QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL) Chapter 183: Marry me

Chapter 183

Daphne POV

I lean back in the beach lounger, cocktail in hand, sunglasses sliding halfway down my nose.

The sun is high, burning gold across the waves. The ocean breeze is perfect—warm, salty, soft against my skin. Sowhere in the distance, a steel drum band is playing the cheesiest tropical cover of so old pop song I can’t quite place.

Just... peace.

For the first ti in what feels like years, real peace.

I turn my head lazily to the side.

And there she is.

Estela.

Laughing. Hair loose in the wind, skin kissed by the sun, sitting with a small group of girls under a thatched umbrella on the sand.

It’s been three days here. Three days since we landed on this island with the girls in tow—her siblings, safe at last.

Technically not safe safe, because I’m pretty sure Estela made so enemies working as an assassin but I’m sure they are all small fry.

I booked out the entire villa, of course. Money’s good for sothing after all. Estela gets to spend ti with them—smiling, relaxed, happy. Just a big sister again.

Even Antonia had shown up for a day—dropped by, raised hell at the beach bar, and vanished again like so rogue agent on the run.

But Estela... she’s glowing.

That soft yellow sundress. That carefree smile. The way she leans her chin in her palm and throws her head back when she laughs.

She’s beautiful.

Utterly. Breathtakingly beautiful.

I could watch her like this all day. Hell, I want to paint this. I haven’t touched a canvas in months—since the wars, the betrayals, the endless blood and deals. But looking at her now?

I want to paint again.

The younger girls dart away, running to splash in the surf.

The older ones stay—lounging under the umbrella with Estela.

And they’re gossiping.

I’m trying to be good. I really am.

Trying not to eavesdrop.

But... my Spanish has improved. Significantly.

Turns out, when your teacher is a stunning assassin who offers very... creative incentives for progress—you learn fast.

I sip my drink and listen.

"Dulce..."

"Rica..."

"Mujer mayor..."

"Mucho dinero..."

"Baby..."

The whole group bursts into giggles.

I lower my sunglasses.

...Are they calling her my sugar baby?

I blink.

Huh.

I take another sip, slow and amused.

Well.

They’re not wrong.

I am funding this whole trip. The villa. The spa days. The new wardrobe Estela "totally didn’t need" but now wears daily and looks sinfully good in.

And I am older than her. By a little.

And I do love spoiling her.

I smirk.

And—let’s be honest—I will be getting so sugar when we’re alone tonight.

So technically... they’re right.

I glance over the top of my sunglasses again.

Estela is flushed, face pink, shooting a helpless glare like she can read my thoughts from across the beach.

I smirk wider.

And wink.

Her mouth falls open in outrage, cheeks burning.

Adorable.

***

Estela POV

How can I not love her?

Literally.

She’s beautiful.

She’s perfect.

She adores .

And ? I’m helpless against her.

The music hums through the open-air bar—warm lights strung between palm trees, soft laughter rolling on the ocean breeze. So easy island tune is playing, gentle and rhythmic, and Daphne... well, Daphne twirls in her arms like we’re the only two people in the world.

I laugh—genuine and full, the kind of laugh I never used to have in my old life. Not in the convent. Not in the orphanage. Not in the years spent running, fighting, surviving.

But now?

With her?

I laugh so much I surprise even myself.

She pulls close, one arm low around my waist, the other holding my hand, twirling again under the soft lights. The ocean breeze catches my hair, cool against my sun-ward skin. I’m barefoot, wearing one of those light, flowy dresses she insisted on buying —"vacation essentials," she’d said with a grin.

Her hand sneaks lower. Slow. Bold. Mischievous.

"Dee," I warn softly, breathless from spinning.

"What?" she says, completely innocent—eyes gleaming, mouth curved in that sinful smirk.

"This is a family-friendly bar." I raise an eyebrow, half amused, half exasperated.

"I wasn’t doing anything."

Her fingers skim the small of my back, teasing closer to forbidden territory.

I roll my eyes.

"Mm-hmm."

But I can’t help smiling. I lean in, nuzzling against her shoulder for a second, inhaling her scent—clean, fresh, a little sea breeze, a little Daphne.

We sway to the music, just the two of us under the stars.

The beach bar is full—tourists, locals, families, couples—but they blur into the background. The only thing I feel is her. The warmth of her body against mine, the strength in her arms, the steady rhythm of her breath.

My heart is so full it aches.

I tilt my head up and et her gaze.

God, those eyes.

She’s looking at like I’m the only thing in the universe. Like I’m precious. Like I’m hers.

And I am.

Completely.

Utterly.

Hers.

She brushes a strand of hair behind my ear, fingers lingering against my cheek.

"You’re staring," I murmur, breath catching.

She smiles. Slow.

"Can you bla ?" she says.

Her voice drops—soft and low and warm, the kind that lts straight through .

I can’t even answer. I’m too lost in her.

She leans in and presses a kiss to my forehead, then another to my cheek, then—lightly—to the corner of my mouth.

The world tilts a little.

Her lips brush my ear.

"Marry ," she whispers.

My breath catches. I pull back slightly to look at her.

She’s grinning now—half-teasing, half-serious. But her eyes... her eyes aren’t teasing.

I’m blushing. I can feel it. The heat rises in my cheeks, all the way to the tips of my ears.

"Daphne..."

She winks.

"Just planting the seed," she says, pulling close again, swaying with . "No pressure. I’ve got ti."

I bury my face in her shoulder to hide my smile. I already know my answer.