QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL) Chapter 131: Recycling

Chapter 131

Estela POV

"Should I add oranges?" Daphne asks, wrist flicking expertly as she pours the syrupy mix of fruit into a tall glass. The sun cuts soft light over her face, catching on the faint healing bruise at her jaw.

"That’s fine," I murmur, watching her.

She’s... handso like this. Calm. Unburdened. She’s wearing shorts and a simple short-sleeved shirt, her dark hair tied back carelessly, but it suits her—perfectly, maddeningly so.

If I hadn’t seen her last night—blood-streaked and silent, moving like so asura torn from hell itself—I’d have thought I dreamt it.

She hadn’t even looked at when she entered. Just dropped her weapons, stripped off her bloodied suit jacket, and walked straight into the shower. The water had run for nearly half an hour.

Then she’d collapsed, half-naked, half-dead, across the bed.

Julie ca in after her like a nurse bred in fire, checking her injuries, dabbing ointnt across her side and temple with the sa precision he applies to eyeliner.

Neither of them said a word. It was... eerie. Intimate. Like a routine they’d done a thousand tis.

Now, she slides the glass toward , a perfect orange slice resting on the rim.

Then she takes the seat next to .

Not the chair across. Not the lounger near the railing. No, the one right beside .

I don’t comnt. I just sip through the straw.

It’s cold. Tart. Sweet. Ridiculously good.

"This is good," I say, surprised.

Daphne grins. "Guess I can finally put this useless skill to use."

Her arm slips behind . Casual. Not casual. Her fingers skim the curve of my waist.

Sneaky woman.

I turn my head slightly, about to call her out, but she’s already watching —eyes low, smile soft and dangerous.

"You should let spoil you," she says.

"You’re already doing that," I reply, careful to keep my voice flat.

"Not really," she says, tilting her head. "This is restraint."

I roll my eyes. "You’re impossible."

"But you like ."

I go still.

Because she’s right. No she’s not. I an why would I like her? I don’t know her.

I don’t respond instead.

Her hand drifts higher. Up my back. Slow.

She leans in.

And just before our lips touch—

The doors to the porch burst open.

A box is hurled onto the tiled floor in front of us. It lands with a sickening thud, the lid cracking open slightly.

The sll hits first.

Coppery. Wet. Rotting.

We both stare.

And then my eyes lift—just in ti to et the fury of the man standing across from us.

Luciano Castellano.

He stands just beyond the threshold, practically shaking with rage, dark eyes burning as they flick between and Daphne.

"Brother," Daphne says coolly from her seat, still lounging beside with her mocktail in hand, "you really shouldn’t throw away people’s gifts like that."

Her voice doesn’t waver. Doesn’t even dip with tension.

It only makes him angrier.

"What is this?!" he thunders, his voice booming across the porch.

I flinch instinctively—but Daphne’s hand slides across my lower back, grounding .

She takes a slow sip from her glass before setting it down, entirely unbothered.

"What does it look like?" she says, bored, not even bothering to stand.

Luciano’s fists clench at his sides.

"You sent this to ?"

"More like returned," Daphne says with a shrug, her expression flat.

"Recycling, Castellano style."

Luciano draws in a slow breath, trying to compose himself. I can see the effort it takes—he’s barely holding it together.

"Stop this," he says, voice low and tight. "If you don’t want to get buried with him."

Daphne doesn’t blink. "No can do, brother. Raffaele and I have sothing in common."

She pauses.

"We both want you dead."

The words drop between them like lead.

Luciano stares at her, stunned for just a mont before rage starts building in his jaw.

"It’s not too late," he says, jaw tight. "Stop this madness. Co back to the fold. Let protect you like Father wanted."

"I think not."

Luciano steps fully onto the porch now, his presence invasive. I instinctively press closer to Daphne.

"I think not."

Luciano steps fully onto the porch now, his presence invasive. I instinctively press closer to Daphne.

"Very well then," he says. "Since you want to be treated like a man, I’ll treat you like one."

Daphne’s smile is a razor.

"I think you have more urgent things to worry about, brother."

She makes a soft whoosh sound, flicking her fingers outward like a mock explosion. Her eyes gleam with amusent.

Almost on cue, a man rushes onto the porch behind Luciano, whispering urgently in his ear. I only catch fragnts:

"...factory... gone... fire departnt can’t... caras caught nothing..."

Luciano stiffens.

His eyes snap back to Daphne.

"You fucking bitch."

He takes a step forward, fury rolling off him in waves.

I instinctively reach for Daphne, but she doesn’t move. She just tilts her head, like she’s observing a particularly annoying insect.

"Now, now," she says sweetly, crossing her legs and lifting her mocktail for another sip.

"You really don’t have the ti to play with ."

Luciano glares. Then turns sharply and storms off, slamming the door so hard it rattles the glass.

The porch falls silent.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

The silence Luciano left behind buzzes in my ears, like static after a gunshot.

"Sorry," Daphne says, turning to with the sa calm she used to lob verbal grenades at her brother. "Family drama."

Right.

Family drama.

Totally normal.

Who am I to judge what’s normal, anyway? I was raised in an orphanage that doubled as a training ground for assassins. My bedti stories were hand-to-hand combat drills.

So really, who’s the weirdo here?

Daphne leans closer again, still unruffled, like a literal box of human remains hasn’t just been flung at our feet.

"Now... where were we?"

I stare at her. Then glance at the box.

The fingers.

Still there. Still severed. Still leaking.

I raise an eyebrow.

Daphne follows my gaze, sighs heavily, and then lifts her voice with sharp precision.

"What are you standing there for?! Clean this up!"