QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL)-Chapter 155: Freedom

Chapter 155 – Estela POV

I’m in love with Daphne.

I mean—I already was. That part isn’t new. But now?

Now it’s different.

Now it’s deeper.

Scarier.

Heavier.

It’s the kind of love that lives in the bones, not just the skin. The kind that makes your breath hitch for no reason, just because she walked past you with a towel around her neck. The kind that sinks its claws in and stays.

If she left me?

I’d die.

No jokes. No metaphors. Just plain, stupid, unbearable truth.

I know it’s probably irrational. Codependency. Trauma-bonding. Insert any psychology term here and I’d probably check every box. Doesn’t matter.

She found me in that house. Still covered in blood. Still shaking. Still so full of hate I thought I might drown in it.

And she didn’t flinch.

She didn’t tell me to explain.

She didn’t try to fix it or scold me or tell me I was wrong.

She just held me.

And then made it disappear.

And now I’m lying here in her bed, wrapped in her scent, in her world, in her protection, and I know—

I’m hers.

Utterly.

Completely.

Hopelessly.

And if she ever leaves me?

Well.

Let’s just say I hope she never finds out what I’d do if she did.

***

Daphne POV

Something’s different about Estela.

I’ve been watching her all morning, waiting for the crash. Waiting for the guilt or the shame or even just a sliver of sorrow to settle into her bones. I thought she’d be distant, quiet, haunted.

But she’s... not.

She’s radiant. Not glowing exactly—more like unburdened. Free. Like something heavy has been peeled off her skin and thrown into the fire.

She hums while brushing her hair.

Smiles when she catches me looking.

And—this is new—she’s been asking for things.

Before, getting Estela into a designer dress was like negotiating with a hostage. She’d twist her lips and say things like "that’s too much" or "what am I supposed to do with that?" Like indulgence was a crime she had to earn.

Now?

She’s standing in the middle of the boutique I rented out for her—yes, the entire boutique—pointing at an entire roll of clothing swatches and saying, confidently, like a queen in her era:

"I want this. From this to this."

She motions with both hands across the fabric display like she’s selecting weapons for a war she knows she’ll win.

I blink.

"Well... okay then."

She grins at me.

"I’ve always wanted to do that," she says, and there’s a giddy flicker in her eyes. Like a child playing dress-up, except this child knows how to break bones and dispose of bodies.

I can’t help it—I laugh.

Not because it’s funny.

Because it’s perfect.

***

Estela POV

I’m playing a game.

It’s called How Far Can Daphne Go.

So far, the answer is very.

After yesterday... after everything she did for me—the blood, the fire, the silence—there’s no doubt in my mind anymore. She loves me.

Deeply. Dangerously. The kind of love you feel in your teeth.

She says yes to everything.

I asked for an entire roll of custom fabric earlier—just to see what she’d say—and she didn’t even blink. Just nodded like I’d asked for a glass of water.

So now I’m testing her.

Subtly.

Strategically.

"Can I get those?" I ask, pointing to a display of shoes I’ll probably never wear but look absurdly expensive.

"Yes."

"And that scarf? The diamond-studded one?"

"Yes."

"And the fur coat that costs more than a house?"

She doesn’t even look up from her phone. "Already added to the cart."

I blink.

This is fun.

Actually, no—this is dangerously fun.

Julie once told me, while he was blending highlighter into the curve of his cheek with the intensity of a man preparing for war, that I wasn’t using dating a Daphne to my full potential.

"You’re sleeping next to her," he said. "And you’re not demanding at least weekly gifts and monthly real estate, what are you even doing?"

At the time, I’d scoffed. I didn’t need things. I didn’t want to feel like a burden. I’d built my whole life on surviving without needing anyone.

But now?

Now I’m sitting in a private boutique, with three assistants hovering like I’m royalty, being offered options I never even knew existed, and every time I so much as gesture at something, Daphne is already signing the receipt.

Maybe Julie was onto something.

Because here’s the thing: I’ve always had to take care of myself. From the moment I could walk, I was protecting someone—my sisters, my own battered heart. I couldn’t afford softness. I couldn’t afford luxury.

All my kills had to be clean. Quick. Quiet. Thought-out. I couldn’t leave trails. Couldn’t let it come back to me. Just do it, move on, survive through the guilt, the self hatred.

But lately?

Lately I’m tired.

So, so tired.

Tired of being the strong one. Tired of guilt. Tired of swallowing everything down until it rots in my gut. I don’t want to carry the weight anymore. Not all of it. Not alone.

Daphne didn’t flinch when she saw what I did.

She didn’t walk away.

She cleaned it up. Burned the evidence. Held me like I was still worth loving.

And in that moment, something inside me cracked open.

Maybe it’s not about becoming a whole new person. Maybe it’s about letting go of the parts of myself I no longer need—the ones built entirely for survival.

Because if I’m going to hell anyway, then I might as well enjoy the ride.

I want champagne for breakfast. I want to wake up in silk sheets and wear diamonds to the supermarket. I want to say yes to things without checking the price tag. I want to live. Fully.

If I’m going to hell anyway, I’ll make sure my life on earth is a blast.

There’s something freeing in saying it. Like unclasping a steel collar I didn’t even know I’d been wearing.