QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL)-Chapter 66: Trauma

Chapter 66: Trauma

Chapter 66 – Daphne POV

After hours of silence, of near-sleep and utter peace, the door creaks open.

A very drunk man stumbles into the room.

I blink. I was half-asleep.

Of course.

Right.

Wedding night.

"Your Grace," I say, standing up like a good little noble bride.

He doesn’t say a single word.

Just starts undressing.

Piece by piece.

Like this is normal. Like I’m not standing here witnessing a train crash in slow motion.

He fumbles with his belt. Tosses his shirt. Kicks off his boots. Then—then—he turns, fully nude, and begins to pee into a metal bowl on the floor with all the grace of a toddler.

No aim.

No shame. ƒгeewebnovёl.com

And then he turns around mid-stream and makes eye contact.

I would rather die.

I stare at his naked body—his very medieval, very unwashed, very unsolicited body—and feel a visceral wave of disgust. Not just spiritual. Not just psychological.

I mean deep, soul-level disgust.1

No thank you.

I prefer the plastic, man-made kind. This is weird-looking. I’m so glad the lighting is low because—seriously, what is that?!

And it smells worse now. Somehow. The scent mingles with old wood, sweat, and despair like a candle made by Satan’s least favorite ex.

I blow out the candle.

The room falls into darkness.

Silent. Black. Dangerous.

I pull the candle from its holder. Grip it like a club. Walk forward slowly through the dark.

And without hesitation—smack.

[HOST, YOU SAID YOU WOULDN’T INTERFERE WITH THE ORIGINAL NARRATIVE!!!]

Right to the back of his head.

’I’m not! But I would rather gouge my own eyeballs out before I let him touch me that way,’ I respond mentally.

There’s a thud.

Then silence.

He’s down.

[WHAT ARE YOU DOING!!]

Fast thinking. I ignore the system.

I walk to the window, bathed in just enough moonlight to do what needs to be done.

I reach for my hairpin. The edge is sharp enough. I drag it across the inside of my thigh, wincing at the sting as blood begins to flow. It’s messy. Purposefully so.

I tangle my hair. Smudge the blood. Walk back over to his unconscious, piss-stained body and slice my finger. A few drops land on his -gag- thing.

Then I collapse beside him.

Hair a mess. Blood on my legs. Knees pulled in tight, eyes wide with horror.

I channel every acting lesson I ever practiced with Jiang Yuxi—the Film Empress herself.

I open my mouth—

And I scream.

Loud. Guttural. Trembling.

"HELP! HELP!"

I don’t need to wait long.

Footsteps thunder in the hall. A maid bursts in, followed by two knights with candles raised like torches on a witch hunt.

They freeze at the doorway.

I’m on the floor. Blood. Messy hair. Blank stare. An unconscious duke sprawled beside me in a pool of shame and piss.

I tremble. Perfectly.

"I—I don’t know," I stammer, voice quaking. "He slipped and fell and—and then—" I cut myself off and let my lower lip wobble. That sells it.

The knights glance at each other. One coughs awkwardly. The other grimaces as they both lift the naked mess that is Duke Cedric Callum and toss him unceremoniously onto the bed.

A maid kneels beside me, eyes wide, and gently places a soft wool blanket over my shoulders like I’m some fragile glass artifact.

She helps me up, careful and quiet, avoiding the blood smeared on my gown.

As we walk out, the whispers begin.

"He must’ve drunk too much."

"The poor lady."

"Guess he got handsy and passed out mid-act."

"A shame, she’s such a lovely girl."

Perfect.

Now I get to be "too traumatized."

A woman so shattered by her wedding night that no one—not even the male lead—can touch me without reviving the horrors of that evening.

He won’t come near me.

Checkmate.

The maid leads me down the hall, past curious stares and bowed heads, into a quiet side room they hastily convert into my private quarters.

And just like that—

I’ve built a fortress out of false trauma and social guilt.

He won’t lay a finger on me.

Not ever.

I mean, if he tries, I’m not above castration—

> [HOST!!!]

’If you don’t want me to block you again like I did in the previous life, stop reading my thoughts.’

I warn.

*

According to the system, the plot is going "as planned."

Whatever.

Thanks to some light research—okay, eavesdropping and bribery—I found out there’s a stream two hours’ walk from the main castle. Crystal clear, ice cold, isolated.

Perfect.

I asked for a bath in my chambers a day after The Incident™. After I took one, everyone looked at me like I had grown horns. Because I took a bath the day before.

How shocking.

Full body horror.

Like I’d just confessed to being a sentient horse.

I will not be doing that again.

So I took matters into my own hands.

With a few bribed staff and some fake "fragile noblewoman routines," I’ve turned the secluded stream into my private escape.

They just think I’m eccentric. "Particular," one of them whispered.

Good. Let them think I’m weird and high-maintenance. Let them keep their distance.

It helps that the duchess—the one who’s apparently been running this place like a quiet, blond tyrant ( I heard she’s blonde) before her husband’s soul swap, hasn’t summoned me once.

She’s ignored me completely.

Which is exactly how I like it.

No one pays attention to me.

No one asks questions.

Perfect.

I hate these layers of clothing. All the petticoats and chemises and garters and stiff shoes—it’s like being gift-wrapped in cotton and sweat. I’ve been here a month and I still feel like I’m smuggling an entire upholstery set on my body.

But whatever.

It’s fine.

I see the sun is beginning to set.

That means it’s time.

Time for the one thing I look forward to:

My bath.

The stream is quiet this time of evening—sunlight low, filtering through the trees in soft gold threads. The water glistens like polished glass, cold enough to snap me out of my own mind, but clean, clear, and blessedly private.

The maids I bribed know the routine by now. They leave my robe folded on the usual boulder, look the other way, and vanish with just enough plausible deniability to keep their jobs.

I step out of the oppressive fabric prison they call a gown, one piece at a time. Layers peel away until I’m finally free. Just me, the forest, and icy salvation.

I wade in slowly. The water bites at my skin. It’s a thousand tiny needles and I welcome every one.

I sink until the chill covers my shoulders and tip my head back.

Just silence.

Just peace.

Just—

Snap.

A twig breaks.

My eyes open.

Someone’s here.

I’mma be honest this was less Daphne and more me when I was like 10 with unrestricted access to the internet and saw some things that had me convinced I was asexual for the longest time .... Traumatizing.

I just found out about this feature lmao