QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL) Chapter 136: My?

Chapter 136

Estela POV

Usually, when I take a life, the guilt seeps in fast and rciless. It sits heavy on my chest, weighs down the air I breathe. Even when it was justified, even when I told myself I had no choice—it always followed. That hollow ache. The aftertaste of violence.

But not this ti.

This ti, I feel sothing else entirely.

I don’t know if it’s the adrenaline, or the way our lives nearly slipped through our fingers. Maybe it’s the sharpness of the air in this mont, mixed with the faint scent of gunpowder, blood, and her perfu. Maybe it’s the taboo of it all—bodies around us, death in the walls, and the train still coasting through a foreign country like nothing happened.

But I have never been more turned on in my life.

My body is still trembling, but it’s not from fear or even exhaustion. It’s sothing else. My skin feels too tight, like it can’t hold in everything boiling beneath.

Then Daphne shifts.

She moves between my legs, parting them with her knee, slow and confident. Her hands glide up my thighs, not hurried, just steady—certain. Like she’s known this map her whole life. Like every motion is deliberate.

I gasp.

Because it’s not just the physicality—it’s the look in her eyes. She’s not rough. She’s not careless. She looks at like she knows every nerve ending. Like she’s already morized every curve, every scar, every place I hold tension.

Julie was lying.

There’s no way Daphne Castellano isn’t promiscuous. No way anyone can make feel this good this fast without experience—without mastery.

But then she kisses again, this ti gentler, and I realize maybe that’s not it.

Maybe she’s not experienced.

Maybe she’s just this into .

And God, that’s even worse.

Her hand trails between my legs, slow and deliberate. My breath stutters—sharp, involuntary. The heat coiling in my stomach turns electric.

And that’s exactly when the door bursts open with a deafening boom.

"You’ve got to be fucking kidding !" a voice yells, high-pitched with outrage and disbelief.

Julie.

I try to scramble away, mortified, but Daphne’s arm wraps tighter around my waist, holding in place with unshakable strength.

"You weren’t responding!" Julie shouts, storming in like a hurricane in designer heels. His face is flushed, mascara flawless despite his fury

. "Here I was thinking you were injured, maybe unconscious, but this? You’re in here getting it on?! Tiandplace, boss! Ti and place!"

Daphne finally lets go.

Julie crosses his arms, dramatic.

"I called for backup."

Daphne grabs her discarded jacket and motions for to follow. I adjust my jumpsuit quickly, face burning, and we both push past Julie, who continues muttering sothing about "traumatizedtiming" and "needing a raise."

We cut through the length of the train, stepping over broken glass, unconscious attackers, and spent shells. The wind picks up as we reach the last compartnt with the steel ladder leading up to the roof.

Daphne climbs first—smooth, practiced. I follow close behind, boots gripping the cold tal rungs.

The hatch opens.

Wind slaps in the face like a whip.

The top of the train is a blur of noise and motion, the world tilting as the chopper cos into view, its rotors screaming against the sky.

A rope ladder dangles, swinging wildly in the wind.

Daphne turns back to , grinning.

"After you, sweetheart."

And I leap.

*

The helicopter ride is... awkward.

The air between Daphne and Raffaele is thick with sothing I can only describe as charged silence. She’s staring out the window, arms folded, while he sits across from us, jaw tight, gaze unreadable. Julie hums softly to himself, legs crossed like this is just another Tuesday, but even he’s watching them from the corner of his eye.

The chopper begins to descend, wind kicking up as we approach a field so green it looks like it was painted on.

The estate beneath us is massive—elegant, old-world, proud. A patchwork of trimd gardens and stone buildings, nestled deep in the Irish countryside. Waiting on the ground are rows of black cars and n in dark suits, their expressions stoic and assessing.

The second we land, Daphne jumps out like she’s walking onto a red carpet. She turns back, reaches a hand up for .

"Careful, sweetheart."

I take it.

She helps down, then doesn’t hesitate. She walks straight toward the line of suited n, Julie falling in step beside her like a practiced shadow.

They greet the n smoothly, both of them speaking in fluent Irish completely natural. Not a single beat missed.

Raffaele and I? We’re left behind. Out of place. Watching.

Eventually, we’re escorted into one of the sleek black cars and driven into town. The car slls like fresh leather and silent judgnt. Daphne’s focused on her phone the entire ride. I don’t ask what she’s typing.

We arrive at a five-star hotel that looks like it costs more per night than I made in a year. Tall glass windows. Gilded ceilings. Rich carpets. A waterfall feature in the lobby.

In the suite, Daphne heads straight to the shower. The door shuts behind her with a click, and that’s the last I see of her for a while.

She erges briefly, hair wet, slipping into dark slacks and a white button-down before grabbing her blazer.

"I have a eting. I’ll be back soon. Stay in the room. Julie will check in."

Then she’s gone.

Then she’s gone.

Exactly an hour later, Julie shows up. He’s carrying a sleek shopping bag and rolling a suitcase behind him.

"Clothes for you," he says, breezing in. "You’ll want to look sharp tonight. We’re guests of soone very important."

He tosses the bag onto the bed. Inside? A little black dress that is very little. And red-soled heels that scream danger.

"Who are we eting?"

"One of the major Irish underworld stakeholders," he says.

"Owns half the docks, most of the warehouses, and probably a third of Parliant behind the scenes. He and the boss go way back."

My stomach tightens. So it’s a big deal.

I dress, do my makeup, and pin up my hair.

Then I head downstairs.

The lobby glows gold under crystal chandeliers. To the left, the casino pulses with low jazz and the occasional jingle of slot machines.

I walk to the bar.

That’s when I see her.

Daphne.

She’s standing at a long table with five older n in tailored suits. Whiskey glasses in hand. Laughter. Sharp talk. Political tones. She’s the only woman at the table, but she doesn’t look out of place. In fact, she commands the space. Calm. Commanding. Hands in pockets. Masculine in a way that’s effortless, but closer inspection would give her away.

God, she’s breathtaking.

Then—

"Stare all you want, but she’s not soone you can easily talk to," a woman says beside , thick Irish accent curling the words like a smirk.

I turn.

She’s stereotypical in every way. Tall. Blonde. Thin. Wearing a massive fur coat and red lipstick that could stain souls.

"Excuse ?" I say.

"You were looking at her. No?"

I don’t respond. I blink, genuinely dumbfounded.

Then she does it. The scene I’ve only seen in movies.

She shrugs off her fur coat, fluffs her curls, pushes up the tiny red dress that barely counts as fabric, and struts toward the table.

And I watch—in stunned silence—as she trips.

On purpose.

Straight into Daphne’s arms.

I stand.

I don’t think. I don’t calculate.

All I know is she needs to get her hands off my—my what?

My woman?

My girlfriend?

I don’t care.