QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL) Chapter 151: Not a bad life

Chapter 151 – Raffaele POV

What the fuck has Daphne done?

I sit perfectly still, hands folded in my lap like a hostage who’s decided silence is the safest form of resistance.

Across from , on opposite ends of my sitting room, Regina and Antonia are mid-debate.

Correction: they’re mid-selection.

Of my future wife.

I lean back against the armchair, trying to act composed while ntally considering if I can dive out the window and survive.

Antonia—rests elegantly on the chaise, one leg crossed over the other, blonde hair twisted into an effortless chignon, her sharp smile dipped in poison and perfu.

Regina lounges in my reading chair like she owns it, arms spread along the back, smirking with the smugness of soone who’s already picked out the engagent ring for .

I glance between them.

Any sane man would be thrilled. Two devastatingly beautiful won discussing his marital future like it’s an elite chess ga?

Except these won are terrifying.

And they enjoy it.

Antonia sips her wine. "What about her?" Regina asks, scrolling through a sleek tablet with dossier photos of eligible Castellano-affiliated daughters.

Antonia doesn’t even glance up. "No way."

"Why not?"

"She’s tied to Luciano’s faction—finance sector. Her first cousin is his fiancée, and so are they." She waves a hand as if that explanation is obvious.

And just like that, the girl’s face is gone, flicked off-screen like an ad.

They continue.

thodical. Ruthless.

Brides are evaluated, discussed, eliminated.

So for being too connected. Others for being too useless. So because they’re already spies, or worse—boring.

I stare at them in mild horror.

This must be what emperors felt like.

Overdressed. Underpowered. And completely at the rcy of their inner court.

They’re not even looking at like I’m a person anymore. I’m a dynasty. A bloodline. A political rger.

And disturbingly? It’s a little hot.

Conflicting emotions, 10/10. Would not recomnd.

Antonia pauses on a file. "Hmm."

"No," Regina says imdiately.

"Why not?"

"She has resting traitor face."

Antonia nods. "You’re right."

I sigh through my nose. "You do realize I’m right here."

Both won glance at , synchronized and unimpressed.

Then they ignore and continue.

My point exactly.

I casually reach for my phone under the guise of scratching my neck and type a quick ssage to the architect of my misery.

I hate you.

Daphne replies within seconds.

It’s a selfie.

She’s smirking, reclined luxuriously on a mountain of pillows. Behind her, clear as sin, is the curve of Estela’s cleavage—bare, gleaming, and unapologetically distracting.

You should be happy. You get three of these.

I squint.

She’s not even trying to be helpful.

The conversation drags on. More dossiers are dismissed. Family trees examined. Bloodlines questioned like we’re breeding prize horses instead of forming lifelong political alliances.

Finally—rcifully—they land on a na.

Grace Marín.

I glance down at the tablet. A brunette, elegant and composed, with deceptively soft features and eyes that look like they know too much.

Regina leans forward, tapping the screen.

"Marín controls the third sector. Public image and political alliances. New money, relatively. Rose to power through dia and philanthropy. They’re the reason Castellano’s image remains spotless outside the country."

Antonia nods. "She’s the perfect choice. She’ll bring you credibility, social control, and access to foreign influence. Also—no personal loyalties to Luciano or his finance clique."

I keep staring at the screen.

Grace Marín.

Why do I feel suspicious?

No, not familiar. Just... dangerous.

I have a hunch about her personality, and it’s shaped like two won currently in the room.

I glance up.

"Right, so I’ll go—wait. Where are your clothes?"

Regina and Antonia stand across from —completely naked.

Not subtly undressing.

Not mid-change.

Just.

Naked.

I blink.

Slowly.

Well.

I’m not complaining.

I rise from the chair, peeling off my shirt and tossing it over my shoulder like a man who has already surrendered to the madness.

Regina’s on in a second—her mouth finding mine with that practiced, hungry heat. Her fingers already tangled in my hair.

Antonia moves without a word, already sinking to her knees like it’s an unspoken ritual. Efficient. Elegant. Wicked.

And yeah...

Whatever.

This is not a bad life.

***

Daphne POV

Paranoid much?

You’d think Raffaele was smuggling state secrets. The sheer number of security checks, facial scans, biotric locks, and—was that a retina scanner?

I mutter under my breath as I pass the final checkpoint. Technically this is the minimum amount of security needed as a Castellano.

All this to drop off a bride-to-be.

At my side, Grace Marín walks in perfect silence.

I have a feeling Raffaele had no part in this decision making, I’ve seen his past flings. He fancies the type of woman, literally every Castellano man fancies the quiet, mild, submissive type.

Another security checkpoint.

Another hallway.

Finally, we reach Raffaele’s penthouse door.

I punch in the code. Because of course I have it. I’m the reason this entire matchmaking operation is moving forward like a train I refuse to let derail.

I open the door, walk in.

Grace follows, silent as ever, heels clicking softly on the marble floor.

"Hello!!!" I shout, voice echoing through the space.

Silence.

Then—

Scuffling.

The sound of sothing toppling. Fabric rustling. A muffled "shit."

Then the door to the master bedroom swings open.

And out walks Raffaele.

Very naked.

Spectacularly naked.

Hair wild, blonde strands floating like a halo of regret. Eyes half-lidded. Skin flushed. And his shlong—swinging with casual indifference to diplomacy, decency, or gravity.

He yawns. "Daphne?"

"We have company," I say, hands in pockets, completely unfazed.

His eyes shift to the woman beside .

Then—

"Oh shit!" he gasps, slamming the door shut so fast I swear I hear air bend.

I glance at Grace.

She hasn’t moved.

Hasn’t blinked.

If anything, I think I just saw the faintest twitch of a smile.

I stroll into the open-plan kitchen like I own the place—which, for the record, I kind of do.

"Water?" I ask, already pulling out bottles with a smirk tugging at my mouth.