QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL) Chapter 104: Anxiety and relief

Chapter 104 – Evelyn POV

I can’t believe I actually did it.

I sit in the carriage, staring blankly out the small window as the heavy wheels jolt and rattle beneath us. Every turn of the wheels takes further away from Callum estate—further from everything I have ever known.

Frida sits across from , silent. Her hands are folded tightly in her lap, her eyes cast downward. She chose to co with —without hesitation. I didn’t even have to ask.

For that, I don’t think I can ever repay her.

The road out of the estate is rougher than I rember. Or maybe it always was, and I simply never noticed when I traveled in silk-lined carriages with velvet cushions and armored escorts.

Now, the simple wooden carriage creaks with every bump. The padded seat is stiff. The air is thick with the lingering scent of oiled leather and dust.

It feels fitting.

I turn slightly and look back through the tiny glass window behind us. The grand spires of Callum estate, that place of stone and gold and suffocating rules, are already disappearing beyond the hills.

Fading like a dream.

Or a nightmare.

My hand curls against the seat beside , grasping at nothing. A strange ache throbs deep inside my chest. I thought I would feel only relief, but grief has wrapped itself around my ribs.

A life I can never get back—and do not want back.

I close my eyes for a mont, breathing deeply.

"You are not alone, your gra—" Frida cuts herself off mid-sentence, a small grimace flashing across her face.

"My lady," she corrects herself softly.

I smile faintly.

"Thank you, Frida," I say.

No titles. No chains.

The horses’ hooves beat a steady rhythm against the packed dirt road. The setting sun bleeds gold and crimson across the sky, casting the carriage interior in a soft, muted light.

Everything feels so fragile right now. Like one wrong word might shatter the thin courage holding together.

Frida doesn’t speak again. She doesn’t need to.

Her presence is enough.

I let my head fall back against the worn seat, my fingers loosening their grip. I can still feel the tremor in my hands from earlier—from standing in that grand hall and stripping myself bare before them all.

Telling the truth.

Choosing myself for the first ti.

*

Choosing myself for the first ti.

I step down from the carriage, my boots crunching lightly against the dirt.

The small tavern looms ahead of , the windows glowing faintly with dim yellow light. A crude wooden sign creaks in the night breeze, barely held by rusted chains. Beyond it, the building doubles as an inn—modest, old, and worn by ti.

After sitting for four hours, my legs feel numb. I sway slightly, gripping the carriage door for balance.

Frida jumps down behind , stretching stiffly.

"My lady, I’ll be back," she says, adjusting her shawl and heading toward the front entrance. Probably to inquire about rooms or als. Logistics. Things that had always been soone else’s problem before.

I pull the thick cloak tighter around myself.

The night air is cold.

Sharper out here, away from the fire-heated halls of the estate. It cuts through the layers of my dress, makes acutely aware of how vulnerable I am now. No guards. No entourage. No gilded na to shield .

I shift uneasily by the carriage as it turns and rumbles off, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake. I’m truly alone now. Alone in a way I’ve never been before.

I turn to head after Frida—

"Hello, pretty lady," a voice slurs from behind .

I stiffen.

Turning slowly, I find myself face to face with a man—filthy, balding, a chipped tal cup sloshing so rancid liquid in his hand. His clothes are stained, and the air around him reeks of sweat and sour ale.

I take a step back instinctively.

"Don’t be like that," he says, stumbling closer. His eyes roam over with a disgusting familiarity, and fear surges up my spine.

I glance around. The tavern door is still open—but far too far to reach without him grabbing . There’s no guard, no escort. No shield between and the ugly reality of the world.

My breath catches.

I thought I was prepared for this—the vulnerability of being powerless—but facing it in the flesh, the sheer helplessness of it—

My heart beats painfully fast.

The man grins, reaching a dirty hand toward my arm.

And then—

He’s ripped away from so violently I stagger back in shock.

A sharp thud echoes in the night as he hits the ground hard, groaning.

Before I can even fully comprehend it, another figure descends on him—kicking him squarely in the ribs, once, twice, before grabbing him by the collar and dragging him further away from .

"I swear," the figure grunts, kicking the man again.

"These bastards only understand one form of language."

He spits to the side, the man curling into a whimpering ball.

I freeze.

I know that voice.

Even before he straightens, even before he turns his face toward the ager light spilling from the tavern windows—I know.

The rough clothes, the tied-back brown hair, the sharp glint in her dark eyes despite the fight.

Daphne.

All the fear, the loneliness, the doubt crushing my chest—it evaporates in an instant.

The world snaps back into focus, and she is the only thing in it.

She wipes her hands on her trousers like she just finished so casual chore, like saving from a lecherous drunk was as normal as breathing.

She straightens, walking toward without hesitation.

I stand frozen in place, fists clenched tight at my sides, until she’s right in front of .

"You’re freezing," she mutters under her breath, already shrugging off her worn coat to throw it around my shoulders.

The heavy fabric is rough, slls faintly of leather and the faintest hint of her soap. It’s too big for and still warm from her body.

My throat tightens unbearably.

I blink up at her, blinking fast against the sudden sting in my eyes.

"Daphne," I whisper, almost a prayer.

"I’m here," she says simply, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

I don’t think.

I throw myself forward, wrapping my arms around her waist, burying my face in her chest. I feel her tense for half a second—and then lt, enclosing tightly in her arms, one hand cradling the back of my head.

"I’ve got you," she murmurs, the words vibrating against my ear.

"You’re safe now."

The sob tears from my throat without warning.

Weeks of fear, of loneliness, of pretending to be strong—it all cracks apart in that single second.

I clutch her tighter, desperate, greedy for her touch, for the safety she brings.

For the first ti in what feels like forever, the world feels right.

She holds as the drunken man groans and stumbles away into the darkness, as the cold wind whistles through the trees, as Frida rushes back out of the tavern and halts awkwardly, witnessing our embrace.

I don’t care who sees.