QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL)-Chapter 171: Deals

171 – Daphne POV

Estela is charming.

Not in the fake, sugary way rich girls are taught to be charming—but in that raw, street-born way that makes people stop mid-step and stare. She walks like the alleys are hers, like the shadows bend out of respect for her heels. I follow behind, hands in my pockets, letting her lead. It’s late, but this place never sleeps. The air is thick with heat and grime, like someone tried to mop the world with whiskey and gave up halfway through.

A cat falls into a hole beside us. Not just a hole—something... wrong. A tear in space. One second it’s walking along the wall, the next it’s swallowed by black static.

We duck under hanging laundry, climb past some half-crushed dumpsters, and finally reach a narrow red door. It throbs to the bass like it’s alive. When it opens, the scent hits me first—sweat, rum, cigarette smoke, desperation, and something floral. The kind of place that’s never been truly clean but thrives because of it.

The music is something in between reggaeton and electro-pop, fast and hungry. Bodies grind to the rhythm like it’s their religion.

Estela barely slows. She slides between dancers with a grace that’s completely unfair. The lights catch on her earrings, her mouth glossed in something cherry red. I trail behind her, watching the way she moves—confident, knowing she belongs here in a way I never will.

I glance at the women on the dancefloor. Skin slick with sweat. Eyes half-lidded with pleasure or intoxication or both. I’ve never done this before. The wild club thing.

The clubs I did go to, involving just sitting around all posh and picking a girl to spend the night with.

I look around, and an idea takes root, I could do this, no want to. With Estela, can she dance like this? No I’m sure she can I’ve seen her strip dancing.

The next time we’re here, it’s definitely on the bucket list.

We cut through the back. Past the bar. Past a hallway that smells suspiciously like piss and candy. She doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t ask questions. I realize this isn’t new to her. The way she knocks three times and waits. The subtle flick of her wrist as a camera clicks into place and then dies.

The office we enter is small and hot. No windows. Just a rusted fan spinning in lazy, useless circles.

Behind the desk sits a man I can only describe as terrifyingly bald. Tattooed skull, silver nose ring, and eyes that look like they’ve seen the inside of people’s heads—literally.

His fingers are covered in rings and cigarette burns. He doesn’t smile when he sees Estela. Just nods but I see the surprise in his eyes.

They speak in Spanish. Rapid. Rhythmic. She sounds confident, but polite. No, not polite—familiar. Like they’ve done this before. The man grunts, gestures vaguely at a drawer, and Estela hands over something I can’t quite catch. A flash drive? Money? I squint.

Maybe I should ask her to talk to me like that. Whisper filthy things in Spanish when I’ve got her pressed against the sheets, trembling. She only resorts to her native tongue when she’s on the edge—when her hips stutter and her voice breaks. I love it when she forgets English. When she forgets herself.

She glances back at me suddenly and I realize I’ve been staring too hard. Too long.

Her lips curve. Smirking like she knows exactly what I was thinking.

Shameless woman.

***

Estela POV

Daphne usually has a poker face that’s steel-proof, emotion-proof, nuclear-disaster-proof.

But I can read her.

Her eyes are glazed, her lips parted just slightly, and she’s clearly undressing me with her thoughts. In Spanish.

Is she serious? Right now? In this office? With the bald executioner and the haunted ceiling fan above us?

I roll my eyes.

"He wants money in exchange," I say aloud, hoping to shift her attention from undress Estela back to serious business.

Daphne blinks and then straightens like I didn’t just catch her mid-fantasy.

"How much?"

I sigh.

"Five hundred and fifty thousand dollars."

She chokes, a bit dramatic because I’ve seen her bank accounts, and financial statement on Julie’s tablet.

"Is he—is he insane?" Her voice cracks in disbelief, which is a rarity in itself. "What’s he planning to do? Buy the country?"

The man doesn’t flinch. He lights a cigarette like we’re discussing groceries.

Before I can translate or defend the price, he shifts and speaks—in perfect, gravel-toned English.

"It’s not for luxuries, querida. It’s because betraying the cartel is a death wish." He says the words like he’s ordering coffee. "I give you names, faces, docks, shipping routes... poof. I’m a corpse within forty-eight hours."

Daphne blinks again.

"And not just me." He points at the ceiling vaguely.

"They’ll kill my cousin, his dogs, the neighbor’s goat. Anyone I ever smiled at. That’s how they work. So, I need enough to disappear—not just leave. Vanish."

There’s a long beat of silence.

Then Daphne folds her arms.

"You speak English?"

He shrugs, unfazed. "You didn’t ask."

She side-eyes me. "Did you know?"

"I suspected," I admit, grinning.

She gives me that long-suffering look that makes my stomach flutter. I love getting under her skin.

Daphne paces once, then stops by the desk.

"Five hundred and fifty is too steep. I’ll give you two-twenty."

The man chuckles.

"Sweetheart, two-twenty gets me a passport, a bus ticket, and three days of living in a broken motel before someone finds me and skins me alive. I’m not suicidal."

"Two-fifty, and I give you a contact in Eastern Europe. Safe houses, forged records, facial surgery if needed."

He squints at her. Then looks at me. "She’s serious?"

"Deadly."

Daphne raises an eyebrow. "Clock’s ticking, baldy. The longer I’m in this room, the more people are probably watching you."

He grunts. "Two-eighty."

"Two-sixty-five."

He flicks ash into an empty coffee mug, considers it.

"Deal."

Daphne smiles coldly.

"You’ll get half now. Half when I verify the intel."

Daphne is so hot sometimes.