QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL)-Chapter 149: Family drama

Chapter 149 – Daphne POV

My mother wants to meet me?

That alone is suspicious.

We barely speak. She’s always too busy playing porcelain queen to her golden boy, Tommaso, in their weirdly clingy, vaguely Victorian dynamic that makes the air go stale every time they’re in a room together.

But fine. I’ve survived worse than awkward maternal summons.

I step into the drawing room, where a small table has been prepared—china, tea service, little pastries arranged like they were measured with a ruler.

And there she is.

The infamous Mrs. Castellano.

Even now, with her age softened by time, she’s still breathtaking. Hair styled into perfect glossy waves, a string of pearls nestled at her throat like a noose disguised as elegance. She looks like the ghost of old money. The kind men would kill for. The kind men did kill for.

I take a seat across from her, legs crossed.

"This is a surprise," I say dryly.

"And it is," she says, already halfway into her wine-glass voice. "Because what? A mother can’t wish to speak to her own child?"

"’Child’ is generous," I mutter, shrugging.

We lapse into silence.

Not comfortable. Not hostile. Just awkward.

Like two strangers playing pretend over bone china.

"I saw you and that girl," she says eventually, eyes cool over the rim of her teacup.

"The one you brought in the other day."

My brow lifts. "Girl?"

"On the balcony," she clarifies, like she’s trying to be delicate. "By your room."

Ah. That.

I don’t remember which moment she’s talking about—there’ve been several. I have a bad habit of kissing Estela where the wind can catch us. Something about her hair blowing wild and the sky behind her—makes me want to pin her to the railing and tell the whole world she’s mine.

"Okayyyy," I say, dragging the word out.

She sighs.

Not in grief. In judgment.

"Where did I go wrong?" she murmurs. "The clothes... the hair... now this?"

I stare at her.

Truly stare.

She can’t be serious.

Did she think I was just a tomboy with violent hobbies? Not that all tomboys have a roundtrip ticket to Scissor City, but come on.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about," I say with a perfectly blank expression.

She leans forward slightly. "You... Why can’t you be normal?"

I almost laugh.

"You do realize," I say slowly, "that this entire place is full of murderers, right? You’re sitting in a house that launders money through funeral homes, runs guns through hospitals, and sends flowers to victims’ families with poison-tipped sympathy cards. And I’m the one who’s not normal?"

Her lips tighten. She clasps her hands together, white-knuckled.

I sigh.

This is boring.

I only came because—well, she did give birth to me. That counts for a hallway of courtesy at best.

"Is it because I didn’t pay attention to you growing up?" she asks suddenly.

I blink.

What?

Where the hell did that come from?

"Please don’t make this about neglect," I say. "I’ve seen the kind of attention you give Tommaso. And frankly, I prefer the women I’m into younger and preferably not related."

Her hand flies up, fast and sharp.

I catch it midair without even flinching.

Her wrist is delicate in my grip. Brittle. Like old cracked porcelain.

We stay like that for a breathless second.

Then I release her.

"I take it this dinner is done," I say, rising to my feet.

She doesn’t say a word.

Just watches me go, her perfect features cracking around the edges.

*

I’m walking down one of the many marble-lined, blood-stained-with-history hallways of the Castellano estate with Estela at my side.

Her hand is in mine. Warm. Familiar. Soft. The kind of softness I’d kill to keep.

I squeeze her fingers gently.

"I think we need another getaway. Don’t you think so, beautiful?"

She smiles, tilting her head with practiced mock-regret.

"I have work. I’ll have to free my schedule."

"Ahh, your schedule, huh," I tease, stopping us mid-step and pulling her close until her chest brushes mine.

"Daphne," she warns, glancing around the empty corridor like it’s about to develop eyes.

"Wait until we get to the room."

The way she says my name—Daphne—God. She could use it as a weapon.

"Embarrassed?" I ask, lifting a brow.

"Ma’am, did you forget your old profession?"

Her jaw drops. "That’s different! I was dancing. It was a job."

"I get it, I get it. You’re ashamed of me." I give her the most tragic puppy dog eyes I can muster. Even Julie would be proud.

She giggles. Pure. Sweet. Dangerous.

Then—

Whoosh.

I push her back slightly and dodge the punch that comes flying for my face.

"What the—?"

Another swing.

I dodge again, spinning Estela out of the way before turning to face—

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

Tommaso.

"Uhm. What’s going on?" I ask, already irritated.

He’s clenching his fists like a schoolboy about to throw a tantrum. Same brooding eyes. Same unfortunate face. Where Valentino Jr. inherited all of Father’s worst features—Tommaso? He’s a copy-paste job. Face, frown, and all.

"You! What the fuck did you say to Mummy?" he snaps.

Mummy? Oh, Gross.

"Nothing," I say truthfully, almost cheerfully.

"Then why was she crying?" he spits.

"I don’t know," I shrug. "I’m not her therapist."

"She was crying after meeting with you," he says like he’s cracked some grand conspiracy.

And then it hits me.

Ah. Right. Our little teatime trauma exchange earlier today.

I wave a hand lazily. "Nothing I said was false."

His rage bubbles over. "You fucking bitch!"

He lunges again, but I sidestep. Is he a shitty fighter? Or is it just the rage? Maybe I’m just good.

"You running here the second she cried is exactly why people think your relationship with her is weird, Tommaso," I say, clicking my tongue like a disappointed auntie.

He flinches.

Bingo.

"Honestly, you do you," I add, strolling around him casually.

"Love comes in many forms, I guess. As long as the parties involved are legal, consenting adults... I mean, who am I to judge?"

I pat his shoulder. Then slide my hand up to the tender spot right near his collarbone and squeeze.

He crumples.

Down on his knees like a knight that’s been disarmed.

"Next time," I say, leaning down so he hears every word, "don’t run into battle for your maiden’s honor. Stay behind. Comfort the maiden instead."

Then I clock him in the chin—clean, efficient.

I look at his unconscious body, and face Estela.

"Now where were we?"