QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL)-Chapter 127: Stripped bare

Chapter 127

Estela POV

There’s a chill in the air tonight. The kind that clings to your spine and tells you something’s about to snap.

The streets are quieter than usual. The chaos is simmering below the surface, but out here? Castellano looks like a city on its best behavior. No bar fights. No loud music. No screaming matches in the alleys. Everyone’s playing model citizen.

We all know why.

The Castellano civil war has officially begun.

The factions are splitting. The alliances are forming. And no one—absolutely no one—wants to be caught in the crossfire.

Those with families have already shipped their kids out of the city. "Studying abroad." "Visiting cousins." Everyone’s making escape plans, smiling like it’s nothing while packing go-bags in the closet.

I hate that I like it.

Because with my job at the club? This is the most peaceful work has ever been.

It’s slow, sure. The high-rolling customers aren’t showing up anymore. They’re laying low or already dead. But the floor is quieter. The drunks are too scared to get handsy. Even the creeps flinch when a car backfires outside.

Peaceful.

That word has never applied to Castellano before.

I’ve lived here for three years. It’s still surreal. So safe and so dangerous at once.

I just finished my day shift at the diner—eight hours on my feet, slinging coffee and pretending to care if someone wants fries or onion rings. Now I’m dragging my bones through the staff entrance of Velvet Nights, blinking against the neon and the thudding bass.

My limbs ache. My feet already hate me. I haven’t even put on heels yet.

"Estela."

I freeze.

That voice.

I turn.

Sebastián.

The manager. The patron. The one who owns more girls than he hires.

Our relationship? Strained. Ever since I turned him down two years ago, he’s kept a ledger of invisible slights.

Sure, I strip. But I don’t sleep with customers. That line matters to me, even if it doesn’t to anyone else. I’ve had boyfriends. Briefly. They never last. I don’t trust them.

I want to pretend that’s the reason and not because, I’m genuinely averse to men for some reason.

Sebastián smiles the way crocodiles do.

"Someone’s requested a private dance," he says, all silk and teeth.

I roll my eyes and head to the locker.

"I don’t do privates," I mutter, rummaging for my shoes.

"They paid ten times the going rate."

My hands still.

"Ten?"

"Ten thousand." He folds his arms, satisfied. "For one hour."

I swallow hard. That’s eight weeks of rent. That’s enough to fix my busted heater. Enough to keep sending money back home. Enough to take two nights off in a row—maybe three.

"Did you tell them the rules?"

"They’re aware."

I stare into my locker for a long second.

This smells wrong. But I’ve done worse for less.

If they try anything, they lose their money. I call it a night. Maybe I break their nose. Win-win.

"Fine," I say.

"Excellent." Sebastián claps once. "Would’ve been awkward if you said no. They already paid."

I glare.

He grins wider.

I grab my heels and head toward the velvet-curtained hallway, ignoring the gazes that follow me.

I’m used to being watched.

--

There in the private room, I pause just beyond the threshold.

The lights are dim—moody, deliberate. Velvet shadows crawl along the walls, hiding more than they reveal. The scent of spiced cologne lingers faintly, expensive and unfamiliar. A single leather chair faces the small performance space, and in it, someone sits.

Legs crossed. Posture relaxed. Phone in hand, glowing blue against their face—but not enough to see it clearly.

Still, something tightens in my chest.

I can’t see them, but my body knows.

The hair on the back of my neck lifts. My skin prickles.

I want to turn and run.

But I know I can’t. It’s too late to escape, I just have to hope Sebastian stays true to his promise, if anything ever happens to me he should send every last penny I own to the kids.

So I exhale slowly, smooth the expression on my face, and walk forward—head held high, spine straight like a blade.

Fake it until it saves your life.

I make my way to the pole at the center of the room, keeping my movements fluid, deliberate. Each step echoes slightly, my heels clacking against the polished floor.

They don’t look up.

I can feel their eyes, though.

The music starts—low, slow, thick with bass. It’s the kind that slinks through the room like oil, slow enough to drown in.

I move.

It’s muscle memory by now—fluid rolls of the hips, slow glides of my hands down my sides, the casual twist around the pole. I’ve done this so many times, I could do it with my eyes closed. I’ve done it for men who breathe through their mouths. For men who stare like they want to own every inch of me. Lustful. Creepy. Sometimes murderous.

But this?

This gaze?

It’s different.

It’s cold and coiled. Controlled. Patient.

Like I’m being wrapped around something massive—something ancient and quiet and dangerous.

A snake.

And I know better than to move too fast.

My training kicks in—the instinct honed in darker places than this stage, I know when stupid movements can cost you your life.

So I keep dancing.

And pretend I don’t feel the phantom pressure tightening around my ribs.

I finish the dance, heart pounding under my skin, and begin to step away.

"I didn’t know you had such moves, sister."

I freeze mid-step.

That voice.

I don’t turn around. "I’ve done my job," I say, crisp and neutral, still trying to walk off the stage.

"But from what I can see," she says lazily, "I still have thirty minutes left. Be a good girl and come sit next to me."

I pause.

It’s not the strings I’m wearing that make me feel exposed. It’s the fact that I’m unarmed. No dagger strapped to my thigh. No backup plan.

Just me. And her.

I walk slowly to the chair. She doesn’t even pretend to move aside. Just pats her perfectly tailored lap.

"The rules—"

"I know. No touching." She smirks.

I sigh and lower myself onto her lap. From this close, I can see her face clearly. The angles of her jaw. The way her hair frames her cheekbones. She’s unfairly beautiful.

Daphne Castellano. Dare I say the most attractive Castellano.

The woman I tried—and failed—to kill.

She’s scrolling on her phone, utterly relaxed. The light flashes across her features, throwing sharp edges in softer gold.

"If you ask me," I think numbly, "the most attractive Castellano is Daphne."

She locks her screen and leans back, the motion forcing my body closer to hers.

"Like what you see?" she murmurs.

I don’t respond. I clench my fists instead.

"Are you here for revenge?" I ask, voice tight.

"Sister," she says calmly, "if I wanted revenge... you wouldn’t be breathing."

A pause. She tilts her head, almost affectionately.

"So what is this?"

Her eyes glitter. Her voice stays even. freewёbn૦νeɭ.com

"Estela Ramos. Twenty-four years old. Raised in a convent orphanage on the outskirts—publicly for abandoned girls, secretly a breeding ground for assassins. Your oldest sister—turned model—got tangled up with my father. He burned it all down. The survivors died buying your escape with the youngest girls."

I blink.

She knows.

She knows everything.

"And now you’re the breadwinner," she finishes softly. "Living off tips and bruises. All so you can pay for their shelter, their food, their therapy. All while trying to sharpen your blade for revenge."

Tears sting my eyes. I blink them back.

I can’t afford to cry. Not here. Not now.

I failed them.

I should have waited. Should have gotten stronger before I dared place a blade against a Castellano’s throat.

Now?Now I feel small.

"What do you want?" I whisper.