QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL)-Chapter 62: I’m sorry

Chapter 62 –

Han Li POV

My wife is not okay.

She thinks she’s hiding it well.

She’s not.

I notice the way she tires too quickly. How her appetite has vanished. Jiang Yuxi has always been slender, but now her clothes hang too loose—her wrists too sharp, her cheeks too hollow.

She brushes it off with a laugh, always saying she’s just tired, just aging, just fine.

She’s not.

And what can I do?

Except wait.

Wait for her to tell me the truth. Wait for her to open up. Wait and pray that it’s nothing serious, that it’s all in my head.

But my gut is screaming.

I close my eyes and force my expression into something neutral. Calm. I’ve spent a lifetime building masks. One more shouldn’t be hard.

The door to the balcony creaks open beneath my hand. Warm afternoon light spills into the house.

We moved here five years ago when she retired from acting, saying she wasn’t about to be in her fifties still chasing scripts and pleasing studios. I followed her without hesitation, managing the company from home, only traveling when absolutely necessary.

It’s a quiet life. A beautiful one.

A life made of slow mornings, shared laughter, garden flowers, and spontaneous trips abroad when the seasons change.

It’s the life I never thought I’d have.

Sometimes, when I look at her across the dinner table, I forget we’re in a story. I forget I was never meant to stay.

I can barely remember my life before this. The system. The missions. The worlds. The plotlines. It’s all fog now, blurred by time.

I’m in my fifties.

This body is mine. This love is real.

And she—she’s sleeping on the cushioned balcony chair, head resting against the backrest, looking like a dream painted in fading sunlight.

Just minutes ago, she asked for an orange drink.

I set it gently on the small table beside her. I don’t wake her. I just... watch.

Her face is older, but god, she’s still beautiful. The kind of beauty that aches in your chest when you realize how lucky you are to have seen it every day for decades.

"You’re here," she murmurs, eyes fluttering open.

"Yeah. I brought your drink," I say softly, crouching beside her.

She sits up—then starts to cough.

A sharp, horrible sound. Deep from her chest.

I reach for her instantly. "Yuxi—"

The coughing doesn’t stop.

It gets worse.

And then—

Blood.

It sprays across her palm. Her lips. The front of her white shirt.

And she slumps forward.

"Yuxi?! YUXI!" My voice cracks. I catch her before she hits the floor. Her body is limp, terrifyingly still.

I scoop her up into my arms, pressing my forehead against hers, trembling.

"No. No, please—please, stay with me."

My feet move before I know it. Down the stairs. Out the door.

Calling an ambulance? It’ll take too long. We live too far out.

I throw open the garage door, practically kick it shut behind me, and slam open the car.

Seatbelt. Engine. Accelerator.

I drive like I’ve lost my mind.

Because I have.

And every second she doesn’t wake up feels like I’m falling apart.

**

"Doctor!"

I shoot to my feet the moment I see the white coat turn the corner. My voice is raw from hours of silence. My hands are shaking, clenched into fists by my sides.

"What’s wrong with my wife?" I ask, too fast, too loud.

Usually I’d say partner. Something vague. Something safe.

But not now.

Not when she’s in there. Not when I’ve been pacing holes into this sterile white floor for what feels like a lifetime.

She’s my wife.

The doctor’s expression doesn’t change, and that’s what makes it worse.

He just looks at me with sympathy.

That awful, quiet sympathy.

No.

No. No. No.

My stomach churns. I feel like I’m on the edge of something tall and terrible.

"Come with me to my office," he says gently.

My knees nearly give out.

But I nod. I follow.

---

The office is too warm. The light too soft. There’s a box of tissues on the table. That’s never a good sign.

He gestures for me to sit.

I don’t.

I stand there, heart hammering. "Just tell me."

The doctor sighs. Opens a folder.

"Your wife... has been diagnosed with Stage IV pancreatic cancer."

The words hit like a car crash. No time to brace. No time to breathe.

He continues speaking, but it’s just noise now. Medical terms. Spread. Late diagnosis. Symptoms. Too far gone.

Too late.

I blink. I’m still standing. Somehow.

"What do we do?" I ask, voice cracking.

