QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL)
Chapter 191: Older

Chapter 191: Older

191 — Estela POV

I slip into the house and quietly lock the door behind me. The soft click echoes too loud in the empty space.

"Dee, I’m back," I call, kicking off my shoes and padding through the hallway.

No answer.

I make my way toward her personal art room without thinking—half expecting her to be there, paintbrush in hand, brow furrowed in focus.

But when I open the door, the room is empty.

Of course. I forgot. She flew out for Raffaele’s birthday. I knew that. But I still half-expected her to be here.

She’s always here. This room is hers in every way. Her scent lingers, faint beneath the sharpness of paint and varnish. The curtains are drawn wide, letting the afternoon sun spill across canvases propped against the walls and easels.

Some finished, some half-done—brushstrokes frozen mid-thought.

I step inside, barefoot, and smile faintly.

It’s always the same.

Dare I say it’s her second love? The first is obvious—because I’m the only person in these paintings that isn’t a landscape. Me.

It never stops amazing me. The way she sees me through her eyes. Through her hands. Through color and light. I always look so... loved.

The house feels too quiet without her.

I trail my fingers lightly across a couple of the finished canvases, fingertips skimming the dry texture of the paint. The scent in this room is comforting—faint jasmine from her shampoo, old varnish, fresh oils... and her.

Daphne and paint.

That’s what this room smells like. Home.

I linger for a moment longer, then step back and quietly shut the door behind me.

The silence in the rest of the house presses down even heavier. I head to our room, strip down, and take a hot shower, hoping the steam will wash away the strange melancholy clinging to me.

Afterward, towel wrapped around me, I reheat the leftovers. The warmth helps a little, but not much. The food tastes fine, but not the same without her across from me, rolling her eyes at how I always steal bites off her plate.

Finally, I dry my hair, slip into one of her oversized shirts—it still smells like her—and curl up on the couch with my phone.

I hesitate for a moment.

She’s probably asleep. It’s late.

But I miss her.

Biting my lip, I open the call screen. Hit video.

It rings once.

Twice.

Three times—then clicks.

The screen shifts to darkness. Some muffled rustling. Then a soft shuffle of fabric.

The glow of the phone illuminates her face, sleepy and soft.

"Hey," she murmurs, voice low and rough with sleep. Her hair’s a mess, a few dark strands falling across her cheek.

"Oh no—did I wake you? I’m sorry," I whisper, guilt twisting in my stomach.

She gives a slow blink, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "It’s okay. I missed you too."

Her voice is warm even through the static.

"Who said I missed you?" I say, though the smile tugging at my lips ruins any attempt at pretending otherwise.

"Uh huh." Her tone is soft, teasing, with that little knowing lilt only she can manage.

"How’s he?" I ask.

"Uhm... older," she replies, voice still thick with sleep.

I huff a small laugh. "Of course he’s older. He just turned fifty."

She lets out a breath of laughter, a little more awake now.

"Yeah. It was good to see him. I’m glad you made me," she adds. There’s a pause, the smallest glance offscreen—probably thinking back. She’d almost skipped this trip, I remember.

"See? Remember I’m always right," I say smugly.

She chuckles softly, eyes crinkling. "Mm. Don’t let it go to your head."

Too late.

I watch her yawn on screen, eyes fluttering shut for a second before she forces them open again.

As much as I want to keep talking, I know she’s jet-lagged, probably exhausted from the time difference and the trip.

"You should get some rest," I tell her softly.

"Hmmmnn," she hums, already halfway there. But instead of ending the call, she lets the phone fall against the pillow, her face still in view.

Within moments, her breathing evens out—gentle, slow.

"Love you," I whisper, even though she’s already gone.

Faintly, I hear her mumble something that sounds suspiciously like, "...love you too..."

I can’t help but smile.

***

Daphne POV

My phone’s dead. Figures.

I plug it into the charger, power it on, and immediately see a text from Estela.

"Think your phone went off. Text me when you’re up."

I type a quick reply—

"Just woke. Love you."

Then I drag myself through the usual motions: a quick shower, a lonely hotel breakfast that’s more for form than hunger, and back into my car.

It’s a grey, cloudy morning—suits my mood.

I drive out to the Castellano estate. Or what’s now being called the Castellano estate.

It’s impressive, sure. Massive iron gates, sleek lines, imposing enough from a distance. Raffaele really did his best rebuilding after the old one burned. But...

It’s not the same.

The original was ancient. Layered in history, in dread. It breathed power. This one—gleaming, sharp, new—still smells of fresh marble and new money. In a century, maybe, it’ll have that same weight again.

I pull up to the drive.

Get out. Toss the keys to a passing servant without a word. They catch them, bowing slightly, and I stride in, hands in my pockets.

I wander the outer paths, past the courtyard, and that’s when I spot him—

Renzo.

Well.

Middle brother. Still alive, apparently.

And oh dear, he’s... let himself go.

Greasy hair, gut spilling slightly over his belt. Loud, obnoxious shirt under a half-buttoned jacket. He’s posturing in front of a much younger man, talking big, waving a cigar around.

Pathetic.

I can’t resist. If I’m here, might as well have a little fun.

"Renzo," I call, voice dry and amused.

He freezes mid-sentence.

"Who the fuck dares to call me by—"

He turns. Sees me.

And pales.

"Daphne?" he breathes, eyes wide like he’s seen a ghost.

I give him a slow, amused smile. Cross my arms.

"Your one and only little sister, big brother."

He just stares. Caught completely off guard.

I take my time—my gaze sweeps him head to toe. Deliberately slow. Purposefully pitying. I let the expression settle on my face—one eyebrow arched just enough to needle him.

Poor Renzo.

He’s red in the face now, embarrassed under the scrutiny. He knows exactly what I’m thinking.

I tilt my head. Shift my gaze to the young man standing awkwardly at his side—a boy, really. Couldn’t be older than twenty. Strong resemblance though. Renzo’s seed, clearly.

Hah. He really did go and spread his seed. Figures.

"And who might this be?" I ask, tone casual, but the faint curve of my mouth betrays my amusement.

Renzo puffs up—tries to square his shoulders. Unfortunately for him, only his gut seems to respond, pushing against the strained buttons of his jacket.

"My son," he declares loudly. "The next Don."

I glance at the boy again.

Poor thing. He looks mortified. Eyes darting, shifting from me to his father and back. So sorry, kid. You’ve drawn the short stick on paternal figures.

"Uh huh..." I drawl, voice rich with amusement.

"NextDon, huh?"