QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL)-Chapter 250: Questions

Chapter 250: Questions
Chapter 250
Nima
"Are you sure you’re okay with this? Coming to live with me in poverty?"
The voice is warm, deep, familiar and yet... not. It vibrates through the dream like a string plucked in my chest.
"I’m okay," I hear myself saying. "My answer won’t change no matter how many times you ask me ■⁠-⁠■-■⁠-⁠■—" the name blurs, static crackling over it like a bad signal, "—I love this. I love you. Look at this."
I turn.
Endless green. A magnificent grassy plain that rolls out to the horizon, dotted with wildflowers and wind that smells like rain and earth.
The kind of view you only see in storybooks. My heart swells.
"I’m happy," my voice goes on, trembling with joy. "I’m alive. Before you, I wasn’t really living. This is amazing."
"If you say so, Duchess," the voice answers with a sigh.
Duchess?
The word snaps through the dream like a whip crack.
I jolt awake, heart hammering. My breath comes in ragged pulls as the remnants of the dream crumble like paper ash. For a moment I don’t know where I am—then I recognize the faint scent of Daphne’s scent, the soft sheets, the dim glow of her room in the late morning light.
I sit up, clutching the blanket to my chest, staring at nothing.
Duchess?
The word echoes in my skull.
But I know that view. Not from life but from sketches in my notebook. And from one of Daphne’s paintings. The same bend of hills. The same scatter of flowers. The same wind-bent grass.
I rub my temples, trying to steady my breathing.
No. It’s not a coincidence anymore. Not the dreams. Not the sketches. Not her paintings.
I glance at her sleeping form beside me—darj hair spilled across the pillow, tail flicking idly even in her dreams. The predator curled like a housecat. My heart twists.
I’ll ask her today.
*
Her tail flicks lazily as she paints, a slow rhythm of brush against canvas. The light from the high window catches on the streaks of color, turning the room into a wash of gold and silver. There’s a new chair in here now, one meant for me. I sit quietly, watching her work. It’s been an hour since I came with her to paint. The break is nearly over.
I rise and drift toward one of her canvases—the one glowing faintly in the dim room. Layers of color swirl into a shape only half-formed: a stage, lights shimmering, a vague silhouette at its center.
"I don’t understand," I murmur into the silence, fingers grazing the dry edge of the frame. "Why do you care for me so?"
Her brush pauses mid-stroke before resuming, slow and measured. "I just do," she says softly.
"So you just... saw me and felt this overflowing emotion?" My voice is sharper than I intend, but I can’t help it.
"Yes," she answers. "That’s exactly what happened."
I run my fingers lightly over the brush strokes. Somehow, I know this scene—feel it like an echo. A stage. Someone standing there.
"You expect me to believe that?" I ask.
Her tail flicks again. "Well. It
is
what happened," she replies without looking at me.
To test her, I tilt my head, tracing the glowing edges of the painting. "This looks like a stage. Like someone is on it."
She turns so fast the air seems to shift. Her golden eyes lock on mine, wide with something almost like shock.
"Really?" she asks.
"Yeah," I answer quietly.
Her gaze lingers a heartbeat too long before she turns back to the canvas she’s working on. "The beauty of art," she says evenly, "is that interpretation is subjective, my little bunny."
Liar.
I press harder. "I remember you once said we must have been lovers in our previous lives."
"Mmhmm." She agrees without hesitation.
"Why?" I ask.
"The amount of affection I have for you," she says softly, "feels like it’s grown over lifetimes."
My heart warms at that, dangerously so. I nearly swoon, but force myself to stay steady.Focus, Nima. Focus.
"I have dreams, you know," I continue.
She keeps painting.
"I’m with someone in them. Someone very familiar. I don’t know who, but they love me, and I love them." My fingers tighten around the edge of the canvas.
"How heartbreaking," she murmurs, "that you speak of another in my presence."
"That’s the thing," I say quietly. "I don’t think they’re another."
