QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL)-Chapter 91: Concern

Chapter 91 – Daphne POV

The room is dimly lit by late-afternoon sun bleeding through thick red curtains. The walls are lined with dark wood and endless rows of books I doubt he’s ever read. A single painting of a golden sea sunset hangs above the fireplace, too perfect, too deliberate.

I sit where he’s told me to—on the pale velvet chair that sinks under my weight like it’s trying to swallow me whole.

Why did he call for me?

"Lady Daphne," he says again, more gently now, folding his hands over a stack of carefully arranged parchment.

"Would you like tea?"

Before I can answer, a maid walks in with a silver tray and a delicate clink of porcelain. She pours, bows, and vanishes like smoke.

I lift the teacup, mostly for something to hold, not because I want it. It’s warm against my fingers. Steadying.

The duke watches me from across the desk, elbows resting on polished wood, expression unreadable.

Then he stands.

I stiffen immediately.

When he rounds the desk and makes to sit beside me, my entire body reacts—I flinch, very obviously, and without apology.

He freezes.

Just for a second.

Then he quietly changes course and lowers himself into the opposite chair, the one behind the tea set. He doesn’t comment. Doesn’t acknowledge it.

I breathe again.

Only a little.

"Lady Daphne," he says, gently now, like a man approaching a wounded animal, "thank you for coming."

I nod. My hands are folded neatly on my lap. My spine straight. My eyes trained just past his shoulder, at the red curtains and golden sunset bleeding through the window. I don’t say anything.

"How have you been doing?" he asks.

"I have been... okay, Your Grace." I keep my voice soft. Vague. Carefully, politely uncomfortable. It’s all in the body language—I shift just enough to make it clear I don’t want to be here, but not enough to be rude.

He studies me.

I stare at the teacup.

"I’m sorry. This is probably a surprise, isn’t it?" he says.

I merely nod.

His eyes shift, something uncertain passing through them.

"I was afraid I was neglecting you," he admits.

Please continue neglecting me.

What brought this on?

I narrow my eyes slightly. Why now? Why me? Is this guilt? Boredom? Mid-harem leader syndrome?

"I’ve realized..." he continues, "perhaps I’ve been too focused on... other duties. I didn’t mean for anyone to feel abandoned."

I don’t respond.

"You’ve been quiet at the tea gatherings," he says.

"The others—Viola, Clarissa, Miriam—they’ve found ways to participate. I suppose I just wanted to make sure you were... comfortable."

Comfortable?

I force a breath through my nose. I glance at the teacup again, then at his face. His brow is furrowed—not in frustration, but in something that unnervingly resembles concern.

Yeah, no.

"I am not troubled," I say at last, polite, distant.

"You needn’t worry about me, Your Grace."

His mouth tightens faintly. He leans forward a bit.

"That’s just it," he says, eyes meeting mine.

"I do worry. Not because of obligation, but because I know what it’s like to feel out of place."

What the actual fuck?

Oh. Hell. No.

What kind of fantasy novel does he think this is?

Does he genuinely believe we’re kindred spirits? Like we’d bond over trauma tea and the shared pain of being "so different"?

My eye twitches.

I sip the tea instead of saying the very real, very aggressive response building in my throat. I need to be careful—if I say anything too real, he might think we’re close.

Maybe I should fake a fainting spell. Maybe throw up and blame "nerves." Or pretend I’m fasting for religious reasons? Or maybe under the guise of PTSD I could give him a couple of pu—

[Host!!!] the system screeches.

Right. I forgot I unblocked it. I didn’t need its commentary when I was having the Duchess ride my—

[PLEASE DO NOT FINISH THAT THOUGHT.]

I smile sweetly across the table.

"I’m... fine, Your Grace. Truly."

I even lower my lashes for extra effect.

"This is the most peace I’ve had in... well, perhaps ever. I spend my days painting, walking the gardens, enjoying the quiet. No expectations. No pressure."

I tilt my head, add just the right touch of wistful weariness.

"Thank you for your concern, Your Grace, but... unlike the Duchess and the other ladies, my family isn’t powerful enough to be used as a foothold. Your attention on me might be... misconstrued."

There.

A perfect blend of "humble," "grateful," and "please don’t ever talk to me again."

He nods slowly, the message clearly received.

"I understand." freeweɓnovel.cѳm

Oh, thank the gods.

I sip my tea again, posture still impeccable, eyes focused just past his shoulder like I’m too polite to show boredom and too delicate to show disdain.

Please take the hint. Please go away. Please don’t monologue at me again about how hard it is to be the main character.

After a long pause, he finally stands.

"Thank you for your time," he says.

I bow my head just enough.

"Of course, Your Grace."

As soon as the door clicks shut behind me, I exhale hard enough to blow out a candle.

"What the fuck was that?" I mutter.

[It was character development.]

’Shut up.’

’Could he have had his character development elsewhere?’

Like, I don’t know... in a war? In a rebellion? In a tragic backstory monologue with a dramatic thunderstorm?

[No, according to the original narrative, that’s the scene where you fall in love with him.]

I stop walking.

’Really? That’s it?’

[...Yes.]

’The bar is clearly underground.’

[Some say it’s emotional maturity.]

’Some say he smells like goat cheese and misplaced ambition.’

I shake my head, genuinely feeling pity for the original Daphne. She didn’t deserve that. After an abusive trashy family that’s the man she was supposed to fall in love with?

I sigh, deeply. The kind of sigh you release when your favorite series kills off the best character for shock value.

’Well,’ I mutter,

’fortunately for us both, this Daphne has taste.’

And that taste wears corsets tighter than sin, has eyes like sapphire judgment, and rides me harder than—

[HOST!!!]