Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate

Chapter 268: Not again (2)

Just up ahead, by the lockers near their classroom door, two students stood close—one leaning casually against the wall, the other standing in that stiff, not-awkward-but-not-comfortable posture of someone who’d just been caught talking too long.

‘Not again…’

Damien Elford.

And Isabelle Moreau.

“…”

The Quartet slowed almost imperceptibly. A fractional hesitation. Not enough to be called a stop. Just enough to register the presence.

Damien was saying something. His voice was low—too low to catch—but his body language was easy. Too easy. One hand still tucked into his pocket, the other gesturing slightly as he spoke. His uniform still slightly undone—tie loose, shirt collar open just enough to skirt the edge of policy.

Isabelle stood with her arms crossed, but not defensively. Listening. A crease in her brow. Engaged.

Too engaged.

“…They look much closer, aren’t they?” Lillian said, her voice light but pointed. “Recently.”

Victoria didn’t answer right away.

She didn’t need to.

The air had already changed.

Even Cassandra, who usually met any sight of Damien with a ready quip, stayed silent this time. Not cautious—just measuring.

It had been over a month since the last direct fallout. Since that conversation in the private lounge. Since Damien had called them out—no, called them names—with a grin on his face and a threat in his tone.

Celia’s fingers curled slightly at her side, but she said nothing.

Victoria took one more step forward, eyes flicking once—just once—toward the pair by the lockers.

Damien noticed.

Of course he did.

He didn’t stop talking. Didn’t even break eye contact with Isabelle. But his head tilted just slightly, like someone adjusting their view in a mirror. His smirk didn’t grow.

It simply… held.

Isabelle glanced over next, brows lifting faintly. Not surprised. Not hostile.

And in that glance, something stung.

Not sharply. Not like a blade.

More like a pinched nerve—dull, buried, insistent.

Victoria blinked once, and the feeling passed. But not completely. Lately, things didn’t pass as cleanly as they used to.

She used to feel composed walking these halls. Early mornings with her girls, coffee in hand, followers in orbit—it was ritual. Precision. That curated balance of power and elegance she had mastered by second year. Even Marek—her boyfriend—fit cleanly into that world. He’d call her ‘majesty’ when he teased her. They’d trade sarcasm and banter like old silver. Predictable. Shiny.

But lately…

She found herself unlocking her phone only to stare at the screen with a tension she couldn’t place. Her thumb would hover over the messaging app for too long. Her expression would tighten before she’d even realized it.

And this morning?

No Marek. Not even a check-in message. And she hadn’t noticed.

Not until now.

What she had noticed—unfortunately—was him.

Damien Elford.

Every time she caught a glimpse of him, her mood soured like cream left in the sun. His smug ease. His careless posture. That smirk that seemed to stretch across the edges of the room without permission.

But it wasn’t just him that made her chest tighten.

It was her.

Isabelle Moreau.

Always so self-assured. Chin high. Spine straight. Her eyes cool and focused like she’d been given a moral compass no one else was allowed to touch.

She stood beside him now with that same look—stern, unreadable—but she was still watching him. Still listening.

And that…

That annoyed Victoria more than she wanted to admit.

Isabelle acted like she was above everyone else. Never laughed too loudly. Never stumbled. Never reacted. Like being right wasn’t just her preference—it was her inheritance.

Victoria’s eyes narrowed slightly, the corner of her mouth tightening.

A breeze slid through the corridor as another door opened down the hall. Isabelle’s silky black hair shifted with the movement, catching the light as it swayed over her shoulder.

That simple flick—

It made something hot flicker beneath Victoria’s skin.

She exhaled slowly, adjusting the grip on her coffee cup.

Enough.

No good ever came from watching Damien Elford. No clarity. No satisfaction. Only questions with teeth and moods she couldn’t name.

This much was something she had understood.

So it was better to ignore him.

Damien Elford wasn’t worth the disruption—not to her schedule, not to her mood, and certainly not to her focus. Let him talk. Let him lean. Let him smirk at Isabelle like they shared some private joke written in bad posture and worse taste.

