QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL)-Chapter 165: Well played

Chapter 165 – Luciano POV

I hate to admit it, but Raffaele is not the threat.

It’s Daphne.

She’s the one pulling strings in the dark, tightening every noose with that quiet, merciless smile. The more I watch, the clearer it becomes. Raffaele has grown sharper, yes. More calculated, more assertive. But it’s not because of something innate—it’s because of her.

Daphne Castellano. The youngest sibling, I thought she was just a spoiled little brat, with big dreams but I stand corrected.

The little sister in name only. The mistake everyone ignored. The woman I thought would be content hiding behind philanthropic ventures and scandalous rumors. But she’s more than that. She’s the wind in Raffaele’s sails. The blade beneath his silk glove. Without her, he’s half of what he appears to be.

And I hate that. I hate her.

I was raised to believe a woman’s strength lies in obedience, in tradition. She was meant to marry well, bear children, maintain image. That’s what I believed. That’s what I enforced.

I was raised to believe a woman’s strength lies in obedience. In tradition. In restraint.

She was meant to marry well, bear children, and uphold image. A woman’s legacy was through her husband and her sons. Not ambition. Not power.

That’s how it’s always been, since the dawn of time. For centuries, kingdoms fell and rose on the backs of men, while their wives waited in silk-draped shadows. That was the natural order.

So imagine my disgust when a woman—cracked through that order like it was nothing more than glass underfoot.

And worse still, I hate that I’m relieved she’s female.

Because had she been a man, with her merciless logic and sickening charisma, we’d all be dead already.

She’s the real threat.

I see it clearly now, and I hate it.

I hate the way she walks into a room and commands it without raising her voice. I hate that she never tries to be charming—yet people follow her. I hate that she makes choices I should have made, moves I should have seen.

She’s inserted herself like a cancer into this family’s core. I ignored her at first— the spoiled little sister, father indulged too much.

But that was a mistake. My mistake. One I will correct.

Because since then, she’s dug in.

She’s had spies in my inner circle.

My inner circle.

People I’ve known for years, drank with, bled with—swayed by her. Some even turned outright. And I didn’t see it until now. I thought I was bleeding slowly from a thousand unseen cuts. No—she’s been carving deliberately.

I’ve watched loyalties fray like old rope. Quiet hesitations. Broken chains of command. Meetings where men who once stood by me now shift uncomfortably when I speak.

It’s her.

I studied her pattern over the last few weeks. She doesn’t come for the throat—not at first. She comes in silence, in whispers. A favor here. A secret there. Guilt twisted into loyalty, loyalty into action.

But she is not without a weakness.

Her girlfriend. Her lover.

It disgusts me, what they are. Two women, twined together in something pretending to be sacred. It’s immoral. Wrong. A stain on this family’s name.

At the end of the day, she’s in a man’s world and that’s her final weakness.

***

Daphne POV

What is this, an intervention?

I sit, straight-backed, in a chair too stiff and too old, surrounded by cigar-breath and cologne that stinks of the 1800s. A circle of relics in expensive suits—each face lined not with wisdom, but with ego, entitlement, and decades of decay. freēwēbηovel.c૦m

Technically, Raffaele is here too.

But I’m the target.

Across the room, against the wall like some bored specter, Luciano watches with a smirk stretched thin across his smug little face. Well fucking played.

I meet his gaze.

He doesn’t flinch.

I stop zoning out the buzz of words and finally tune in.

"...a woman, as a second in command?"

"...inappropriate, unstable influence—"

"...Castellano name will be dragged through filth if this continues—"

Blah. Blah. Fucking blah.

Different words, same damn song.

And suddenly I see it clearly. This is it. This was Luciano’s move.

Well fucking played.

Raffaele isn’t losing his power. They’re not walking away from him.

They’re walking away from me.

And in doing so, they’re tearing holes in his side of the board.

Allies are glancing at each other, fidgeting. One coughs into his sleeve like it’ll mask his discomfort. Another looks down at his watch. It’s starting.

If one leaves, more will follow. These men don’t think for themselves. They follow cues. Whoever blinks first gives permission for the others to turn tail and run.

I rest my hands on the polished table. My nails tap once.

Twice.

Then I stand.

The room stills.

Fine, Luciano you win.

I can’t undo decades of rot on my own. Not when their bones are made of misogyny and their blood is laced with tradition. No matter how many victories I rack up. No matter how many bullets I bite through for this family. They’ll never admit a woman carried half this war on her back.

"Fine," I say aloud, lifting my chin. "Since I’m not qualified to be the right hand of a potential heir—since the very idea is so outrageous that it might damage our pristine, blood-stained reputation—"

I pause just long enough for the irony to land. Some of them have the decency to glance away.

"I will take a step back."

Gasps, murmurs—some smug, some uncertain.

"For the prosperity of Castellano," I continue, with just enough venom to poison the word,

"I’ll remove myself from the equation. You can all rest easy now. Raffaele’s hands will be clean. No woman whispering in his ear. No rumors. Just a nice, respectable man for your nice, respectable empire."

I glance at Raffaele who wants to say something but I shoot him a glare.

His lips twitch, his fingers twitch. His jaw locks in protest. I see the storm behind his eyes, the words threatening to claw their way out of his throat.

But if he defends me now, they’ll turn on him too. They’ll say he’s emotional. Controlled by a woman. Unfit. Weak.

So I do what I do best.

I give him an out.

"I hope, truly, that this assures our allies," I say, looking back at the room, my voice calm. Polished. Not a single crack showing.

"And that the transition of power, when it comes, is as clean as Castellano blood can manage."