QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL) Chapter 154: What’s the point

Chapter 154 – Daphne POV

I get a call from the police.

Which is not strange on its own—considering most of them work for us.

The mont I hear the address, I tell Julie to start the car. He doesn’t ask questions. Just drives. His jaw tight, his veil of glamor left behind for sothing sharper.

We arrive to yellow tape and flashing blue lights. Uniford officers hover awkwardly around the scene, most of them pretending they don’t recognize . Julie walks ahead, a grim silhouette in black, and flashes his ID.

I duck under the tape, the heavy thrum of instinct already vibrating in my chest. Sothing’s wrong.

We’re led up the porch steps. It’s quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that hangs heavy in the air, thick with leftover violence.

Then I see it.

A dark pool of blood, thick and wet, seeping out from under the front door.

I hesitate for half a second, then push the door open slowly.

The scent hits first—iron, rot, sothing wet and final.

The hallway is carnage.

Blood streaks the floor in dragging patterns. Sars across the walls. There’s no sign of a struggle—just systematic brutality. Like soone didn’t fight back. Like they weren’t allowed to.

I step further in, heels of my shoes clicking softly on tile that’s gone slick.

The living room is worse.

Blood spatters the ceiling. There’s shattered glass, overturned furniture. A frad wedding photo lies cracked on the floor, the smiling bride split right down the middle.

I follow the drag marks through the hallway.

There, near the back wall, lies a tal baseball bat, slick with dried crimson. And beside it—

A body.

Or what used to be one.

I crouch, slowly, eyes scanning what’s left of the body.

But then—

Movent.

To the left, tucked into the dim corner of the living room, on a small, sagging couch that sohow remained untouched in all the chaos—

Estela.

She’s sitting perfectly still.

Back straight.

Hands resting in her lap like a doll that’s been carefully placed there.

Her shirt is soaked in blood. Splattered up one arm, sared across her collarbone, and trailing down the side of her face like war paint. Her knuckles are raw. One hand is shaking.

Just slightly.

The bat lies abandoned a few feet from her, almost like it got tired too. Like it served its purpose.

She doesn’t look at .

Doesn’t move.

Just sits there, blinking slowly, like she’s trying to convince herself the world is still solid.

I rise to my feet, heart thudding in my ears.

"Estela," I say softly.

Her eyes finally shift. Focus on . There’s no fear in them. No sha.

Just exhaustion.

"He hit her so hard," she says, voice cracked and hoarse. "She couldn’t even speak."

I take a step closer.

"He said he changed." She laughs once—sharp and dry. "She believed him."

"Estela..."

Her gaze drops to her hands. She flexes her fingers, stained and trembling.

"I didn’t an to kill him. At first," she whispers.

"But then I saw the photo. And I rembered the way she used to talk about him when she was still healing. How she used to cry over that wedding."

I kneel in front of her, reaching for her hand. She flinches—barely.

"I couldn’t stop," she says. "I didn’t want to."

She finally looks at .

Eyes glassy, wide, but steady.

"Do you hate now?"

My heart cracks.

She says it like she already expects the answer. Like it’s the natural consequence of violence. Like the blood on her hands has made her untouchable.

But I don’t flinch.

I don’t even hesitate.

"No," I whisper, voice rough around the edges. "No, of course not."

I take a slow step forward.

I close the space between us and sink to my knees beside the couch. I pull her into my arms without asking, without giving her ti to think. She hesitates at first—rigid, too aware of the blood, the wreckage, the ss of it all.

Then she crumples.

Arms wrap around , and she buries her face into my neck.

Her arms wrapped around so tightly earlier, like she was the one afraid I’d vanish. Like if she let go, she’d fall into so black hole and never make it back.

Now?

Now she sleeps.

Curled beneath my blanket, her breathing slow and steady, dark lashes fluttering gently against her cheeks. She looks peaceful for the first ti since I found her in that blood-soaked house.

I gave her sleeping pills, low dose. She didn’t argue. Just took them with a quiet nod and curled into bed without a word.

I cancelled her work shifts for the week.

The house is already gone.

We burned it down.

The flas wiped away everything—his body, the bat, the drag marks, the blood. A simple gas leak will be the official story. A freak accident. A tragedy. Poor man, died in his sleep, they’ll say.

Only five neighbors saw anything. All of them greedy. All of them extrely willing to stay quiet once a thick enough envelope landed in their mailboxes. Besides, none of them liked him anyway. I saw it in their eyes. That mix of satisfaction and fear.

I understand why Estela snapped.

It shattered her.

I don’t bla her.

I’ve heard her speak about Mary in passing. Her "little sunshine." One of the only people she’s ever called friend.

And that bastard tried to snuff her out like she was disposable.

Of course Estela broke.

Of course she killed him.

And really—

What’s the point of being one of the most powerful people in the city if I can’t make my lover’s murder charges vanish?

I stare at her for a mont longer—curled under the covers, hair slightly damp from the shower I coaxed her into, face finally free of blood, though the shadows beneath her eyes haven’t faded.

She looks so harmless and soft like she didn’t beat up a man to death.

I just walk around the bed, pull back the sheets, and slide in beside her.

The mattress dips gently, and instinctively, she shifts. Turns toward , even in sleep, seeking warmth. Seeking .

I reach out and pull her closer. Her head finds my shoulder like it always does, her breath warm against my collarbone. One of her legs slips between mine, familiar and clumsy, like muscle mory.