QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL)-Chapter 152: Harem complete

Chapter 152 – Grace POV

I’m here on assignment.

Not for romance. Not for curiosity. Just to assess whether Raffaele Castellano is worth the investment.

Father sent me.

Being the only daughter of the Marín family means my life was always going to be political. A marriage isn’t a union—it’s a merger. A negotiation between dynasties. A contract with high heels and lipstick.

So when the proposal came through, I expected someone older. Boring. Probably balding. With enough Castellano pedigree to make up for the lack of personal appeal.

Instead?

I got him.

Raffaele Castellano.

He was invisible before the Don’s death—whispers, shadows, an extra seat at the table no one paid attention to.

And then?

He rose like a storm cloud with a crown.

Everyone expected Luciano to win. And Valentino Jr. to put up a flashy, pathetic fight.

No one expected him.

And seeing him now—up close?

Oh, he’s dangerous.

The door opened earlier and he walked out like it was nothing. Naked. Sleepy. Flawless.

Like that was just another Tuesday.

And I’m sorry—but what the hell?

That body? That face? That everything?

If this marriage fails politically, it will not be for lack of physical compatibility. I already know our children will be genetically blessed. Which, frankly, is a strategic plus.

He returns now, hair still damp, wearing low-slung slacks and a simple button-up shirt.

His smile is a boyish kind of wicked.

"Long night?" Daphne asks, not even trying to sound surprised.

"Regina? Antonia?"

"Both," he says, smirking.

"Ah." Daphne deadpans, turning back to the fridge.

I don’t flinch.

Monogamy from a Castellano man? Ha.

Still.

That smile?

Unfair.

He finally turns to me, extending his hand.

"I’m sorry for earlier. Hello," he says.

"Hey," I say, keeping my voice even as I take his hand. His palm is warm, his grip steady. Too steady.

Too practiced.

Daphne downs the last of her water and wipes her hands on a towel. "Yeah, well, my job’s done here."

She’s already halfway to the door when Raffaele rushes out behind her.

"Wait!" he calls. "Uhm—look, I know you’re supposed to meet me, but I didn’t actually choose you. They did. Could you just wait a sec and meet them? Apparently I’m not supposed to be here right now."

I raise a brow. "Them?"

The moment I ask, the bedroom door opens.

Two women walk out, unhurried.

The black-haired one meets my gaze immediately. Elegant. Poised. Danger in stilettos.

The other—blonde, glowing, already halfway to the kitchen—gives zero fucks and knows it.

"Yeah, I’ll come by later," Raffaele mutters, already backing out the door.

Daphne’s voice trails behind him as they disappear: "They really have you by the balls, don’t they?"

A groan in response.

Then the door shuts.

Silence.

The black-haired woman steps forward and extends a hand. "Hey. I’m Regina."

She’s stunning. Sharp-edged. The kind of woman who never looks out of place—because she never is out of place.

"And this is Antonia," she adds, motioning toward the blonde, who’s already grabbing a wine bottle from the kitchen rack like she owns the place.

***

Raffaele POV

I punch in the passcode and stumble inside.

My abdomen hurts.

A stab wound. Nothing serious. Just... occupational hazard. Something about Castellano politics always leads to sharp objects and bruised egos.

I’m halfway to collapsing on the floor when I see her.

Grace.

Sitting calmly at the kitchen counter, sipping wine like she owns the goddamn estate.

She glances up and smiles. "Oh, you’re back—wait. You’re hurt."

She’s off the stool before I can even pretend it’s minor.

"It’s nothing," I mutter, waving a hand like I’m not bleeding from the side.

She ignores me entirely, which—judging by her tone—is going to be a recurring theme in this marriage.

She guides me to the couch with surprising gentleness and finds the first aid kit in under a minute.

How the hell did she know where it was?

She doesn’t ask permission. Just pulls my shirt up and begins cleaning the wound with a practiced hand. Cotton pads. Antiseptic. Bandage. Movements smooth. Confident.

Like she’s done this before.

I close my eyes.

"Where are they?" I ask after a moment.

She finishes taping me up and tosses the gauze into the bin.

"They left," she says simply. "Said we should build chemistry." She shrugs and laughs.

The sound is warm, effortless.

I wince and groan. "Don’t make me laugh. It hurts."

"So," I say, catching my breath, "I take it you agreed."

She beams. "Yep. You’re talking to future Mrs. Castellano."

I groan again, but not from the wound. "Should I be worried?"

"Of course not," she says, faux-innocent.

"Are you not worried?"

"Nope," she says, leaning back against the couch with a smirk. "Actually... this is perfect for me, honey."

I blink. "Honey?"

"You’re adorable when you’re confused."

I look at her sideways. "I’m not wearing the pants in this relationship, am I?"

She giggles. And it’s... cute.

Genuinely, disarmingly cute.

"No way," she grins.

I shake my head, exhaling a soft, amused breath. "Okay then, future Mrs. Castellano."

She beams at me.

And it’s beautiful.

Warm. Effortless. The kind of smile that could convince you the world’s not falling apart even as it burns behind you.

My heart skips a beat—just one.

Dangerous.

I shove the feeling down. Down. Down.

Before it buds. Before it roots. Before it dares to grow.

Because having a favorite? That’s a key to disaster I’m trying to avoid.

***

Grace POV

I finish dressing the wound with clinical ease, wrapping the gauze tight, but not too tight. I’m used to this—too used to it. Growing up with three brothers who all thought they were invincible made me proficient in first aid by the time I was thirteen.

Raffaele doesn’t flinch.

Doesn’t complain.

Doesn’t thank me, either.

He just watches me with those thoughtful, storm-still eyes—like he’s still trying to decide whether I’m friend or danger.

Smart man.

I collect the first aid box and walk it back to its shelf, filing away where everything belongs

I was worried, at first, about the usual Castellano male curse—extramarital children—but it seems I lucked out.

Antonia had a hysterectomy.

Regina has no interest in children.

Which means, biologically speaking, I am the only one who can give him heirs. That puts me in a very specific position.

Antonia clearly fancies him—but in the way one admires a beautiful guard dog. Powerful. Loyal. Well-trained.

Regina, on the other hand, likes him. Genuinely. I won’t think about that.

As for me?

I think I might like him too.

Not love. That’s far too volatile.

Besides—he’s handsome, intelligent, emotionally self-contained. Everything I expected not to find in a Castellano. And yet here he is.

Unaware.

Sweet, really.

He doesn’t know that all his ex-lovers are no longer breathing.

Antonia told me casually—over wine. She called it a gift.

"I clean up after the men I care about," she said with a smile. "You’ll thank me someday."

Raffaele doesn’t know. And I’m not going to be the one to tell him.

But I will tell my father.

I’ll send him the report tonight.

Because I’ve made up my mind.

Raffaele Castellano has to be the next Don.