QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL) Chapter 293: A play

Chapter 292

Vivienne

I don’t know why I’m nervous. All my mother-in-law asked was to take a glass of warm honey to her daughter—my sister-in-law—and I’m trembling.

I walk up the stairs, and the glass on the small tray shakes. I try to calm myself, but fail. My heart is a frantic bird against my ribs.

I’ve been avoiding her. Consciously, carefully, doing my best to steer clear of her intense presence since that first, charged dinner.

I can’t avoid this without sounding odd, without raising questions I don’t know how to answer.

I reach the door of her room on the second floor. I place the tray with the glass on a nearby side table with a large, ugly vase and knock softly.

Then I pick the tray back up, my palms damp.

A soft "Co in" cos from the other side.

I steady myself, turn the handle, and walk in.

The room, like the rest of the Han mansion, is large and oppressively decorated with gaudy, old-world designs. The dark wooden bed is unmade, the sheets in disarray. She’s not in it.

Then, she walks out of the bathroom.

She’s in loose, tailored slacks and a simple white button-up shirt, sleeves rolled to her forearms. It’s a normal outfit, if not for the fact that she looks devastatingly handso in it.

She’s unbuttoning her cuffs, her movents efficient, when she looks up and sees .

Her dark eyes lock onto mine.

"Sister-in-law?" she asks, her voice a low, smooth rumble that seems to vibrate in the quiet space between us.

"Good evening," I say, too quickly.

"Olga sent to give you this. You sent word that you wouldn’t be having dinner today." I hold out the tray, the glass of golden honey wobbling slightly.

"Yeah, I had a long day. I just need to lie down today," she says, her voice a low, weary rumble that doesn’t match the sharp intelligence in her eyes. She walks toward .

She’s tall.

Not the ridiculously, overtly towering height of so Alphas who seem to make a point of it, but she’s tall enough to make feel small. My five-foot-seven fra seems to shrink in her shadow.

I take a tiny, unconscious step back.

I swear I see a smirk flicker across her face, but when I blink, her expression is impassive, cool. I must have imagined it.

This scene feels so familiar. A deep, unsettling déjà vu wraps around . The feeling of being prey in front of a large, scary predator. A shiver races down my spine, raising the fine hairs on my arms.

Suddenly, she’s just... in front of . I didn’t see her move, but the space between us is gone.

She takes the glass, her fingers brushing mine.

She lifts it and gulps the honey down in two smooth swallows. I am helplessly transfixed, watching the movent of her throat.

A stray, golden drop escapes the corner of her lips. It traces a slow, deliberate path down her chin, down the strong column of her neck, over the hint of her collar bone, and disappears beneath the open collar of her shirt, hiding away from view.

A fierce, shocking spike of envy pierces . I feel envy for that drop.

What?

No.

No, no, no. I do not.

Horrified at myself, I take another step back, but my heel catches on the edge of the ornate rug. I stumble, balance fleeing.

Her hand shoots out, firm and sure, catching around the waist.

Her palm is searing hot through the silk of my blouse. It’s electricity, pure and devastating, coursing through my body, locking my joints, stealing my breath.

We stand like that for a mont, frozen.

Oh, Vivienne.

The thought is a mournful sigh in my head.

Oh, Vivienne.

You are so completely, utterly fucked.

Slowly, deliberately, she pulls her hand away. The absence of her touch is a new, aching kind of shock. She places the empty glass back on my tray with a soft clink.

"Thank you," she says, her voice back to that casual, low rumble, as if she hadn’t just upended my entire nervous system.

I don’t know what I say in return. So garbled, polite noise. I’m already moving, turning, fleeing the room. I escape like I’m on fire, because I am.

My feet are moving before my mind catches up. I stumble out into the hallway, the empty tray clutched so tightly my knuckles ache.

The door clicks shut behind , a final, gentle sound that feels like a gunshot in the silence of the corridor.

I don’t walk. I run.

I reach the bottom of the stairs, pressing a trembling hand against the cool banister. I am breathing as if I’ve sprinted a mile.

"Vivienne? Is everything alright?" Olga’s voice, gentle and concerned, floats from the doorway of the sitting room.

I paste on a smile, turning. It feels brittle, a poorly made mask.

"Yes! Yes, of course. Just... hurried. The glass is empty." I hold up the tray as evidence, a pathetic exhibit.

Olga’s kind eyes crinkle with a smile. "Good. She needs to take care of herself. Thank you, dear."

I murmur sothing polite, an automatic sound, and escape to the kitchen to deposit the tray.

In the clinical white light, I stare at my reflection in the dark window. My cheeks are flushed, my eyes too wide.

You are engaged to Damien Han.

You are not engaged to Daphne Han.

My own reflection does not believe .

What am I to do?

I can’t ask the questions burning my tongue: Do you feel this? Why does this feel like rembering?

So I do the only thing I can.

I take a deep, shuddering breath, smooth my blouse where her hand rested, and walk out of the kitchen. I join Olga in the sitting room, making polite conversation about the garden party next week. I smile when Damien cos ho, asking about his day.

I play my part.