QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL)
Chapter 193: I love you

Chapter 193: I love you

192 — Epilogue

Daphne POV

It’s getting harder to climb the stairs.

Each step feels like a war. My joints ache. My breath comes shorter than it used to. There was a time—God, not even so long ago—when I could carry my wife up three flights with ease.

Now?

Now the rail is my ally. I grip it tight, hauling my body up one slow stair at a time.

I remember when I said I wanted to grow old. Thought I was clever. Smug about it.

I may have overestimated myself.

Growing old sucks.

But I can’t leave her. Not yet. Not ever, if I can help it.

I reach the bedroom at last. My knees ache. My back protests. I stand there a moment, catching my breath, hand on the doorframe.

Inside...

There she is.

My Estela.

She lies among the pillows—soft, white, warm—her hair a silver halo now.

Her eyes flutter open when she hears me. Some days she knows me. Some days... not so much.

And since my sweet wife was an assassin—well, on the bad days, she’ll hurt herself trying to punch me. Or worse—wake up thinking she’s back at that god-awful strip club and will think she’s late for a shift.

"Morning, wife," I say, voice roughened by age—and something deeper, warmer.

She blinks, lashes fluttering against her pale skin. Confusion at first. A faint furrow between her brows—thinking, searching, piecing together a world that doesn’t always stay put anymore.

Then—clarity.

"Dee?" she breathes, voice soft, hesitant.

And just like that—just like that—the ache in my joints, the burn in my chest... it all vanishes.

Today is one of the good days.

"Yes, love," I say softly, lowering myself to sit beside her. I reach for her hand—still soft, still delicate in mine, though thinner now, her bones fragile under her skin.

"It’s me."

Her lips twitch upward—faint, trembling—but it’s a smile all the same.

"You’re so old," she murmurs, teasing glint in her tired eyes.

"Likewise," I joke, easing into the worn armchair by her bed. The familiar spot. My spot.

She smiles again—slow, real. A light in her gaze.

Despite the wrinkles on her face, the white strands in her hair... she’s still as beautiful as the day I met her.

No.

More beautiful.

Because I know every version of her—young, fierce, stubborn, soft, wrecked in my arms, laughing in the sun, broken and healing... every one of them, I love.

I reach for her hand, worn but still precious, and squeeze it gently.

She squeezes back.

A silent exchange.

"It was an amazing life," she says softly.

My heart pulls tight.

"Not the words I want to hear first thing in the morning—given our age," I tease gently, voice rough.

Her smile tilts, small and knowing. "But true."

"Yes," I say quietly. "It was."

"Thank you for loving me," she whispers.

"No... thank you." I bring her hand up to my lips, pressing a long kiss to her knuckles, lingering there. Her skin is thinner now, fragile—but still hers. Still her.

"I’m sorry I have to leave first," she murmurs, voice trembling.

I close my eyes, steadying the ache in my chest.

"It’s only a temporary goodbye," I whisper. "I’ll find you again. In our next lives."

Her breath catches faintly—almost a soft laugh. "What a nice sentiment..."

"I mean it," I say firmly, opening my eyes, meeting her gaze.

A flicker of her old spark lights her tired gaze. "Then I’ll take you up on that. Don’t keep me waiting."

"Never."

She exhales slow—like letting go of the weight of years.

"It’s... a see you later," she says softly.

"Hmmmnn," I hum, tightening my hold on her hand.

A quiet pause.

"I love you," she says, voice faint now, but clear. Steady.

I press another kiss to her knuckles, voice breaking on the words.

"I love you," I respond.

She smiles—tired, sweet, full of everything that was and still is us.

Her smile lingers... and slowly her lids begin to flutter.

She’s tired. I can see it.

Her grip in my hand loosens, fingers relaxing in mine.

I shift closer in the chair, still holding her hand between both of mine.

"It’s okay," I murmur. "You can rest now, my love. I’m here."

Her lips part slightly, breath softer now. Fainter.

"I’m here," I whisper again. "Always."

The room is so still—no sound but the quiet creak of the old house, the hush of her breathing.

Her chest rises... falls...

Rises...

...Falls.

A long pause.

Then... no rise.

My throat closes.

I sit very still—watching. Hoping. Waiting.

But there’s no breath.

Her skin is still warm beneath my lips as I kiss her hand again, my own trembling faintly.

After an undefinable amount of time, I let go of her hand—now cold, her fingers slack. I stand, though my knees protest the movement.

I lean over, press one last kiss to her forehead. Her hair smells the same—soft, faintly floral. My chest tightens.

I straighten, fingers brushing the covers into place. Even now, she looks peaceful. Beautiful. My wife.

I move slowly to the door. One glance back—I can’t help it. The ache in my ribs sharpens, but I nod to her softly.

I leave the room.

The house is quiet. Empty.

Every step echoes faintly down the stairs—my knees screaming, joints stiff. I fight the stairs, slow and stubborn, refusing to stop.

Everyone’s gone now. Julie—ten years ago. Raffaele, four years before him.Renzo Jr., surprisingly, became the next Don. Who’d have thought? At least he didn’t inherit his father’s worst traits... though I hear he killed him. Fitting. Bloody family.

I reach the kitchen, flick on the stove—open the gas valves. The faint hiss fills the room. Not yet time for the caregiver to arrive. She’ll be in for quite the surprise.

But this house—our home for nearly sixty years—it’s not meant to outlive us. This house is going with us. I won’t have strangers sleeping in our bed, walking these halls like it’s theirs.

I open the high cupboard. My hand trembles, but I retrieve the bottle of sleeping pills, fingers closing around it tight.

Back up the stairs, one last time.

Every step heavier than the last. Muscles burning. Chest tight.

When I finally return to our room, Estela looks the same—peaceful. Like she’s waiting for me.

I sit on the edge of the bed. The ache in my bones is nothing compared to the hollow space in my chest.

I unscrew the bottle. Swallow the pills, one by one. No hesitation now. No fear. Just... relief.

I lie down beside her, close—pressing against her cold body, one arm wrapping around her waist.