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

The velvet canopy above her bed fluttered slightly with the breeze of the central cooling system, the faint hum blending with the soft ticking of the Langley estate's antique grandfather clock. The light from Victoria's crystal chandelier bathed her room in gold, casting gentle glows along the ivory walls lined with portraits and imported oil paintings.

She lay sprawled atop her silk duvet, her long legs crossed, the sleeves of her pale satin nightgown slipping slightly down her shoulder as she held her phone just above her face. Her other hand idly twirled a strand of her hair.

The house was quiet—far too quiet. Dinner had been a long performance, full of hollow smiles and careful silence. Her father had commented on the upcoming charity gala. Her mother, as always, had remarked on posture, diction, and image.

But now, they were gone.

And she could breathe.

[Chat – Marek 💬]

Marek:

Did I go too far?

Victoria's perfectly glossed lips pulled into a subtle smile.

Victoria:

You followed the plan.

That's all that matters.

Marek:

Yeah, but... the guy didn't even flinch. He played like he's been doing this for years. That wasn't supposed to happen.

Her smile twitched.

He was right.

It wasn't supposed to happen.

The plan was simple: provoke Damien, push him onto the field, then let Marek dismantle him publicly. Nothing brutal. Just enough humiliation to remind Damien that rising too fast comes with a fall.

But instead… Damien had performed.

Scored. Outplayed. Drew attention like a spotlight followed him.

And worst of all—he walked away with more than he arrived with.

Victoria's gaze stayed fixed on the screen, her thumb hovering over the glowing keyboard. Marek's next message came slowly, hesitantly—like even he wasn't sure if he wanted to send it.

Marek:

Also… we're not getting any word from the P.E. office yet, but...

There might be trouble.

You know who his father is, right?

Dominic Elford. That man's name scares half the board.

Victoria's smile vanished. Her expression cooled, eyes narrowing slightly at the message.

Victoria:

So what?

You're afraid now?

The reply came quicker than expected.

Marek:

I'm not scared of him. I'm just being careful. You didn't see how the teachers reacted. One call from the Elford estate and—

Victoria:

*He humiliated me.

Again.

And now you're talking about being careful?

She sat up sharply in bed, her phone clutched tighter now, breath coming faster. The softness in her voice had bled away, replaced by a sharp current of frustration.

Victoria:

Are you really going to start backing down the moment the name "Elford" gets whispered?

You're my boyfriend. And I'm the one being insulted.

In front of everyone.

How can you just stand by and talk about being "careful?"

There was a long pause.

Marek:

You're the one who wanted to keep us hidden.

You said we can't risk it.

That struck her harder than she wanted to admit.

She sat still for a moment, the silence of the Langley estate pressing in around her like velvet iron. The weight of those words echoed deeper than the chat bubble on her screen.

Because he wasn't wrong.

She had said that.

She was the one who insisted they keep their relationship quiet.

The one who played the part of the unattached idol at school, keeping a dozen hopeful suitors hooked on nothing but glances and carefully crafted indifference.

Because that was how you kept power.

And Marek—

He didn't fit.

His family wasn't noble.

His name wasn't whispered with awe in political halls.

He didn't come from curated bloodlines or share wine with board members.

But he was hers.

And he had always followed her lead.

She swallowed the tightness in her throat.

Victoria:

I know what I said.

But that doesn't mean you get to stop protecting me.

Victoria:

You looked perfectly fine when you were kissing me earlier.

Didn't seem too "careful" then.

And now you're chickening out?

She hit send, her lips curling into something sharp—not quite a smirk, not quite a smile. More a test. A press of pressure against the cracks she knew were already there.

The typing bubble blinked. Then—

Marek:

Trust me.

There's nothing "chickening out" about the way I kissed you.

If I had my way?

I'd be in your room right now, hands on your thighs, that stupid nightgown off, and your phone forgotten somewhere on the floor.

You're the one who keeps me in the shadows, V.

Not the other way around.

Victoria's breath caught for half a second.

Damn him.

Her knees pressed tighter together beneath the satin of her nightgown, and she glanced toward the door as if her thoughts alone might summon someone.

She typed slower this time.

Victoria:

I want you too, idiot.

But we can't. Not here.

She was just about to write something more when—

Tap. Tap.

Footsteps echoed outside her bedroom door.

