runes. I didn’t ask questions.

Frankly, I’m too tired.

They said there’s a "family gathering in memorial of Valentino Castellano." I already know what that means.

A smoke-choked room full of men who think a woman is most useful silent, married, or shot.

But I go.

Because I have to.

---

The door groans open, and the scent hits me immediately—smoke, oak, and the lingering stench of arrogance.

It’s just like the photo in the family archives: low lighting, leather armchairs, cigars burning slow, whiskey glasses sweating on polished wood. Power collected in a single room like a mafia parliament.

I step in, close the door behind me, and scan for an open seat.

Almost everything is occupied—shoulders hunched in conversation, legs manspread around liquor tables like they own oxygen. I finally spot one chair in the far corner, half-shadowed.

Perfect.

I lower myself into the plush seat, resisting the urge to sigh. My eyes sting from the smoke. I made a promise once to Yuxi to not smoke.

"Let’s live long, healthy lives," she’d said, pressing her forehead to mine.

Yeah. Let’s not talk about how that turned out.

Still, I’ve kept my word.

Not a single cigarette since.

---

Around me, the ritual unfolds.

Women—dressed in pearls and satin—glide between the chairs like ghosts with trays. They’re not staff. They’re wives, sisters, cousins.

Pouring drinks.

Serving ashtrays.

Waiting for their names to be used like furniture.

I watch in silence, arms folded, eyes heavy-lidded.

Then a woman in black chiffon and pearl earrings pauses at my side, tray held steady.

I flag her down.

She smiles—too wide—and offers a glass.

I take it. Sip. It’s strong, but not strong enough.

She doesn’t leave.

Instead, she tilts her head, scanning my face like she’s trying to peel it off.

And then— "Daphne Castellano!"

Well. There goes blending into the background.

I raise an eyebrow, the glass still hovering at my lips.

"I’m sorry," I say calmly, "you are?"

She gasps like I’ve slapped her.

"Don’t you remember? Mariana Castellano! I was your senior at school."

I pause.

"Hm. I’m pretty sure Mariana is an older woman."

She laughs—a screechy, desperate sound. My eye twitches.

"No, silly! That’s Aunt Mariana. I was named after her."

"Right. Well... good for you."

I take another sip.

Mariana, undeterred, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and leans slightly forward.

"Why are you sitting though? You should be helping with the drinks."

I blink.

"Why?"

She laughs again, the kind that strains through her teeth.

"Well... can’t you see we’re all serving drinks?"

I glance slowly around the room.

"No, I see people also having drinks."

She falters. "You know what I mean."

I set my glass down, all deliberate grace.

"Do I? If you’re tired, we can ask for staff. No need to martyr yourself over whiskey."

Her cheeks flush a shade too red for polite company.

A slow, amused chuckle cuts through the tension.

"Leave it, Mariana," a voice drawls from behind. "Darling, you don’t know—apparently my little sister grew a dick abroad."

Renzo Castellano.

Middle brother. Charming, venomous, chronically self-destructive. I don’t turn to look—I don’t need to. His voice slithers across the room like a well-oiled knife.

The men laugh. The kind of laugh that strips flesh from dignity.

Mariana retreats, finally, tray clutched like a shield.

I lift my glass again and stare into the amber liquid, already plotting a way to make it stronger.

"I don’t understand why father let you run wild," Renzo continues.

"Maybe you really did grow a dick."

I smile slowly, then turn just enough to meet his gaze.

"I could show you," I say lightly, lifting my glass.

"But I only show my dick to people willing to suck it."

A slow pause—then, with a tilt of my head:

"Unfortunately, brother... I don’t share your tastes."

Silence.

Sharp. Absolute.

Even the ice in the glasses seems to stop clinking. Smoke hangs in the air like a curtain drawn tight across the tension.

Everyone knows what I mean.

Everyone.

We all know about Renzo’s scandal—how he got our cousin pregnant, how Valentino Castellano beat him black and blue in front of the fireplace. How the girl was forced to abort. How she swallowed a bottle of pills a week later.

They said he loved her.

They said it was tragic.

They also say, she couldn’t handle the death of her child.

But we all knew.

The Don got to her.

Silence.

It lingers too long, turning heavy. Suffocating. Someone coughs, forced and awkward, like trying to pretend the air doesn’t stink of scandal and rotting secrets.

Renzo shifts in his seat, his jaw tight, nostrils flaring. His glass is still in his hand, but his grip is wrong—knuckles bone-white, the kind of pressure that ends with a shattered tumbler or a thrown punch.

I half-hope he tries something.

I’d love an excuse to put him through a table.

But he doesn’t. Of course not. He knows better than to start a fight in front of the family—not now, not when everything’s so precariously balanced. We’re all waiting to see who cracks first.

So instead, he smirks. The mask slides back into place, like the past minute didn’t just strip him bare.

Renzo’s smirk doesn’t reach his eyes. His voice drops, bitter and brittle.

"Apparently you also grew a poisonous tongue."

I swirl the drink in my glass, unbothered, then glance toward the embroidered crest hanging above the fireplace—the coiled serpent in form of an elegant C of the Castellano seal, fangs bared and ready to strike.

"It’s in the Castellano blood, brother," I say mildly, tipping my glass in its direction.

That shuts him up—again.

How disappointing.

I was hoping he’d lose it, break the tension with something messy. A glass thrown. A table flipped. Anything to match the bile in his mouth.

But no. In this room full of old men and heavy names, he remembers his place.

He controls himself.

Boring.