QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL)-Chapter 67: Equal

Chapter 67 – Daphne POV

"Hello?" I say out loud.

I’m met with silence... and the sound of fading footsteps.

Sigh.

Well, whatever.

I’m not in the mood to play hide and seek in the woods with some sneaky noblewoman or peeping maid. If someone wants to spy, they can at least be decent enough to trip over a root and fall flat on their face. That would be entertaining.

But no.

Just silence and vague melodrama.

I finish my bath, toweling off with the cloth I stashed under the usual rock, and begin the slow, miserable process of layering myself back into these oppressive, heat-trapping medieval clothes.

Chemise. Petticoat. Corset. Overskirt. Gown.

No wonder these women were always fainting. They weren’t delicate. They were just chronically oxygen-deprived.

By the time I tie the final ribbon, I’m already regretting all my life choices—past, present, and transmigrated.

Still, the bath helped.

***

Cedric POV

I can’t believe it.

I’m in a medium world.

As a duke.

At first, I thought it was a dream—or maybe one of those weird fever delusions you get after pulling three all-nighters with nothing but instant noodles and caffeine for sustenance.

But no. It’s been three months, and I’m still here.

Still stuck.

Still Cedric Callum, Duke of House Callum, noble heir of some overly complicated medieval territory with too many taxes and absolutely no plumbing.

At first, I was excited.

Duke. Power. Prestige.

Multiple wives. A literal harem.

It was everything my lonely, underappreciated, ramen-eating self had ever dreamed of.

Until the reality set in.

I have no actual power.

My vassals ignore me.

The steward manages everything.

My uncle practically rules in my name.

And my spouses?

They hate me.

I don’t mean mild dislike or passive-aggressive politeness. I mean glacier-level hostility. I walk into a room and it’s like someone lit a scented candle named "You’re Not Welcome Here."

The duchess—Evelyne—is terrifying. Ice-cold. Untouchable. She runs this place with the grace of a queen and the emotional warmth of a tax collector.

Lady Viola glares at me like I insulted her ancestors.

Lady Miriam smiles sweetly but avoids me like I’m contagious.

Lady Clarissa doesn’t even pretend—she just reads books and walks away.

And now there’s a new one.

Lady Daphne of Callum.

The count’s daughter.

The one I barely remember meeting before the wedding.

And then—the wedding night.

God. It was really bad apparently not that I remember anything.

"Your Grace," a voice says, cutting through the fog of my thoughts.

I look up—and there she is.

Merin.

The only person in this entire estate who doesn’t flinch when I speak. The only one who looks me in the eye. The only one who updates me without layers of contempt or political undertones.

A maid. Technically.

But also not just a maid.

She was assigned to assist me "temporarily" three weeks ago. She’s still here. Still sharp. Still somehow keeping this disaster of a life from spiraling completely out of control.

Yeah.

A maid.

Who glares at dust like it personally insulted her.

"The Duchess has requested your presence in the west garden," she says calmly, placing a stack of parchment beside me.

"She says it is not urgent, but she would prefer if you came before sunset."

I nod slowly. "Did she say what for?"

"No."

"...Right."

Merin gives me a once-over like she’s silently judging my posture, mental state, and fashion sense—all at once.

Then she sighs. "Would you like me to pick out something that doesn’t look like it was stitched by a drunk peasant?"

"I—I don’t think it’s that bad—"

"It’s bad."

*

In the garden, I sit opposite an empty chair.

She summoned me here, and she’s not even on time.

The table between us is elaborate—ornate legs, fresh white linen, a porcelain tea set that probably costs more than my dignity. The whole setup screams "polite execution."

And then—

She arrives.

The Duchess.

My wife.

Evelyne Callum.

She walks with the kind of practiced grace you only ever see in period dramas. No one trained in the modern world moves like that. Spine straight. Chin high. Eyes sharp.

She’s dressed in one of those puffy, high-society monstrosities—layers upon layers of silk and lace, probably designed to make sure no one breathes properly until marriage. Her hair is styled in an upward swirl that defies gravity, reason, and common sense. Jewels sparkle with every step.

And her face—

Cold.

Unreadable.

Exactly what you’d expect a duchess to look like.

Beautiful. Untouchable. Terrifying.

I sit straighter on instinct.

"My lord," she says, bowing slightly—more out of formality than any genuine respect.

