QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL) Chapter 118: Ready

Chapter 118 – Daphne POV

It’s been four years since I ca into this world.

God.

This place is my favorite and my least favorite, all at once.

It’s the absurdity of it, I think. The chaos that simrs beneath everything, like a reality teetering on the edge of forgetting itself.

I used to walk down a street and watch entire buildings vanish—swallowed by black holes that blinked open and shut like lazy gods. And when I looked around for anyone else to react?

Nothing.

Once, I passed a florist that turned into a butcher overnight, but the woman behind the counter still handed roses, blood dripping from the petals.

People would keep sipping coffee next to a warping void like the laws of physics weren’t being rewritten beside them.

Glitches are part of the background here. One week a restaurant is bustling with servers and violins. The next, it’s a barbershop, and no one bats an eye. I once saw a man glitch mid-step and duplicate into two versions of himself—both perfectly unaware.

The only places I’ve noticed don’t break down are around the Castellano estate... and the capital.

I used to think that was coincidence. Now I know better.

This world doesn’t have a plot. It has gravity. And the Castellanos are the black hole at the center.

---

I delayed my father’s death by two years.

It should’ve happened at the end of my second year here. But I made myself useful. Gave him connections he could never get on his own. Built networks with triads, Eastern European cartels, and powerful NGOs with iron teeth behind pretty mission statents. Offered him the illusion of longevity.

In return?

He left alone.

Four years was enough to build an empire and make sure that when the story finally restarted, I wouldn’t find myself married off to a walking plot point or turned into a sacrificial side character for so man’s revenge arc.

Now, the plot begins again.

And I’m ready.

Well as ready as can be.

---

The jet lands with a soft hiss of hydraulic pressure.

Private tarmac. Mid-morning sun. Heat shimrs off the concrete in slow, lazy waves.

I stand up from my seat, brushing off invisible dust from my suit. Black-on-black, crisply tailored, subtly intimidating. No tie. No heels. Never heels. Okay sotis. It’s rare though, but the last ti I wore them was in my first life, feels like ages ago.

Julie materializes beside like a glamorous storm cloud.

He adjusts the collar of my jacket with a sharp tug, fingers cool and efficient.

"You creased this when you slouched, darling. We talked about slouching."

"I slouch for exactly one person," I murmur.

He hums. "Dead n don’t count, ma chérie."

Julie is six feet of muscled elegance, all sun-bleached blond hair, sharp cheekbones, and full-glam makeup. Today’s look is smoky lavender eyeshadow, wine-gloss lips, and a floor-length backless dress in charcoal silk. He makes femininity into a weapon—gorgeous, precise, and utterly lethal.

By day, he’s my assistant, stylist, and publicist.

By night?

He’s the man who makes people disappear.

No one is the sa after Julie is done with them.

---

The jet stairs lower. Two sleek black cars idle at the base, their windows dark as obsidian. n in tailored suits stand at attention beside them, each earpiece coiled tight, each gaze sweeping the surroundings with professional apathy.

Caras flash from behind the barricades. Press.

Of course.

Paparazzi are always vultures, but they’re especially rabid when they sll mafia blood.

As I descend, the air prickles—hot and sharp against my skin. The cara shutters go off like machine guns.

"Daphne Castellano! How do you feel about your father’s death?!"

"Is it true you were exiled?!"

"Are the rumors true? About your sexuality?!"

"Sources say you’re estranged from the family—any comnt?!"

My jaw tightens, but I don’t flinch. My expression stays neutral, gaze straight ahead. One step. Another. The rhythm is chanical.

Julie beats to it.

"No comnt," he snaps, flashing a grin that’s all teeth and threat. His voice cuts through the crowd like a whip.

Silence falls.

I smile faintly as I slip into the car.

I love that effect he has on people.

---

The interior of the car is cool, scented faintly with bergamot and leather. I lean my head back against the seat and exhale, eyes half-lidded, trying not to think too much.

Outside, the city passes in clean, rendered detail.

No visual tearing. No flickering. No glitching.

Everything is perfectly in place.

It’s almost unnerving.

This place is stable—eerily so. The buildings stand where they’re supposed to. The people move like real people. No ti loops. No doubled shadows.

I glance out the window, brows furrowing.

Where I ca from, the world was breaking down. Cracks in logic, continuity errors, disappearing structures. Entire neighborhoods rewritten overnight.

But here?

Here, the world holds its breath.

I guess it makes sense. This is the capital. This is where the Castellano legacy anchors itself. This is where the story waits to unfold.

Even in a world built wrong, so places are too important to dissolve.

---

The estate appears ahead, nestled behind wrought-iron gates emblazoned with the ornate Castellano "C", curled like a serpent devouring its own tail. n in suits line the periter, eyes sharp, fingers twitching near holsters.

A little too many guards for a funeral, don’t you think?

Not suspicious at all.

Julie notices watching and leans in.

"They think the heirs might kill each other before dessert," he murmurs, deadpan.

"I’ve scheduled the bodyguard rotation accordingly."

I grunt. "Thoughtful."

"Always."

The car pulls in through the gates.

The Castellano estate hasn’t changed much. It still feels like stepping into a cathedral carved from blood money. Stone walls, ivy-streaked. Balconies with sculpted gargoyles. Windows like watching eyes.

The mansion was built in the early 1900s, when the family decided to stop pretending they were just businessn.

They’ve been laundering sin into gold ever since.

Unofficial royalty. Kings without crowns. Power like legend—quiet and terrifying. Being Don of this house isn’t just inheritance. It’s dominion.

Politicians owe you favors.

Presidents owe you silence.

One step into the entryway, and I can already hear the whisper of ambition crawling through the walls.

It slls like varnish and expensive grief.

---

"Welco back, Daphne Castellano," a steward murmurs as he opens the door.

I nod once, brushing past him.

Julie is still behind , heels clicking lightly on marble. He’s already checking his phone, managing appearances. But I feel his eyes on —watching for tension in my jaw, the twitch of my hand.

He knows too well.