QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL)-Chapter 174: Daddy

Chapter 174

Estela POV

I thought we’d head straight to the airport—get new names, fake passports, and disappear into the next convenient timezone like every other time. But Daphne had other plans. Julia did her magic and somehow managed to secure us a different route, something more unpredictable.

Now, I’m a blonde with seafoam-green contact lenses, a spray tan, and an obnoxiously sparkly bikini top that makes my chest pop like a highlighter. I look like I belong on reality tv.

The sort of woman you’d expect to be clinging to a much older man with money, fake teeth, and a yacht he calls his "lady."

That’s where Daphne comes in.

She’s...unrecognizable. Her usual swagger replaced by the slouched posture of a potbellied balding man with a glint of sleaze in his eye. Her tan lines are uneven, her gut is padded, and she smells like a mix of cheap cigars and even cheaper rum. The disguise is so good it actually offends me.

A dummy plane left the airport hours ago. According to every news channel currently streaming live, it crashed mid-air over the Andes. No survivors.

Wow.

Daphne leaves to deal with our accomodation, I stand leaning on the steel railing of the cruise ship as it begins to glide away from the harbor under the purple blush of early dusk.

Ambient music spills softly from the speakers—cheap saxophone jazz and the occasional steel drum beat. Most of the cruise guests are gathered near the bar or by the small pool, already drunk off their overpriced piña coladas.

Nobody notices me standing alone by the edge, arms crossed, watching the sea like it owes me answers.

Then a hand cups my butt.

I jolt, already winding my arm back for a punch when I freeze mid-motion.

I know those hands.

I turn to glare at Daphne—no, my sugar daddy—and the smug bastard has the nerve to raise both fake-bushy eyebrows at me.

"Daddy!!!" I squeal, throwing my arms around her neck and giggling with practiced airheadedness.

She lets out a wheezy chuckle that sounds like it came from three packs of cigarettes and a lifetime of poor decisions.

"Come on, baby," she says, in that ridiculous gravelly voice that’s part mob boss, part sleazy game show host.

"Can’t a man show affection to his number one girl?"

"You can’t do that here," I hiss in her ear, still smiling like an idiot. "There are people watching."

"Exactly," she whispers back.

"Wouldn’t be convincing if I didn’t look like I’ve got a wandering hand."

I roll my eyes and push away, but keep the smile up. Daphne has way too much fun playing this part.

"Let’s go get drinks," she says, loudly now, for the benefit of our audience. "You want something fruity with a little umbrella in it?"

"Yes, Daddy," I say, dragging the last syllable out until it sounds as sugary and rotten as a week-old candy cane.

We strut off, her arm slung around my waist like she owns me. I should hate it. I really should. But somehow, I don’t.

Probably because she does own me.

We find a spot near the poolside bar. She orders something ridiculously expensive, flashes a fake Rolex that looks like it was lifted off a mall kiosk, and tips like a man with tax fraud in his past.

I lean into her chest and sip my drink—pineapple, tequila, and something neon blue. "We’ll only stay here a couple days, right?"

"Just enough to clear the radar," she mutters, the accent softening now that no one’s around. "Julia’s working on our next drop point."

"Where to?"

"Some coastal city up north. Apparently, one of the Castellano’s main arms contacts is based there. If we hit him, it’ll destabilize three supply routes."

I nod in response, mind already calculating travel times, the likeliest intel drop points, possible traps.

"Now," I say, catching her tie and giving it a little tug, "how about a dance?"

She blinks. "A what?"

I step closer, smile sugary sweet. "You know, when two people hold each other and sway? Romantic? Very common among humans?"

Daphne raises a brow, skeptical.

"You’re really into this sugar baby role."

"Oh, baby," I say in a breathy, high-pitched tone, dragging the word out dramatically as I twirl under her arm, "I’m thriving."

She laughs—amused, carefree, unguarded. It makes my heart skip a beat despite her outer appearance. Despite the bald cap. Despite the sagging prosthetic gut that gives her the look of someone who made millions in offshore drilling and now spends his golden years buying love in sequins.

