QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL) Chapter 109: Capital

109 - Daphne POV

Thanks to Evelyn’s constant, constant convincing, we’re in the capital to view an art gallery the queen has organized in my na. It’s been open for so ti now; it’ll be interesting to see it with my own eyes.

Yes, Queen now. The previous queen passed away, and the crown prince — now king — took the throne.

Also... I may have gotten too used to our tiny town, because this place slls like hell.

There’s horse dung everywhere, and I suspect not all of it is from horses.

I shudder, disgusted. Gross.

The streets are packed, too, bodies pressing close, loud voices rising into a constant, grating hum. The stench, the gri, the pickpockets eyeing every passing coin purse—capital life. Evelyn tightens her arm around mine, and I adjust our pace, instinctively shielding her with my body as we weave through the crowd.

At several points, I catch quick hands reaching out toward us — little kids mostly, dirt-smudged and desperate — and though I slap their hands away gently, I can’t bring myself to be harsh. They’re just surviving.

Eventually, after winding through crowded streets and dodging enough puddles to last a lifeti, we find ourselves in front of a grand salon, its facade polished to a shine, banners fluttering proudly.

From beneath her wide-brimd hat, Evelyn walks confidently up to a guard stationed by the entrance. The man stiffens the mont he catches a glimpse of her face. Recognition flashes in his eyes, and without hesitation, he motions for another servant.

"This way, my lady," he says, guiding us discreetly around to a side entrance.

We’re led through a narrow passageway, up a staircase lined with velvet carpets, the noise of the street falling away until all that’s left is the faint murmur of highborn conversation beyond thick doors.

At the top of the stairs, the servant halts and opens the door.

Inside, standing regal and composed, is the queen — Evelyn’s sister.

I bow low, lowering my head respectfully. "Your Highness."

Evelyn doesn’t bother with ceremony. She lets out a soft gasp and rushes forward, throwing her arms around her sister without hesitation, burying her face into the queen’s shoulder like a child seeing a beloved parent after too long apart.

A nearby servant looks scandalized by the breach of protocol, stepping forward instinctively to intervene—

But the queen raises a hand, stopping them with a single silent command.

Slowly, the queen wraps her arms around Evelyn and pulls her close, resting her cheek atop Evelyn’s head with an ease that makes my chest ache.

They stay like that for a long mont, no words spoken, just breathing each other in.

I shift my weight, looking away to give them so privacy, but I can’t help the warm, aching smile that tugs at my lips.

Finally, the queen pulls back just enough to cup Evelyn’s face between her gloved hands.

"You’ve grown even more beautiful," she murmurs, pride thick in her voice.

"And... you’re happy. I can see it in your eyes."

Evelyn smiles — the soft, radiant one she rarely lets anyone else see — and the room feels brighter for it.

"Thank you," Evelyn whispers.

The queen’s gaze flickers over to . Sharp. Assessing.

For a beat, I feel weighed, asured.

And then... the queen smiles warmly.

"Mr. Han, you’ve grown more tan since the last ti I saw you."

I offer a small, polite smile.

"Such is country life, Your Highness. Working in the sun and all."

She chuckles lightly, the sound surprisingly genuine.

"How delightful. The sun barely graces us with its presence these days."

Her gaze flicks out the tall windows beyond the grand room, where the sky is gray, heavy with gathering clouds.

Evelyn shifts beside her, still holding onto her sister’s arm, her expression a quiet mix of amusent and affection.

"I’m glad," the queen says after a pause, turning back to .

"It suits you. You look... strong."

There’s a hidden aning there too, a subtle approval.

I bow my head slightly in acknowledgnt. .

"Thank you, Your Highness."

The queen turns her attention back to Evelyn, her tone softening.

I give them so space to catch up, stepping aside toward one of the polished marble columns.

From a few steps away, I watch them—two sisters standing close, heads bowed together in a way that feels almost sacred.

Evelyn’s laughter, light and unguarded, reaches my ears, and sothing inside my chest loosens.