Victoria turned her gaze forward again, letting her expression return to its neutral, unbothered state.

But the silence didn’t last.

“So,” Cassandra said, her voice lilting with just the right amount of mischief, “did anyone else hear what he was doing in the Promenade yesterday?”

Lillian perked up immediately. “Oh! Yes. I heard something about that—someone said they saw him near the northern quarter, around those boutique lanes.”

“Alone?” Celia asked, her tone clipped. Still distant. But listening.

“Not sure,” Cassandra replied, brushing a strand of dark hair from her face. “But rumor was, he spent a long time at the mana-tech store. The one with the restricted-tier hardware.”

Victoria didn’t say anything.

Not yet.

Cassandra smiled, glancing sidelong at her. “Odd for someone who used to nap through system lectures, don’t you think?”

“Mhm,” Lillian hummed, clearly enjoying the trail. “And I heard he had a bag when he left. Not just a small one either. Like… something heavy.”

“Tech?” Celia asked.

“Or tools,” Cassandra added, faux-thoughtful. “Or sabotage kits. Or maybe he’s planning to replace the school’s central AI with a personality modeled after his ego.”

That made Lillian laugh.

Even Victoria’s lips twitched. Just barely.

“I’m sure the system would shut itself down in protest,” she murmured, finally speaking.

“Only after it begged for mercy,” Celia said coolly.

But Victoria’s mind lingered on it.

The Promenade.

She hadn’t expected that. Damien didn’t exactly have the spending profile of someone who frequented high-end districts. And certainly not the focus to be shopping in restricted-tier zones unless…

Unless he had a purpose.

She clicked her nails once against the side of her coffee cup, brow ticking faintly.

And then Cassandra, ever one to let the thread unravel just a little further, tilted her head.

“Well, if he’s suddenly flush enough to be shopping at the Promenade, maybe it’s because of her.”

Victoria didn’t need to ask who she meant.

Neither did the others.

“His mother?” Lillian asked, blinking. “Miss Vivienne?”

Celia gave a short nod. “Yep her.”

“Oh,” Lillian said, lips parting slightly in recollection. “She is beautiful.”

“Beautiful and expensive,” Cassandra said, almost admiringly. “She always looks like she’d stepped out of a curated luxury editorial. Everything about her was ironed, scented, and made to hum at high society frequencies.”

Celia’s mouth quirked faintly. “Unlike her son.”

That earned a chuckle from Cassandra. “Exactly. I mean, he looked like a page torn from the wrong magazine entirely. Did you see the contrast? Standing next to her in that rumpled uniform, one shoe barely tied…”

“His posture wasn’t even bad,” Lillian added, almost thoughtfully. “It was just… lazy. Like he didn’t care he was ruining the picture.”

“Typical,” Victoria muttered.

Vivienne Elford was, after all, a known figure. Anyone worth their status in Vermillion’s upper circles knew her—former alumnus, multi-award consultant in arcane business law, effortlessly polished in public and even more efficient in private. Her name alone moved doors. Her presence froze rooms.

Which only made Damien’s existence more perplexing.

That he had come from her felt like an unsolvable riddle.

But Victoria shelved the thought, just as they stepped into the classroom.

The air inside shifted as soon as they entered. The low hum of idle morning chatter dipped—just slightly—but enough to be felt. Heads turned. Conversations paused. A few greetings drifted in their direction, clipped and eager.

“Morning, Victoria.”

“Celia, Cassandra—those earrings are stunning.”

“Lillian, is that the new Lavender & Rise shimmer gloss?”

The Sovereign Quartet made their way to their desks by the windows, the sun spilling across polished wood and carefully curated bags. Their arrival, as always, was quiet thunder—felt more than heard.

And, as expected, their orbit began to pull.

A few seconds after they settled in, their cluster began to form—friends, admirers, curious onlookers who never dared to interrupt but wanted proximity all the same.

That’s when the new thread of conversation dropped.

“So—has anyone seen the lineup for the volleyball tournament?”