QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL) Chapter 76: Friends and ghosts

Chapter 76 – Evelyne POV

"So you want to be friends?" she asks.

The question is so casual.

So clean.

I feel it like a slap.

No.

No.

That word is not on the tip of my tongue—it’s buried, buried deep beneath propriety, fear, and every lesson I’ve ever been taught about what a woman like is allowed to want.

I don’t want to be her friend.

I don’t want cordial tea and garden pleasantries.

I want to understand why I can’t stop thinking about her.

Why her touch still lingers on my skin like a mory.

Why her voice burrowed into my ribs like it’s always lived there.

But I smile.

Because I have no choice but to smile.

"Of course," I say lightly, too lightly. My lips stretch into what I hope is sothing pleasant and not tragically strained.

Silence settles between us again. Not awkward. Just... expectant.

Then she nods once, eyes on the path ahead.

"I don’t see why not," she says. "Seeing as to how we’ll be in each other’s lives for the rest of our lives."

She says it with such calm finality.

But to ?

It sounds like a curse.

The rest of our lives.

Trapped in this house.

Bound to this arrangent.

My throat feels tight.

***

Daphne POV

Being friends with soone who looks like the love of your life is not smart.

It’s not healthy.

But unfortunately—it’s also very, very smart.

Because the Duchess holds the real reins in this house, it’s why I’m here.

I duck under the fist aid at my jaw, pivot, and land a blow to my opponent’s ribs. He grunts, steps back, swings again. I dodge—barely.

The pit roars around us.

It’s dirty. Loud. Violent.

And I feel alive.

Underground fighting isn’t exactly what noble ladies are supposed to be doing in their free ti, but for ? Morphing into soone masculine presenting is child’s play, and it’s what I’m most comfortable with compared to those awful dresses.

My body rembers how to fight, even if I don’t rember who first taught , my mories are getting hazy.

It’s in the muscle. In the reflex. In the low hum of pleasure when a blow lands clean.

A foot connects with my stomach.

I stagger.

The crowd gasps.

Air evacuates my lungs like I’ve been kicked by a horse.

That’s going to bruise.

Fine.

I decide I’m done.

I push off the wall of the ring and land a brutal, two-footed drop kick right into my opponent’s chest. He topples. The crowd explodes.

Victory.

They know here.

Han the Destroyer.

What a gaudy nickna.

No one suspects I wear pearls in the morning and curtsy at court.

As I climb out of the ring, covered in mud and adrenaline, I spot Jane.

Arms crossed. Mouth pursed. Disapproving look level 1000.

I glance away, shaless.

She’s the one who has to wash this gunk out of my hair later. I don’t bla her for glaring.

"Heyyy, Han," a voice calls.

The barmaid. Pretty enough. Always gives that dreamy look like she’s imagining a life with five kids and a shared tavern.

I flash a crooked smile, wink, and watch her cheeks explode in crimson.

Still got it.

Even though the only ti I don’t feel like I’m drowning is when my fists are bleeding and soone’s trying to knock out.

Because it’s easier.

Easier than being around Evelyne.

Because the lines are blurring.

Sotis, she feels like my wife.

Sotis... she’s not.

Sotis she’s just her, looking at with those unreadable, electric blue eyes and making sothing inside twist and coil like instinct waking up.

It’s ssing with .

I’m going insane.

Every touch, every glance, every quiet mont where she sits too close or breathes too soft—it scrapes at sothing inside that hasn’t healed.

And when she looks at ...

Why does she look at like that?

*

Walking out of the town, I keep my head low beneath the cloak’s hood.

The fight with Jane still lingers in the back of my mind—sothing about mud, laundry, and needing "therapy instead of underground brawling."

She’s not wrong, but she could be less right sotis.

I head into the woods, following the path we agreed on, tucked away where curious commoners would wander.

There it is.

A carriage.

Luxurious. Obnoxiously embroidered. Probably the cost of five village farms. The Callum crest stamped proudly on the door.

I tug the cloak tighter and climb inside.

"You’re back."

Her voice is soft. Even.

Duchess Evelyne Callum.

Seated with perfect posture on the velvet seat across from , casually holding a needle between delicate fingers, working so pale thread into a scrap of white cloth.

Embroidery?

"Yeah," I say, leaning back against the carriage wall, trying to sound nonchalant.

Trying to ignore the way her gaze lifts—asured, quiet, intense.

She looks like she’s been carved out of a museum painting.

The kind that stands alone in a gilded fra under glass lighting. The kind labeled "Tiless Beauty" in every language known to man.

The faint sunlight filters through the narrow carriage window, hitting her just right. Her golden hair glows like a halo.

She’s ethereal.

And when her eyes et mine—

I hate it.

I hate how my heart skips.

How my lungs feel smaller.

Is this what my love for Jiang Yuxi has co to?

Reduced to falling in love with her ghost?

I look away.

Before I fall again.

Before the guilt sinks its claws in.

Before the grief drowns in that familiar hole of self-loathing.

Because this isn’t Jiang Yuxi.

And I don’t know what’s worse—

That I know that.

Or that I wish she was.

I desperately, really wish it was.

Even though I know it’s a lie.

Even though everything about this world is built to test —

I still find myself staring at her when she’s not looking.

Still find myself listening too closely when she speaks.

Still hoping, for just a second, that she’ll slip.

Say sothing only my Yuxi would know.

She never does.