Her entire body tensed. The phone was off and under the pillow in an instant, her expression smoothing over like water settling over stone.

The knock followed a second later.

Then the door opened—without waiting.

"Vicky!" came the soft, cheerful voice. "Are you still awake?"

Victoria blinked once, smile already in place as her little sister stepped inside.

Felicia Langley. Thirteen years old. Ribbon in her hair. Clean white slippers. A pastel cardigan over her study dress. Wide, shining eyes and a textbook clutched delicately in her arms like it was some holy scripture.

Adorable.

Innocent.

Sweet.

A lie.

Victoria's smile thinned just slightly.

"What is it?" she asked, adjusting her posture like she hadn't just been imagining Marek's hand on her thigh.

Felicia stepped closer, her dainty steps practically silent on the carpet.

"I had a question," she said, flipping open her textbook and holding it out. "About the logic exercises. This one's weird."

Victoria's eyes drifted to the page.

It was basic. Elementary reasoning. A Langley could solve that in her sleep.

Felicia especially.

Victoria's smile stayed in place, but her gaze sharpened ever so slightly.

"You couldn't figure this out?" she asked, voice even.

Felicia blinked up at her with wide, innocent eyes. "Mm-mm. I thought maybe you could explain it better than the tutor."

Liar.

Victoria knew this game. She'd played it herself.

The performance of sweetness. The hidden glance. The pretense of dependence.

Felicia didn't come here for the question.

She came to check.

To see something.

Victoria leaned forward slightly, brushing her hair behind her shoulder.

"Of course," she said, voice honeyed. "Come sit. Let's go through it together."

Felicia climbed onto the edge of the bed with practiced grace, tucking her legs neatly beneath her as she nestled close—just enough to seem affectionate, not enough to break the air of poise she wore like a second skin.

Victoria took the book and held it open between them, glancing at the question briefly.

"If A is true, and B depends on A..." she began, trailing her finger across the page with slow precision, "...then you only have to negate C to disprove the entire chain. Understand?"

Felicia nodded slowly. "Mm-hmm."

But her voice was far too casual now. Her eyes weren't on the page anymore.

They were watching Victoria.

Waiting.

Then, just as Victoria expected—

"Did you see the football match today?"

The words floated out like they were nothing—casual, innocent.

Victoria's eyes didn't shift. She just turned the page.

"Of course. I was there."

Felicia tilted her head. "Everyone's talking about it downstairs. Even in my class."

"Naturally. Boys always lose their minds over a ball," Victoria said dryly.

Felicia giggled softly. "It wasn't just the ball, though." She reached up to twist a strand of her hair around one finger. "They're talking about him. Damien Elford."

That name landed between them like a dropped pin.

Victoria didn't flinch. She simply turned the next page with deliberate grace.

"Are they now?"

Felicia hummed, her tone light. "Mm-hmm. Some of the older girls said he was... different. Like he changed overnight. And I saw him too. He looked different. He played different."

She turned her head slowly toward her sister, wide eyes gleaming with calculated innocence.

"Is it true? Did he really used to be... kind of gross?"

Victoria's hand paused mid-turn.

Her eyes narrowed—just slightly. Not enough to seem reactive. But enough to read between the lines.

"Gross is such a crude word," she said, voice like silk stretched thin. "But yes. He wasn't someone worth looking at. Or talking about."

Felicia gave a small hum, like she was considering that. "Weird. He doesn't seem like that anymore. He looked kind of... cool."

Victoria's fingers tightened imperceptibly around the book's spine.

"Careful, Felicia," she murmured, still smiling. "You're sounding like one of those girls who falls for a glow-up and forgets what was underneath."

Felicia gave a small, airy laugh. "I'm not falling for anyone. Don't be silly."

Victoria turned another page, her voice a little lower. "Good. Because some changes are just masks. Peel them off, and the same filth is still underneath."

There was a pause.

Felicia leaned her chin on her hand, watching her sister like one might study the last piece of a complicated puzzle.

"Mm. You really hate him, don't you?"

Victoria's lips twitched into something colder than a smile.

"I don't hate him," she said softly. "I just don't like liars who think they can write over history with a few muscles and a better jawline."

Felicia said nothing at first.

Then she gave the sweetest little nod and looked back at the book.

"...Page sixty-three, right?"

Victoria didn't answer.

She just turned the page for her.