QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL) Chapter 163: Reset

Chapter 163 – Daphne POV

It’s back on track.

For the first ti in what feels like forever, the plan is flowing like water. Clean, sharp, unstoppable. The death toll has ceased climbing. The vultures have retreated. Raffaele is gaining traction. Luciano is posturing like a half-cornered dog, his bark starting to crack beneath the pressure. Grace is holding the social front like a queen in velvet armor. Estela’s soft breathing still lingers on my skin from this morning.

Everything is going well.

Luciano and I arrive at the clearing together, our cars pulling up like synchronized dancers. The forest stretches around us—bare trees like bones in the fading light. It’s quiet. Still.

I get out of the car, boots crunching on gravel as I spot another black vehicle pulling up nearby. Luciano steps out, his suit crisp, eyes steeled, jaw tight. He doesn’t say anything as we walk side by side into the forest clearing.

Ahead, under the skeletal arms of winter-stripped trees, sits the man of the hour.

Valentino Jr.

Bound to a crooked wooden chair, his mouth stuffed with fabric, wrists raw from the ropes biting into his skin. His face is bruised, blood crusting beneath one eye, one lip split open.

Luciano walks ahead of , boots crunching dead leaves. He looks at Valentino like he’s stepped in filth.

"You ruined everything," he seethes. "The Castellano na—our ho—our legacy. You were given a chance to prove yourself and all you did was burn what generations built."

Valentino snorts through his gag. Eyes glinting with sothing foul.

Luciano rips the gag from his mouth.

"Say it. Justify it. Co on."

Valentino coughs, blood spitting onto his shirt. Then he lifts his head.

"What legacy? You were born with silver spoons and titles. I was born in silence, with no na, no seat at the table. I was never one of you. You all made that clear. So it’s not my legacy."

Oh my god, is this the cliche, illegitimate child monologue.

"You think you’re better than because your mother was legal? Because you were kissed on the forehead by our father? He never looked at . Never spoke my na. I built my place out of nothing, and you... you inherited yours."

I sigh. It is that monologue, how unoriginal.

His voice cracks, not with emotion—but madness. "You think I destroyed your legacy? You destroyed first. I only returned the favor."

I roll my neck. "How original. Daddy didn’t love . The world owes . News flash, father didn’t love anyone you’re not special."

He glares at like he wants to say more, but I’ve already stopped listening.

Luciano continues arguing—yelling about duty and pride, bloodlines and betrayal. I tune him out. The words are pointless now. I check my watch. It’s been nearly an hour. The wind’s picked up. My patience has not.

I pull out my gun and face it toward his forehead.

Luciano doesn’t stop . He’s breathing hard, eyes narrowed—but he says nothing. He knows the end has been coming.

So I pull the trigger.

The sound echoes.

And then—everything shatters.

Like a stone through stained glass, the world buckles, distorts, fractures into a thousand pieces. I stagger as the pressure in my ears crescendos like a scream underwater. My knees nearly give. I close my eyes—

And when I open them...

When I open my eyes, I’m not in the forest.

I’m in a restaurant.

A luxury private dining room. White tablecloths. Crystal chandeliers. Soft jazz drifting from nowhere.

Luciano is seated across from , stiff and composed in his tailored suit. I know this scene. It already happened. Two days after the Castellano estate exploded.

But that’s not right. That’s not now. That was months ago.

"What the fuck," I whisper to myself.

Luciano’s eyes narrow. "I didn’t request to see you."

I grin automatically, lips moving on muscle mory. "What can I say? Raffaele’s busy. I’m here as his trusty sidekick."

My voice sounds normal. My tone sounds normal. Everything about is pretending.

But inside—

I am screaming.

I sit through the rest of the eting in silence, pretending to absorb the words—budget allocations, territory assessnts, dead nas I’d buried months ago. My hands remain steady. My face? Unbothered.

I’m so calm, I even smile when we part.

And then I return to the penthouse.

And I break.

Alone, I step into the sitting room, close the door behind with a click, and look around. Sa art on the walls. Sa fresh orchids Estela had insisted on.

I rember everything.

The explosions. The bodies. Marco’s finger in a bag. The blood. Raffaele standing tall in the war room. Luciano bleeding in the snow after the shootout in the warehouse. Estela’s lips on my neck as she whispered she loved , hand pressed over my still-healing wound.

Gone.

Erased.

Two days.

We’ve been sent back two fucking days.

And everything’s different.

Raffaele is not yet a real contender. The estate has just exploded. My body is still freshly wrapped in bandages from the collapse.

Ha.

Ha.

Ha.

mories—months of them—gone to everyone else.

I laugh even more.

Months. Months of groundwork. Of blood and maneuvering. Of chess pieces I sacrificed one by one. Gone.

Estela’s mories? Gone.

My progress with Raffaele? Erased.

Luciano’s slip-ups? Undone.

The entire damn estate explosion—rewound like soone hit CTRL Z on reality.

I grab the nearest chair and hurl it against the wall. It shatters. I grab another. Throw it. Again. My vision blurs.

I lean forward, bracing myself against the cool marble counter. My breath fogs the surface.

I press my forehead to the counter.

Laugh.

Once. Then again.

Ha.

Ha.

Ha. Ha. Ha.

How fucking ridiculous is this?

I slam my palm against the counter, the echo loud in the silence of the penthouse. My breathing is heavy, my ribs still bruised, my body aching in all the places that tell —yes, the estate exploded. That part happened. But everything else? Gone. Vanished like smoke. Like it never mattered.

Fine.

Fine.

Fine.