QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL) Chapter 81: Starving

Chapter 80 – Evelyne POV

How dare she.

How dare she push away after everything—after I’ve scraped, begged, and reshaped parts of myself I thought long dead just to earn a fraction of her gaze.

She pulls away. Hides. Avoids in corridors. In the gardens. In the quiet hours of morning where I once caught her looking at like I was her sun.

She’s trying to build walls again.

No.

Not this ti.

"Stay here," I say to Frida, my voice clipped. My maid bows, but I don’t wait.

My legs carry forward, fast. Impatient. I’m still in her clothes—Frida’s—a plain brown cloak that doesn’t belong anywhere near the Duchess of Callum, but I don’t care.

The trees rustle above , caught in a soft breeze. The clearing is just ahead. I know she’s there—she always is around this ti. Fighting the wind, the dirt, the ghosts of whatever past life still clings to her bones.

I step past the last tree, into the open space where the stream glimrs pale and silver in the fading daylight.

And there she is.

Lady Daphne.

She’s waist-deep—no, deeper. The water laps against her shoulders, catching the dying sunlight and scattering gold across her skin. Her dark brown hair clings to her neck and collarbones, plastered against her in lazy, wet curls.

"Duchess," she says, her voice even. Cool. Detached.

Too detached.

I don’t like it.

"It seems it’s rather hard to get in contact with you, Lady Daphne." My tone is sharper than intended. I try to rein it in. I fail.

She blinks at slowly. The light catches her eyes—normally so dark and unreadable—and for just a second, they glow warm. Amber. Almost soft.

But her face doesn’t change.

She’s still guarded.

Still distant.

I clench my fists inside the sleeves of this borrowed robe.

"You should leave," she says quietly.

And then she turns her back on .

Just like that.

She walks deeper into the stream, letting the water swallow her whole.

I see her head dip beneath the surface.

Gone..

Like I’m not even here.

I stand frozen for a beat, the breeze catching the edges of my robe and I want to scream,to shout, to tear sothing apart.

Fine.

That’s how she wants to play it?

I reach up and untie the borrowed cloak, letting it slide from my shoulders. The dress beneath is plain, fewer layers than I’m used to—it cos off quickly, with practiced hands and trembling breath.

The air is cool against my skin.

But I don’t feel it.

I step into the stream, naked.

The shock of cold steals the breath from my lungs, but I keep walking.

One step.

Then another.

The mud shifts under my feet. Water clings to my skin, rises past my thighs, my waist, my ribs.

"Daphne." I say, voice barely above the stream’s whisper.

No response.

She’s still beneath the water—or maybe pretending not to hear .

I walk forward. Deeper.

Fine. Drown in this. I’d rather sink with her than stand alone on the shore.

Then—suddenly—a hand grips my arm.

Firm. Urgent.

I gasp as I’m yanked back, stumbling slightly, water splashing up to my chest.

"What are you doing?!" she hisses, voice low and furious.

"You can’t swim."

I blink.

And there she is.

Soaked to the bone. Hair slicked back. Chest heaving with effort. Water running in rivulets down her skin.

But more than that—her eyes.

They’re locked on .

Not vacant. Not indifferent. Not cold.

Angry.

But focused.

On .

And heaven, I love it.

"You’re looking at ," I whisper, lips parting slightly.

She lets go of my arm like she just realized she was holding fire.

Her gaze wavers.

But not for long.

"Get out of the water," she says tightly, turning away.

"No."

I say it softly.

And then I move.

I step forward, closing the distance between us, and I wrap my arms around her waist from behind. Skin against skin, cold water between us, my cheek resting lightly against her wet shoulder.

She stiffens.

But she doesn’t pull away.

She just stands there—tense, silent—as I hold her.

"We were just fine," I whisper against her shoulder, arms tightening around her waist. "And then suddenly you decided to change. What did I do wrong?"

No answer.

Her silence feels like drowning.

I press my cheek to her wet skin, seeking sothing—anything—that will ground in this mont.

"Okay... I’m sorry," I murmur, voice cracking. "Forgive . Let’s be friends again."

The word friends tastes bitter.

But I’d rather have that than nothing.

She sighs. Quiet. Long.

And finally, she speaks.

"It’s nothing to be forgiven, Duchess."

Formal. Distant. Cold.

She might as well have driven a blade between my ribs.

"There is clearly sothing wrong. You’re not happy. You’re angry. And friendships—" my voice shakes, "friendships work that way. Through forgiveness."

I sound desperate.

Because I am.

I have no self-respect right now. No pride. No poise.

Just this crushing ache in my chest that won’t let breathe.

She still won’t look at .

"You know damn well what we have is far from friendship," she says quietly, bitterly.

"You’re the Duchess. You’re married. Let’s stop this."

No.

No, no, no.

That’s not how this ends.

Fury bubbles up before I can stop it. It replaces the sha, the aching need to beg. It gives fire again.

I move—swiftly, sloshing through the water—until I’m standing right in front of her. So close I can see the droplets trembling on her lashes.

"Newsflash," I snap, "so are you. We’re married to the sa man, Daphne. Give another excuse."

She blinks.

Just once.

The sun has vanished behind the horizon, casting the stream in dusky blue and silver.

I lean in—slow, reverent—and press my lips against hers.

Just a whisper of a kiss.

Then I pull back.

I see it in her eyes—the storm of it. The conflict. She’s fighting sothing inside her, sothing big, sothing raw. A war between guilt and desire, between mory and the present.

I don’t know which side will win.

I don’t even know what I want her to choose.

And then—she moves.

Suddenly.

She grabs .

Her fingers dig into my waist as she pulls into her, water splashing violently around us. The chill forgotten, the distance gone.

Her mouth crashes against mine with the desperation of soone who’s been starving.