QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL)-Chapter 144: Atonement

Chapter 144 – Estela POV

It was awkward at first, working here. Walking into a space full of strangers who all had their own pain, their own survival stories, and thinking—what the hell am I doing here?

But bit by bit, it changed.

The ladies here are sweet. Sharper than they seem, but soft in the ways that matter. I didn’t expect to like them this much. Now I find myself looking forward to our mornings—tea brewing in chipped mugs, the scent of something half-burnt in the kitchen, the easy laughter that only comes after surviving hell and learning how to live again.

I’ve been trying out new things, too. Hobbies, Daphne calls them. Apparently, that’s what people with stable lives do.

Baking? I’m getting there. No longer producing hockey pucks made of flour and despair. My last banana bread was only mildly cardboard. The girls clapped anyway.

Sewing and embroidery? Weirdly good at that. Something about the rhythm of needle through fabric is... calming, feels like I’ve done this so many times before for hours which is weird because I haven’t.

Daphne insisted I take the standard salary—"non-negotiable," she said, even though I tried to refuse it. It’s not much, just the same amount anyone else in my position would get. But it makes me feel like I’m earning my place, not just coasting on love and lace lingerie.

I won’t say it out loud—God forbid she hears me admit it—but it’s fulfilling.

Actually helping someone out. Being useful.

The sisters who raised us used to say, "For every evil you commit, do a hundred good deeds to balance it."

That always stuck with me.

So this? This is perfect.

For the lives I’ve taken.

For the things I can’t take back.

This quiet, almost-boring life... it’s my subtle, silent atonement. No grand gestures. No forgiveness asked. Just soft effort. Daily kindness. Redemption in crumbs and thread.

Sometimes I catch one of the girls in the shelter looking at me like I’m something safe. Like I’m hers.

And something cracks open in my chest.

I never thought I’d be anyone’s soft place to land.

Now, maybe—I can be that for someone else.

The first one to reach out to me was Mary.

Short-haired, barely twenty, and the kind of girl you just know smells like flower fields and sunshine. If she farted, I’m convinced it’d smell like daisies and innocence.

She was the first to offer a smile, the first to sit next to me without fear, and the first to ask if I wanted to join in on embroidery without looking at me like I might snap her fingers off.

She’s... adorable. Giggly, bright-eyed, always bouncing on her heels like life hasn’t completely hardened her yet.

And because of that—because she’s still soft despite everything—I absolutely, violently, hate the people who put her here.

From bits and pieces I’ve picked up, her family arranged her marriage at 18. To a thirty-year-old man.

Yes. Thirty.

A grown-ass man with no business looking at her, let alone putting a ring on her finger and calling it love.

I hate him. And I hate her family even more for packaging her up like she was some shiny little wife starter kit.

She’s twenty. She should be in college. She should be dancing in a club and laughing about bad dates and crying over finals and calling her ex trash with her friends.

Not here. Not recovering.

"Estela!" her voice cuts through my spiral.

I turn and smile as she runs up to me, practically glowing.

"You’re not a child anymore, don’t run like that," I scold lightly, flicking her forehead.

She pouts and sticks out her tongue. "You’re mean."

"You’re reckless."

She wraps her arms around my waist, all bubbly and warm. I instinctively catch her, steadying both of us.

"Guess what?" she says, looking up with those wide, eager eyes. "I baked today! Without burning anything!"

"Oh?" I raise a brow. "You mean I might not die if I taste it this time?"

She gasps. "You wound me."

I grin and ruffle her hair. "Let’s find out. Lead the way, Chef Mary."

She grabs my hand and drags me back inside, giggling the whole time. And for a moment, just a moment, I forget the ugly parts of this world. Because here’s this bright, tiny survivor tugging me into the kitchen like life never touched her even if it has dealt her some pretty horrible wounds.

***

Daphne POV

I’m true to my promises.

So here I am, dressed like a devil in tailored charcoal and silk, trying to meet a woman who was once my father’s mistress—before Luciano inherited her like some family heirloom. I’m pretty sure they were already rolling in the sheets long before the old man’s last breath.

She’s a connection. A thread. One that might lead me to her.

According to Estela, her sister came to this cursed city on some mission-gone-sideways. Tried to assassinate someone—God knows who—and failed. The blowback reached all the way back to their home country, and the orphanage where Estela was raised paid the price.

But Estela’s sister isn’t dead. I don’t believe that. Not with what I’ve been hearing. The nuns that raised them were too sharp, too quiet, too dangerous. They wouldn’t go down without a trace unless someone on the inside gave them up.

Which means I might be standing on the threshold of betrayal.

But I won’t assume—not yet. I need to see her first. Then I’ll decide whether I deliver this news to Estela with comfort or fire.

I finally find the house.

It’s cute. Too cute. White picket fence, ivy creeping along the edges. Like something from a fairy tale or a soap commercial. A lie wrapped in lace.

In the garden, there she is. A woman kneeling in front of a thick row of blood-red roses, wearing a pale yellow sundress and an obscenely wide sunhat. The brim shadows her face completely.

Cliché.

I walk toward her casually, hands in my pockets. Let her feel me approach.

"Hello," I say, voice smooth.

She doesn’t hesitate. Not even for a beat.

She rises and swings—fast and sharp, the edge of a gardening trowel aimed directly at my throat.

Reflexively, I don’t flinch. Just smile.

Because behind her, there’s a familiar click.

Julie.

Despite his size—six foot four, muscled like a marble sculpture—he’s silent as the grave. He holds the barrel of a pistol against the base of her skull like he’s done it a hundred times. Which, for the record, he has.

The woman freezes.

Her knuckles tighten around the little shovel. For a moment, I think she’s going to swing again—but then she exhales, long and slow, and sets it down beside the rose bush with a grace that feels... too calm.

Too measured.

"What a warm welcome," I say flatly, brushing a speck of dust off my sleeve.

She straightens, lifts her hand, and peels off the massive sunhat. Light filters through the branches above, finally illuminating her face.

I blink.

There’s something about her eyes. The slope of her cheek. Her mouth.

It’s vaguely familiar—haunting in that I’ve seen you before but can’t place where kind of way.

Where?

Where...?

That’s when it hits me like a slap.

"Jessica?"