Her brush stills for just a fraction of a second.
"I think you know what I’m talking about," I whisper.
She continues painting, her expression unreadable.
"You know," I say softly, "I had a similar dream today. That person called me ’Duchess.’"
The sound of something clattering fills the room.
She’s dropped her brush. Paint spatters the floor.
"My..." Her voice is velvet and smoke, but just slightly frayed at the edges. "It seems you dream of being a duchess."
She bends to pick up the brush, but her hands are a shade too slow, her tail stiff with tension.
"Don’t worry, my little bunny," she says at last, her tone returning to that teasing lilt.
"I’ll change my title to Duke so that you can be my Duchess."
Her words are playful, but I’m not laughing.
I drift to another canvas, drawn as if by invisible threads. This one—my breath catches—it’s the view from my dream. The fading edges can’t disguise it. The sweep of grassy plains, the horizon blurred by golden light. I know it. I’ve
been
there.
"You know," I murmur, fingers brushing the edge of the frame, "when I look at some of these, I swear I’ve been here before. I can practically smell the wind. The grass."
Behind me, her brush stills.
"That," she says lightly, "showcases how talented I am."
I turn, narrowing my eyes at her back. She doesn’t look at me, but her ears betray her—sharp and twitching, perked high, straining.
She’s rattled.
The brush resumes moving, but slower this time. Each stroke too careful.
"Is that all it is?" I press, my voice low. "Talent?"
Her tail flicks once.
"Of course," she says, too smoothly. "What else could it be?"
I step closer, my glare burning into the tense line of her shoulders. She feels it—she has to. Her predator stillness gives her away more than any stammer could.
"You’re lying," I whisper.
That finally makes her pause. Her hand tightens on the brush, knuckles paling.
But she doesn’t turn.
"What else could it possibly be, my bunny?" she asks, her voice smooth, casual—but there’s a strain at the edges, a crack in the mask.
"I don’t know." I take a step closer, the floorboards creaking beneath me. "But you know."
Her ears flick back, betraying her even as her brush lifts like nothing’s wrong. She dips it into paint, drags another deliberate stroke across the canvas. Pretending.
"Daphne, don’t tell me the truth." The words leave me before I can stop them, shaky but insistent.
Her ears twitch, but she doesn’t turn. "I don’t understand what truth you’re searching for," she answers, her tone silken, practiced.
I grit my teeth, step closer until I’m nearly against her back. My voice cracks as I force it out. "Look at me and tell me."
The silence stretches.
Her hand hovers over the canvas, fingers flexing as if she doesn’t know whether to paint or break the brush in half.
Slowly, too slowly, she turns on the chair to face me.
She looks at me.
Her golden eyes are steady, but there’s something under the steadiness now—a faint tremor, a flicker of something she doesn’t want me to see.
"What truth do you desire?" she asks at last, voice low, almost inaudible.
I swallow hard, my throat tight. "What do my dreams mean?" I ask, taking a step closer. The floorboards creak between us.
Her ears twitch once. She doesn’t blink.
"Why do these dreams feel so real?" Another step, my heart hammering, the smell of oil paint and turpentine mixing with the scent of her skin.
Her tail flicks, once, sharp.
"Why did these dreams leave me with such loss and longing?" Another step. The space between us shrinks until I can see the faint tremor in her fingers around the brush.
Her pupils dilate.
"Why did that emotion disappear once you came into my life?" Another step. My voice cracks on the word
disappear
. "Why?"
She exhales through her nose, slow, controlled. The brush in her hand shakes once, then stills.
"Why do my dreams coincide with your paintings?" My final step brings me within arm’s reach.
Within arm’s length, I reach forward and cup her cheek. Her skin is warm beneath my palm, impossibly soft, the faintest tremor running through her jaw.
"Tell me," I whisper, my thumb brushing along her cheekbone, "who are you to me?"
She just looks at me.
Silent.
The golden in her eyes seems deeper now, darker, like molten metal about to spill.
"Daphne?"