QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL) Chapter 99: Suspicious

Chapter 99

Cedric POV

The dinner is going great. Ha! Look at —seated at the head of a long table surrounded by my wives.

Sothing past would never have even dreamt of. Back then, girls didn’t even look at .

Now? They’re pregnant with my children.

The room is lit with warm candlelight, flas flickering in the ornate wall sconces, casting shadows across the faces of the won at the table. The clinking of silverware and the low murmur of conversation fills the hall, a rhythmic hum that feels almost dostic.

Clarissa sits to my left, one hand protectively resting over her round belly, smiling politely at whatever it is Miriam is whispering to her. Viola is at my right, regal and poised as always, eyes flicking between the dishes and the slow-moving servants. And across the table...

Lady Daphne.

An oddity in my little court of beauties. She’s neither radiant like Viola, nor soft-spoken like Miriam. There’s a plainness to her—sothing subdued. Yet sohow she stands out. Not in looks, but in how she holds herself.

She hasn’t touched her wine. She’s barely touched her food. Just sits there, composed, like she’s biding her ti.

And then there’s Evelyne.

The duchess.

Unbothered. Beautiful. Composed.

She speaks little, only when necessary, but the others follow her lead. I can’t tell if it’s respect or fear. Maybe both. She has that effect.

I glance again at Daphne.

She just smiled.

At Evelyne.

Sothing about it makes my fingers tighten around my goblet.

Not jealousy.

No, of course not. Why would I be jealous?

They are all my wives.

The thought rings hollow in my mind.

I sip the watered wine, letting the tallic taste coat my tongue, my eyes drifting—no, lingering—toward the end of the table where the Duchess sits. Regal, poised, utterly composed. Her profile soft in the flicker of the candlelight, shadows dancing over her jawline.

Next to her is Lady Daphne.

Again.

They’re not speaking, not touching, not even looking at each other, but there’s... sothing. An ease in the way they occupy space near one another. A rhythm to their silence. The kind of comfort built over ti.

Still, throughout the dinner, I keep my eye on them. It’s natural. I’m the duke. I observe. I oversee. I protect.

But sothing nags at .

A thread, tugging at the edge of my thoughts.

At first, I thought it was paranoia. I’ve always been suspicious by nature—it helped survive in my past life and adapt in this one. But now, I’m not so sure it’s paranoia at all.

The way Lady Daphne’s mouth twitches with the smallest of smirks when the Duchess passes her the salt.

The way the Duchess doesn’t speak unless spoken to, yet lets her gloved fingers brush Lady Daphne’s wrist as if it were accidental.

The way neither of them ets my eyes at the sa ti.

None of it is overt. None of it scandalous. But it’s there, like the whisper of a secret in a crowded room.

My hand tightens again around the goblet.

The silver stem presses into my palm, cold and sharp-edged, grounding as a mory rises—unbidden and unwanted.

It was during one of those dreadful vassal etings. The kind where old n pretend they aren’t bleeding out influence while smiling at each other over veiled insults. I hadn’t ant to eavesdrop—it was one of those conversations you can’t un-hear even when you wish you could.

One of the counts—grey-haired, red-cheeked from too much wine—had spoken of his wife. No, his wives. Plural.

He was laughing, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

"A lover," he’d said, voice heavy with sha poorly hidden beneath bravado. "Turns out she had a lover. They all did. I should’ve seen the signs... but they covered for each other. Sisters in betrayal."

The n at the table had chuckled. Empty, mocking laughs that reeked of fear.

"They say it’s common," soone else added. "You get too many won in one house and they start forming little kingdoms of their own."

"She’s lucky I didn’t cut off her nose," the count had muttered. "But what can I do now? Divorcing her would make the fool. No man wants that kind of scandal tied to his na."

At the ti, I thought it absurd. Far-fetched. Paranoid drivel from a man who couldn’t keep his house in order.

But now...

I look at Daphne.

Then at Evelyn.

There’s no way.

The Duchess would never stoop to such indecency. She’s cold, aloof, restrained. Her pride is carved in stone. Untouchable.

And Daphne?

Daphne flinches when I’m too close. Avoids like I’m contagious. She can barely et my eyes, let alone let touch her. What man would she be with?

None.

It’s not possible.

It’s not.

I shake my head and take another sip of wine, trying to drown the worm of doubt before it unspools into sothing uglier. Sothing real.

Because if I’m wrong—

No.

That can’t be.

I have to be wrong.

Because I will not—I refuse—to be cuckolded. Duchess or not.

I’ve won. I’ve earned this.

I own this house. These lands. These won.

And I will not be humiliated.

Not again.

Not ever.

I set the goblet down a little too hard. The sound makes Clarissa jump. She’s sitting to my left, heavily pregnant, and glances at with concern.

"Your Grace?" she murmurs.

I force a smile. "It’s nothing. The wine’s just stronger than I expected."

She nods, reassured, but I see it—the hesitation in her eyes. The wariness. As if I might snap.

But I won’t.

I’ll observe. Quietly. Carefully. I’ll know for sure.

Because if what I suspect is true...

Then soone will pay for it.

I glance across the table. The duchess glances at Daphne. Just a glance.

Still, sothing about it makes the back of my neck prickle.

I don’t know what they are hiding, and I’m not sure. But I’ll find out even if it’s the last thing I do.