QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL) Chapter 70: Tea

Chapter 70 – Daphne POV

This dress is heavy.

Not just physically—I an spiritually, emotionally, and offensively heavy.

Layers of fabric. Embroidery. Stiff lace. A corset that’s trying to assassinate from the inside out.

Apparently, the Duchess has requested a tea party.

With all the concubines.

Great.

Because there’s nothing like drinking lukewarm flower water with a bunch of won who probably wish I’d drowned in the stream.

I try to keep a neutral expression as the maid behind tugs at the corset strings like she’s trying to tie up a sack of potatoes.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t move.

I can’t feel my ribs.

Perfect.

Sigh.

I’d rather be anywhere else.

Preferably up in the tower, painting.

Or bathing.

Or setting myself on fire.

’I swear, if you make co to a dieval world again, I’m going to roast you,’ I ntally threaten the system, deadpan.

[I’m too low-level to pick, but I’ll try my best.]

’Do you prefer to be grilled or roasted?’

[Host, violence is not—]

"We’re done, my lady," a quiet voice says, snapping out of my thoughts.

It’s Jane, the maid assigned to .

The only one in this entire place I actually trust not to gossip about how weird I am.

She’s discreet. Quiet. Smart.

She never pries. Never asks unnecessary questions. Sotis I don’t even have to request sothing—she’s already on it.

I rember when she first started working for . I swear, it was like a cat had died sowhere near her armpits.

I couldn’t take it. I told her flat out we’d be taking baths together at least twice a week.

At first, she looked horrified—like I’d asked her to betray her ancestors or sothing.

But she got used to it. Eventually. I made sure of it.

I’m not a tyrant. I’m just not about to be suffocated by dieval body odor every ti I ask for tea.

Unfortunately for my sweet Jane, hygiene is a curse once unlocked.

Now that she’s accustod to cleanliness, she’s beco painfully aware of how bad everyone else slls. She told once, under her breath, that she couldn’t believe no one else noticed the scent of "boiled cabbage and doom" clinging to the staff corridors.

I snickered for a full five minutes.

As we walk toward the tea party, she discreetly presses sothing into my hand—a soft handkerchief, delicately embroidered and soaked in herbs and florals.

My lifeline.

I fold it neatly and clutch it like a religious artifact.

The mont I sll anything unpleasant, I’ll just raise it to my face and pretend to sneeze like a lady with delicate sensibilities.

She’s a genius. Truly.

We head through the outer paths of the estate and step into the garden. It’s one of the nicer spots—lush peonies bloom in soft waves around the edges, and bees hum lazily beneath the morning sun.

In the center of it all is an elegant stone pavilion, surrounded by pink blossoms and carved with weathered floral motifs. Eight columns hold up a dod iron canopy—wrought black, curling like lace against the sky.

A stone bench curves around the interior in a full circle, and a few tables have been set with porcelain and sweets just outside of it.

.

I take the first seat.

Of course I’m early.

Jane, with practiced ease, helps lower into the bench—careful not to let the dress eat alive or spill over the tea trays like a floral tsunami.

This corset is slowly killing . The lace sleeves are itching. And the layers beneath this skirt feel like I’m carrying a small toddler strapped to each thigh.

I exhale slowly and pretend to admire the roses.

A few minutes pass.

Then—movent.

A woman arrives. Graceful. Quiet. Hair pinned into a glossy, dark crown. She doesn’t look at , doesn’t nod, doesn’t say a word. She simply takes her seat, arranged carefully so that her posture remains impeccable and her waist looks two sizes smaller than reality.

Another.

Then another.

Within ten minutes, all three of the other concubines are here.

And not one of them has said anything.

It’s like we’re actors in a play no one wants to star in.

Fine by .

Honestly? I’m grateful this is outside.

Because if I had to sit in a closed drawing room with these won—all decked out in their finest silks and perfus—I’d be dead before the first teacup was poured.

.

The perfus clash. The floral notes fight the citrus ones. One of them slls like sugar, but the bad kind—cheap and overly sweet, the kind that clings to the inside of your nostrils and makes you crave vinegar.

Add to that the clinking of too much jewelry, the way they shift in their seats like they’re constantly posing for a portrait, and—

Nope.

I raise my perfud handkerchief to my face and take a deep, discreet whiff.

I am reborn.

Just then—

She walks in.

Duchess Callum.

The air stills.

Everyone stands, myself included—though I wobble slightly from the pressure of standing in this corset and gown like I’m made of painted porcelain and not caffeine and trauma.

My stomach lurches when I see her.

That face.

That expression.

That aura.

Even surrounded by flowers, sunlight, and birdsong—she looks like Jiang Yuxi.

Too much.

Too perfectly.

I keep my head lowered.

"Your Grace," voices echo together, gentle and practiced.

"Your Grace," I echo last, quiet, avoiding eye contact like my life depends on it.

She nods once, the smallest gesture.

Graceful. Regal.

She motions for us to sit.

Everyone lowers themselves back into their seats with the practiced ease of won born to do this.

I do not.

I struggle.

Ridiculously.

Jane, my savior, slips behind and helps guide down before I fall face-first into a tray of tarts.

I murmur a quick thanks and sit as gracefully as I can—which is to say, not at all.

I fake a cough to cover the embarrassnt.

Then still.

Back straight.