She glides into her seat—well, is helped into it by a maid, because there’s no way in hell that dress lets her sit down unassisted. The layers alone could swallow a small dog.

She sits with perfect posture. Back straight. Hands resting delicately. Neck long. Still.

You’d think she was a machine.

Her cold blue eyes land on me. Piercing. Calculated.

I want to shift in my seat. But I don’t.

"I’ve been busy, and so have you. I apologize for this abrupt visit," she says.

"It’s fine," I answer, neutral.

"We’ve been married for five years now."

I blink.

Have they?

"Do you remember the conversation we had?"

I freeze.

I have no idea what she’s referring to. The original Cedric’s memories are... foggy at best. Like watching a movie on a scratched DVD in fast-forward.

I stay quiet.

Her mouth tightens ever so slightly.

"As expected, you don’t." Her voice is clipped. Clean. The sound of disappointment polished into etiquette.

"There is need for an heir."

My brain shorts out.

An heir.

Right. Because of course. Nobility. Inheritance.

Bloodlines.

All that.

But all I can think about is how I died a virgin and woke up in a world where people casually discuss impregnating political wives over tea.

I look at her, dumbfounded, and apparently something in my expression offends her on a spiritual level—because she gives me a look of such visible disgust I briefly wonder if I committed a crime by existing.

"I’ve informed the ladies," she says, folding her hands.

"They’ll be more proactive."

More. Proactive.

I want to evaporate into mist.

"And what about you?" I ask before I can stop myself.

The air in the garden drops.

Freezes.

My skin prickles.

Her lips barely move, but her voice is ice.

"I am the duchess. It matters not that the child is borne by me. Any child you have with the ladies will be my child. That is the agreement we made before our wedding."

Right.

Of course.

Politics before paternity.

"Understood," I say through gritted teeth, the bitterness sliding in like an old friend from Earth.

This is no different than high school. When the popular girls would look at me like I was something pathetic stuck to their shoes. The past is dead, but the feeling is the same.

She stands.

Or, rather, the maid helps her up. Ridiculous layers billowing as she rises like a crowned specter.

She turns to me with perfect composure.

"I’ve heard you’ve been... close with a particular maid," she says coolly.

I blink.

Merin.

"Please, Your Grace," she adds, smiling without warmth, "let the first child not be a bastard."

She’s standing—poised and unshakable. Looking down on me.

I hate this.

I hate this feeling.

This condescending, suffocating weight pressing down on me like I’m still that forgotten, overweight nobody back on Earth, the one people mocked behind his back and ignored to his face.

I’d thought waking up in the body of a duke would change everything.

But all I got was a different flavor of humiliation.

"I do not have that sort of relationship with her," I say through gritted teeth, fighting to keep my voice level.

Evelyne doesn’t even blink.

"Hmmnn."

She hums. Not a yes. Not a no. Just a vague noise that says I don’t believe you, but I don’t care enough to argue.

Then, like clockwork, she rises again—graceful and cold and draped in enough silk to strangle an army.

She bows.

Slightly.

"Your Grace," she says.

And turns her back on me.

She walks away, the train of her ridiculous dress sweeping the garden path behind her like a war banner.

The maid trails after her in perfect silence, head bowed. The picture of obedience.

I watch them disappear into the hedges, swallowed by roses and silence.

And then I exhale.

I clench my fists, knuckles white.

No more.

No more nodding. No more shame. No more bowing to people who already decided I was beneath them.

This is my second life.

I won’t live it curled into the corners of other people’s power.

Not anymore.

Evelyne is untouchable. The perfect duchess. Unshaken and unbothered.

Everyone walks on eggshells around her—because they know the truth.

She’s not just some noble wife playing politics at the dinner table.

Her older sister is the crown princess.

So even the most vicious backroom plots tiptoe around her. The other wives don’t dare challenge her. The vassals bend knee with double the politeness.

And me?

I’m just the duke.

The figurehead.

The placeholder.

The man with a title and no voice.

But that’s going to change.

I don’t care if she’s the duchess. Or if her bloodline traces straight to the throne.

I will not be looked down on.

I will not spend this life invisible.

Let her be untouchable.

I’ll climb anyway.

And when I reach her height—

She’ll have no choice but to see me.

I’ll make her acknowledge me.

Not as a name on a marriage document.

Not as the man responsible for heirs.

But as an equal.

As someone worthy of the title I carry.

One day...

I’ll stand with my head high.