She looks like a joke. But she laughs like a woman I love. And it’s not fair how much that disarms me.

I settle my hands on her fake potbelly—stuffed under layers of padding and prosthetic glue—and whisper, "I bet the whole deck thinks you’re a retired oil tycoon with a taste for young dancers."

"And you’re the gold-digger looking to secure a will inheritance before I croak?" she replies, sliding her hands to my waist and giving a gentle tug that draws us closer.

"Will you give it to me?" I tease, batting my lashes in exaggerated innocence.

"Only if you show me what I want to see," she says smoothly.

Then, with no warning, she dips me. I squeal, caught off guard, legs flailing briefly in the air before she pulls me back upright, snug against her chest.

Laughter bubbles between us.

"Then prepare for a show tonight," I whisper against her ear, breath brushing her cheek.

"Promises, promises," she murmurs, but I can feel her hands pressing just a little harder against the small of my back. Her grip speaks volumes. She’s holding on tighter.

We sway in a lazy circle. The cruise ship glides forward, lights twinkling on the water like scattered stars. Around us, other couples murmur over champagne or lean against the rails. But our world has narrowed to just this little circle. Her, me, and the ocean breeze curling around us.

"They’re probably making a whole soap opera about us in their heads," I say after a beat.

"Good," Daphne replies. "Give them a show."

I grin, tucking my chin over her shoulder. We must look so strange. Her, with a fake paunch and painted liver spots. Me, all bombshell glam and sugar-sweet giggles. The perfect picture of indulgent decadence.

And yet, I’ve never felt more grounded. More seen.

The music shifts, softens into something older. A ballad, crooning with love and loss. Daphne doesn’t speak. She simply holds me closer, our rhythm falling in sync with the sway of the waves.

I press my nose to her neck, careful not to smudge her makeup. She smells faintly of glue, sea salt, and that awful cologne Julia picked for the disguise.

But beneath it, she smells like safety.

Faintly like lavender from the cheap tourist cologne Julia sprayed on her earlier, and something warmer—her. That mix of heat, sweat, and that hard-to-name scent that always makes me feel like I’ve come home. Even through all the disguise makeup, prosthetic glue, and the heavy jacket stuffed with fake padding, she smells like Daphne. And just like that, the fake cruise ship, the stolen identities, the cartel threats, all of it melts into the background.

"I love you," I say.

Softly. Like a truth I’ve always known.

She pauses mid-spin. Just enough for the words to land. Her expression doesn’t change dramatically, but her eyes soften. The kind of softness that’s reserved for me and only me.

"I love you too."

And there it is—that quick, quiet pulse of happiness that makes my chest feel full. My heart thuds once, hard, like it’s trying to make a memory of the moment.

Then, of course, she ruins it.

Her oversized, wrinkled hands—glued with age spots and liver mark prosthetics—come up to grope my chest with both palms like she’s inspecting melons in a grocery store.

"Daddy!" I shriek in mock outrage, smacking her arms away.

"What? I thought I was dying soon," she says, absolutely unrepentant, eyes twinkling. "Might as well enjoy the view."

"Your will shall reflect this violation," I say grandly, turning around and pretending to storm off.

"I’m taking the yacht and the vacation house in Corsica."

"You mean the inflatable raft and the apartment over the fish market?" she deadpans, following me.

I spin around and jab a finger into her fake stomach. "I knew it. You don’t really love me. You’re only using me for my incredible dancing skills and youthful vitality."

She grabs my wrist, pulls me in close, and leans down until we’re nose to nose. "Exactly," she whispers. "That and your ass."

I laugh. Loud and unfiltered, the kind that earns a few side glances from nearby passengers. It bubbles up from my gut, cuts through all the tension, and makes me realize just how much this ridiculous woman means to me.

Her potbelly costume squishes against my chest as she wraps her arms around me, and I let myself melt into it.

Because fake identities or not, we’re still us.

And we’re still in love.

Even if we’re fugitives on a cruise ship headed for war.