I didn’t realize how much she needed this.

How much I wanted this for her.

Their conversation is quiet, private—words ant only for them. I can’t hear what they’re saying, and I don’t try to.

Instead, I turn my attention to the hall itself.

Everywhere I look are pieces of myself scattered across canvas and fra, hung with pride in golden light.

It’s surreal.

Months ago, I thought I’d die naless, forgotten.

Now, nobles, rchants, and scholars pass through this gallery to whisper about my work.

Not that it matters.

If Evelyn weren’t here, none of this would matter at all.

I trail my fingers along the intricate carvings of the column absentmindedly, until Evelyn’s voice cuts through the air.

"Mr. Han," she calls, soft but insistent.

I glance back to find her smiling at , one hand still looped around her sister’s arm.

The queen smiles too—watching with a look that’s part amusent, part sothing else. Approval maybe. Or understanding.

"We were just discussing," Evelyn says, walking toward , "how your exhibition is the highlight of the season."

Her eyes gleam with pride.

I rub the back of my neck, feeling uncharacteristically shy. "Ah, well... it’s mostly thanks to a certain muse."

At that, the queen raises an eyebrow but says nothing.

Evelyn’s cheeks turn pink, but she doesn’t look away.

Instead, she steps closer—so close our arms brush—and says, voice pitched low:

"Then I hope your muse knows just how proud she is of you too."

I feel my cheeks warm, a rare shyness overtaking at her words. I bow my head slightly, unsure how to respond to sothing so kind. It’s easier to focus on anything else than to stand there and bask in the glow of it.

"That’s enough," the queen says, her tone fond but teasing.

"Co. Don’t you wish to see where your paintings have been displayed?"

She gestures toward the inner part of the saloon, and Evelyn reluctantly lets go of her sister to join . I glance at her out of the corner of my eye—Evelyn, smiling brightly, like the sun itself—and I swear my heart skips a beat.

The queen leads the way, and we follow.

The saloon itself had been cleared out for the occasion. Heavy dark curtains had been draped along the walls, covering the usual wood paneling and creating a softer, richer atmosphere. Between them, my paintings are displayed, lit by dozens of candles scattered in wrought-iron sconces and chandeliers above.

The air slls faintly of polish and old wine, but underneath it all is the scent of fresh wax and the warm crackle of hearthfires. It’s a strange blend of rustic and reverent—and sohow, it feels perfect.

It doesn’t feel like a grand gallery or a royal hall.

It feels... personal.

Evelyn slips her hand into mine when she thinks no one’s looking, squeezing gently.

***

Cedric POV

I stand in front of the painting, in the saloon, like clockwork once a week. Always at the sa ti. Always staring at the sa canvas.

Evelyn.

The painter captured her so vividly it’s almost painful to look at. Her hair, loose and wild, blows in the wind against the backdrop of rolling hills. The light in the painting makes it look like it’s alive, like she might step out at any mont if I just stared hard enough.

It’s a full day’s ride from the Callum estate to town.

It doesn’t matter.

I make the trip anyway.

I tell myself it’s because I have business, because I need to monitor the estate’s holdings here.

But I know the truth.

It’s her.

It’s always been her.

Rumors ran through the capital like wildfire after her departure. Whispers about the duchess who dared to choose love over title, who left her gilded cage behind to chase happiness with a nobody. Tales so romantic even the poets sang about them now.

I beca the cautionary story in every noble household. The fool who lost his duchess.

They look at with pity.

Pity.

And when I couldn’t take it anymore, when the humiliation clawed too sharply under my skin, I ca here.

Just once, I thought.

Just once to see if the rumors were true.

And they were.

The painter... the so-called "genius" who everyone praised—"Mr. Han"—was talented beyond words.

And when I stood there that first ti, staring up at her face, so full of life and freedom, I realized sothing I hadn’t let myself face.

I had never seen her that happy. Not once. She was always the cold faced duchess.