QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL)-Chapter 77: Jealousy and hate

Chapter 77 – Evelyne POV

She looks out the window as the carriage rolls through the trees, and I—I am dying beside her.

Of course, I don’t show it. I’m better at hiding it now.

But Lady Daphne—

Haa.

As a noble lady, she’s... fine. Normal. Sweet enough. Still cute.

But like this?

Dressed in loose men’s riding clothes, her posture relaxed, hair tied back, skin flushed from exertion—she looks like a slender, long-limbed man with a quiet kind of danger. But heavens, it is devastating for my heart.

The first time I saw her like this, I genuinely couldn’t breathe.

No—literally. I passed out.

Collapsed right in the corridor like some frail heroine from a trashy romance novel. The whole castle panicked. The physician was summoned. I blamed it on nerves, heat, maybe skipped meals.

But it was her. It was her and her devil-magic and that ridiculous half-buttoned shirt.

I don’t know what kind of sorcery this is.

What kind of temptation.

But she becomes someone else when she’s like that. Confident. Effortless. Unreachable.

It’s inconveniencable. It makes me irrational. I want to both smother and worship her.

I wasn’t thrilled about the fighting, and I can’t bear to watch her matches... but I let her continue. Not because I approve. No. Because one time she let it slip—she thought I didn’t know.

And now I do.

And I keep that knowledge like a keepsake. A quiet little victory.

One more part of her I get to hold that no one else does.

Too soon, the carriage stops.

She slides out in silence, vanishing through the servants’ path like fog at dawn.

And I remain, spine straight, fingers tight on the embroidery I no longer care to finish.

*

I hold a candle in one hand and ascend the old tower stairs in silence.

I don’t know why I do this.

I’ve told myself it’s curiosity. Artistic appreciation. Maybe even concern.

But I know that’s a lie.

Because I like this specific kind of torture.

The floors creak beneath me. The door groans open.

And I’m greeted—once again—by the scent of oil paint, varnish, and something uniquely her.

The room is quiet, the moonlight filtering faintly through the cracks. Dozens of canvases lean against the walls, unfinished or drying.

Some are breathtaking landscapes—oceans crashing against cliffs, stormy skies, rivers that look like they hum with magic.

But some...

Some are portraits.

Of a woman.

The same woman.

Painted again and again.

And I freeze.

Because she looks like me.

No—not exactly. She’s a foreigner of Eastern descent.

Lady Daphne is from a coastal town.

Her features are different. Her eyes darker, almond-shaped. Her skin more sun-warmed. Her hair darker than mine has ever been.

And yet...

She looks like me. But not me.

And the longer I look, the more it hurts.

I crouch beside the nearest canvas. My candlelight reflects in the painted eyes—eyes that burn with memory. With sorrow.

With devotion.

In these brushstrokes, I feel it.

The emotion. The longing. The desperate, raw love of someone who painted from their soul.

And I hate it.

Because it’s not me she painted.

It’s no.

The one before me. The one who came before me. The ghost Lady Daphne keeps searching for in every smile, in every shadow, maybe even in me.

From the little I’ve pieced together over the months, I know this woman is gone. A performer, once. A lowly position in any society, even worse among nobles. And yet...

She must have been extraordinary.

Because Lady Daphne still mourns her like she’s fresh in the grave.

And me?

I find myself raging with jealousy toward a dead woman.

Someone who was loved—wholly, deeply, unconditionally.

Someone who will never be touched again, but somehow still owns every part of her.

I stare at the painting and whisper, voice low and bitter:

"I hate you so much."

Because I do.

Because it guts me, to fall in love with someone who only ever looks for you in me.

But I’m not you.

I never will be.

And it’s killing me.

I reach out—fingers trembling—and trace the brushstrokes that shape your face. The delicate line of your jaw, the faint shadow beneath your lip, the softness in your painted gaze.

She painted you with reverence. With aching love. With ownership.

Like you were hers, and always would be.

Will I ever own even a fraction of her heart?

Or will it forever belong to you?

To a memory?

To a ghost?

Would a fraction even be enough?

Or would it only make the longing worse?

Would I ever grace these canvas the way you do—

Etched into her soul, immortalized in oil and pigment?

I sigh.

Not because I’m tired.

But because I don’t have the answers.

Because all I can do is stand here, hands stained with envy, while she grieves you in silence and I grieve her in secret.

And you—

You get to be the only one she ever loved without consequence.

I want to curl into a ball and cry.

But I don’t.

I stand in front of a painting, stiff and aching, trying to look like a duchess instead of a fool in love with someone who isn’t mine.

I don’t know what’s even going on anymore.

When did I fall in love with her?

My fingers twitch as they brush over the painted eyes.

Eyes that gaze forward with such affection it makes my ribs ache.

She looks amused in this portrait.

Like there’s an inside joke. A private moment being shared.

Like Daphne painted the memory of a laugh only they knew.

How unfair.

Jealousy burns. Red hot. Ugly. Alive.

How deeply, unbearably unfair.

***

Daphne POV

She’s standing in front of the painting again—her painting. Or rather, the one of Yuxi. The woman who isn’t her and yet looks so much like her it hurts.

Evelyne doesn’t see me. She’s too still, too quiet. The candlelight catches in her hair, and her face is unreadable.

But I can feel it.

I take a step forward.

And stop.

What am I doing?

This isn’t Jiang Yuxi.

This isn’t my wife.1