"There’s treatment, right? We’ll do everything."

He hesitates.

"Han Li... there are palliative options. Chemotherapy might slow it. But at this stage..."

He trails off. Doesn’t finish.

He doesn’t have to.

I already know.

I’m going to lose her.

***

Jiang Yuxi POV

I blink awake to the low hum and beeping of machines, the sterile scent of antiseptic lingering in the air.

My chest aches. My throat is dry.

Someone is holding my hand—too tightly.

I turn my head, and there she is.

Han Li.

Her eyes are red-rimmed, her hair now peppered with streaks of white. She’s still so handsome, though. The kind of older woman you’d see in magazines—dignified, composed, but right now? She looks like hell.

"You look horrible," I rasp, and her head snaps toward me.

Relief flashes across her face so raw it almost hurts to look at.

"How are you feeling? Are you okay? Should I call a doctor? Water? Juice? Anything?" she babbles, rising halfway out of the chair as if she’s ready to sprint out of the room just to bring me the sky.

"It’s okay," I whisper, voice barely above a breath.

She pauses.

And then, she slumps into the chair beside my bed, her expression crumpling.

"No. It’s not okay."

The silence stretches between us, heavy and fragile.

"How long?" I ask quietly, not needing to clarify.

She says nothing. Her lips press into a hard line.

"When did you find out?" she finally asks.

I look up at the ceiling.

"A year ago."

The silence turns sharp.

"And you didn’t think to say a word to me?" Han Li’s voice trembles—not from anger, but from something deeper. Something breaking.

"I didn’t want to."

Her breath catches like I stabbed her.

"We could’ve tried everything," she says, her voice cracking.

"I know."

"Now it’s too late."

"I know."

The tears in her eyes fall silently, one after another. She grips the bed sheets like they’re the only thing anchoring her to the earth.

"Why would you do this to me, Jiang Yuxi?" she whispers.

I look at her, really look at her.

My wife.

My best friend.

My home.

"I’m sorry."

It’s all I can say. The only thing I can give her now.

Han Li lets out a soft, choked breath and lowers her head. Her fingers tremble where they rest beside mine, like she’s trying not to break apart in front of me.

But she already is.

Piece by piece, in the silence between my breaths.

"You’re not very nice," she says through a tight, wet laughs.

"I had this whole life plan for us."

My chest caves in.

This is the second time I’ve seen my wife cry.

The first was on our wedding day, when she read her vows—voice trembling, hands shaking, eyes glistening with happiness so overwhelming it spilled over.

This time, it’s not joy.

It’s pain.

Raw, unbearable sorrow.

"We were supposed to grow old in that ridiculous house," she whispers, wiping at her cheeks with the back of her hand. "You were going to get even grumpier and I was going to nag you to wear sunscreen."

I try to smile but it shatters halfway through.

She laughs again, and it’s the kind of laugh that ends in a sob.

"You promised we’d go to Italy next spring."

"We still can," I say quickly, desperate.

"We’ll go. We’ll—"

She shakes her head.

"Han Li."

Just her name. Soft. Final.

I can’t stop the tears anymore.

She leans forward and presses her forehead to our joined hands, silent sobs wracking her shoulders.

"I didn’t want you to see me like this," I say softly, brushing my fingers against hers. "Sick. Weak. Dying."

Her head snaps up, eyes wet and furious.

"Don’t you dare say that to me. You’ve never been weak. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known, Yuxi."

She swallows hard.

"I would’ve held your hand through every appointment. Every treatment. Every bad day. I would’ve carried you."

"You would’ve burned yourself out doing it."

"I wouldn’t have cared!" she snaps.

I smile faintly.

"I wanted you to remember me like I was. When I was still... me."

"I love you now," Han Li says, voice shaking.

"I would’ve loved you through all of it."

Her hand grips mine again, tighter this time, like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she lets go.

I stare at her—my wife, my Han Li—and I hate that I waited this long. That I was afraid of burdening her. That I thought hiding it was a kindness.

She leans forward, pressing her lips to my knuckles.

"Don’t leave me," she whispers. "Please. Not yet."

And I close my eyes, and lie.

"Okay."