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

Chapter 253: Meal

Vivienne watched Damien in silence for a moment longer, her arms now folded once more—not with disapproval, but with something quieter. More analytical. Not quite concern, not yet.

But something was stirring.

She turned her gaze from her son to the glowing tags again. Names hovering in the air like accepted terms on an unspoken contract. Kael. Renia. Lysa. Myla. Jaro. Each of them cataloged and vetted, yes—but by Damien. Not her. Not the family board. Not the Elford system.

And each one, in her eyes, carried a flag. Not red. Not yet.

But not green either.

Kael was efficient, capable, and physically imposing—but he operated like a blade waiting for a reason to swing. Someone like him could cut through bureaucracy, true… but he could also draw blood in the wrong room. Not every door needed kicking.

Renia was sharp, undoubtedly—but sharpness without internal discipline often curdled into control fixation. And she’d already been reprimanded once for bypassing supervisor authorization on a budget reallocation. A single step beyond her bounds, and she’d be slicing at Damien’s command just as freely.

Lysa was brilliant with process flow and systems thinking, but young. Restless. Her CV showed four job shifts in two years—always for “vision mismatch.” Not a fault on its own, but a warning. Restless minds built fast, then moved on.

Myla… Vivienne didn’t dislike Myla. But that girl had charm in excess, and charm was like perfume. Pleasant, alluring—but often designed to hide something sharper beneath. Vivienne had seen enough charismatic spirals to know: when problems hit, charm evaporated.

And Jaro. Silent. Methodical. But no warmth. No people sense. The kind of person you needed for backend continuity—but also the type who might bury an entire mistake just to avoid escalation.

Vivienne exhaled softly through her nose.

She’d seen this pattern before. Too many times.

Young founders drawn to “different.” Unorthodox. Misfits and edge thinkers. Rebels with some talent and just enough bite to seem cool instead of unstable. It always started the same: a new empire with fresh blood and looser rules. Ideas over systems. Velocity over stability.

And more often than not—it ended in chaos.

Not because different was wrong.

But because different, without structure, broke itself.

She watched Damien now—tall, confident, posture steady. The air around him calm, but not forced. He wasn’t unaware of the gamble he’d made.

That, more than anything, gave her pause.

He knew what kind of team he’d picked.

He wasn’t blind.

So then the question wasn’t why had he chosen them.

It was: what kind of foundation was he planning to put beneath them?

The elevator chimed softly behind them. But Vivienne didn’t move. She kept watching him.

The way his eyes moved—not restless, but scanning.

The way he stood—not relaxed, but aligned.

Not reckless.

Not impulsive.

Just focused.

She finally spoke, her voice low, thoughtful.

“You chose people who challenge control.”

Damien didn’t turn. “You noticed.”

“Of course I did,” she said. “The smart ones always do. But most of them learn too late that challenge without correction burns out a company’s core.”

Damien didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he let the silence breathe, just long enough to make his response feel deliberate. Then he turned his head slightly, not fully facing her, but enough for his voice to carry.

“I am the correction, Mother.”

His tone was level. No bravado. No edge.

Just truth.

“And I don’t let anyone walk over me.”

Vivienne stilled.

There was no fire behind the words. No theatrics. No wounded pride trying to rise above its station.

Only a calm certainty. A man stating fact, not seeking validation.

And in that moment, she saw it—clearly, finally.

Not just change.

Control.

The same boy who once wilted beneath his sister’s scorn now stared down senior staff and handpicked operatives with eyes that measured return on loyalty. The same boy who once couldn’t finish a meal without glancing for someone else’s reaction had stood in front of the entire academy and claimed space with no hesitation. Not even regret.

He wasn’t rebelling anymore.

He was moving forward.

And for the first time, Vivienne understood something that had eluded her since his sudden shift began.

Damien wasn’t trying to prove anything.

He was acting as if the battle had already been won—and now it was time to build.

She gave a slow exhale, quiet, her expression unreadable but softened at the edges.

Then she stepped forward, closing the space between them, and gently adjusted the collar of his shirt where it had creased near the shoulder. Her hands were cool and precise, but the gesture was old. Familiar.

“I see,” she murmured.

No lecture. No rebuttal.

Just an acknowledgment.

Her son had chosen his battlefield.

And he intended to win.

She let her hands fall back to her sides and gave the faintest tilt of her head—just enough to break the last of the tension.

“Come,” she said. “Let’s have a meal.”

Damien’s smirk returned—cooler, measured.

“Your treat?”

Vivienne raised a brow. “I just bought you a car, a wardrobe, and half your staff.”

He shrugged lightly. “Then I suppose it’s only fair you cover lunch, too.”

Vivienne exhaled a slow breath through her nose, a smile barely tugging at the corner of her lips.

“You got your father’s shamelessness,” she said with no real bite—more like an old truth dusted off.

Damien blinked, then gave a low laugh. “Father? Shameless?”

She shot him a sidelong glance, the kind that said he was amusing but hopeless. “If you only knew.”

Damien chuckled again, slower this time. “Hard to imagine. He always seemed like the composed one. Dignified. Unflinching.”

“He was those things,” Vivienne said, her voice carrying a trace of nostalgia beneath its usual polish. “But you weren’t there when he negotiated the acquisition of the Azelith Vault. The board was ready to pull out. He walked in, smiled, lied through his teeth, and walked out with seventy percent ownership and the chairwoman’s private yacht contract for three years.”

Damien whistled low. “Now that’s impressive.”

“It was shameless,” she corrected. “But effective. And—” her gaze cut toward him with surgical sharpness, “—only worked because he knew where the limits were.”

Damien nodded once, letting the point land. A lesson wrapped in a memory. He could take that.

They left the logistics wing, their pace unhurried. The halls of Elford Holdings were quieter now—past peak hours, most personnel filtering out or switching to remote access nodes. As they exited through the private corridor and into the glass-laced skywalk that led toward the city’s upper promenade, the city stretched below like a living circuit board—roads gleaming, ambient mana lines pulsing beneath.

Their destination was a private rooftop restaurant nested just above Elford Tower’s auxiliary finance center—Étoile Dusk. Invitation-only, concealed from public view by cloaking sigils, it was reserved for those whose names didn’t need reservations.

As they stepped inside, the atmosphere shifted—dim gold lighting, clear crystalline partitions, ambient music from an enchanted violin hovering somewhere in the air. Every detail was manicured. Every breath tasted expensive.

The maître d’ bowed low at the sight of Vivienne and Damien. No names asked. No questions.

They were led to a table near the window—a panoramic view of Vermillion City unfolding beyond.

Menus appeared in soft mana-light before them.

Vivienne ordered something clean and minimal: glazed opalfish over wintergrain salad, water with jade-lemon.

Damien chose seared duskbeast medallions with ember-root reduction. And a black cider—non-alcoholic, sharp, like cold lightning on the tongue.

They didn’t speak at first.

But the silence was comfortable.

Not the distance of strangers.

The ease of players off the board—for now.

When the plates arrived, Damien looked down at his with a faint grin. “Didn’t think I’d ever be eating like this without a PR team nearby taking pictures.”

Vivienne took a sip of her water. “You still aren’t. This isn’t for the public.”

Damien raised his glass slightly. “Better.”

They ate in silence a while longer, the soft clinks of fine silver the only interruption.

And outside, Vermillion shimmered.

‘Well, this is a start.’

It was a start of his business.

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