QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL)-Chapter 158: New game plan

Chapter 158 – Valentino Jr. POV

The champagne’s still fizzing in my glass.

The fire’s still glowing on the news feed.

I’m lounging, shirt half-unbuttoned, a lazy smile pulling at my mouth as I scroll through message after message—chaos in the streets, Castellano associates going underground, minor factions already reaching out to "negotiate."

It’s working.

It worked.

And then the feed glitches.

For a moment I think it’s over. A blackout. Static.

But no.

It shifts.

Live broadcast. Emergency press address.

And there she is.

Daphne Han.

Alive.

Bloodied. Limping. Arm wrapped in gauze, left temple caked in dried blood. The collar of her blazer is torn, and she walks like every step is made of glass, but she walks anyway. Straight to the podium. Straight into the spotlight.

I sit up slowly, the glass forgotten in my hand.

The press is silent.

Security surrounds her like a wall of shadows, but she doesn’t hide behind them. She stands in front. Exposed. Battered. Breathing.

And then she speaks.

Her voice is low at first, ragged around the edges.

But it cuts.

It commands.

"For those of you watching—yes. I’m alive.

Luciano Castellano is alive.

Raffaele Castellano is alive.

We are injured, but not gone.

And Castellano?

Castellano still stands."

Flashes go off. Shouts. Reporters trying to surge forward. But she raises a single hand and the crowd stills like trained dogs.

"We don’t yet know the full extent of the damage. We don’t have an official death toll. And I won’t insult the dead by speculating. What I do know—" her voice cracks, and she clears her throat, jaw tightening—

"—is that people died today.

Good people. Loyal people."

She pauses, breathing hard. The wind lifts the edge of her ruined suit jacket.

"To the families of those lost—your pain is not forgotten. And it will not go unpaid. Every name will be spoken. Every loss acknowledged. And your families will be compensated with the dignity and weight that Castellano commands."

My fingers twitch.

No.

No, she should be gone. Vaporized. Nothing left but ash and rumors.

And yet—

She leans forward slightly now.

The fire behind her flickers in her eyes.

"To whoever did this—whoever thought they could break us with flames and rubble, who believed that a symbol could be erased by smoke—let me be very clear."

She raises her hand and points directly at the camera.

At me.

"To the one responsible..." Her tone sharpens like a knife. "You haven’t won."

She scans the crowd. Dead center into the camera.

Right at me.

"The person who did this—who attacked my family, who killed our people, who dared to strike our home—will be found. And they will be shown justice."

Her lips curl slightly.

"Not mercy. Not forgiveness. Just justice."

Then she walks off.

I’m still staring at the screen when the broadcast cuts. Static.

The room is suddenly too quiet. Too real.

The champagne glass lies shattered at my feet. The bottle’s tipped over, the liquid soaking into the rug, forgotten.

I rise slowly.

The buzz is gone.

I button my shirt with stiff fingers, the movement mechanical, like my body hasn’t caught up to the truth.

She’s alive.

They’re all alive.

I pace, heartbeat thundering in my ears. The high of triumph evaporates into something tight. Cold. Crawling up the back of my neck like dread with claws.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

They were all supposed to be dead. The estate was mapped. Timers perfectly placed. The floorplan was exact. I accounted for everything—guards, exits, blast spread.

So how the hell—

How did they know?

How did they make it out?

I stop mid-step, panic prickling beneath my skin.

I run a hand through my hair, tugging until my scalp aches.

Nothing makes sense.

I accounted for everything. Every exit. Every camera. Every schedule. I hand-picked the trigger windows. Paid off the tech teams. Buried the trail so deep not even a Castellano bloodhound could sniff it out.

And yet—

They are alive.

I grab my jacket from the back of the chair, stumbling over the edge of the rug. My phone buzzes—five missed calls, three coded texts from my outer circle. People are already hearing whispers. Seeing smoke where they expected silence.

I shove everything into a duffel bag—cash, IDs, burner phones. I don’t even bother zipping it all the way.

My mind’s spinning too fast.

I need to escape.

Get out of the capital. Move to one of the shadow houses. Somewhere off-grid. Somewhere cold. Somewhere I can disappear and come up with another game plan.

This time, I’ll make sure there’s no escape.

This time, I’ll rip the throne from their cold, dead hands myself.

***

Estela POV

I’ve never seen Daphne so angry.

Not like this.

Not the explosive kind, not the screaming, gun-waving kind. This is worse. This is the kind of anger that doesn’t move. The kind that sits still. Breathes slow. Waits.

She sits on the edge of the metal exam table, spine straight, shoulders squared, jaw locked like a vice. Blood mats her hair near the temple where a deep gash runs along her scalp. Her shirt is ripped, smeared with soot and dark patches where blood once dripped freely. But she doesn’t wince.

The medics clean her skin in silence. They speak softly to each other, assessing the damage, checking her vitals, one of them murmuring something about a probable fracture in her arm.

She doesn’t flinch.

She doesn’t blink.

She just stares—not at anything. Not at anyone. Just at some distant, burning place in her mind that I’m too scared to reach for.

And I?

I’m just glad she’s alive.

When I thought I lost her, when I saw the flames swallowing the estate on TV, when I ran through barricades like a lunatic screaming her name—

My world stopped spinning.

Everything inside me shattered like glass, and I realized in that terrible, breathless moment that I would burn the whole goddamn world down just to see her one more time.

Now she’s here.

Alive.

Bloody. Bruised. Broken in places.

But alive.