Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate-Chapter 164: Table talks (2)

"We haven't. Don't be rude, Ezren."

Ezren's gaze slid back toward Victoria, that ever-present glint of amusement sharpening behind the cool frost of his eyes.

"Hm," he murmured, swirling the contents of his glass without looking down. "Still… I think I'm starting to like him."

That earned a ripple across the table—subtle, but noticeable. Even Leon raised an eyebrow, while Lillian straightened in her seat, her lips parting as if to question him.

Ezren didn't wait for the reaction.

"He's shaking the dust off this place," he continued, his voice smooth as lacquered silk. "Vermillion's been stagnant for years. The same names. The same games. But now…" He tilted his head, smiling faintly. "Now things are shifting. The weak don't stay weak. The fallen stand up. And the ones who think they're untouchable… start twitching."

He didn't raise his voice.

He didn't need to.

Every syllable landed with quiet weight—carefully placed, deliberately slow.

Then he glanced sideways.

Right at her.

Victoria.

"Who knows?" he added, his tone lighter now, but his smile all teeth. "Maybe he'll unveil something worth watching. Something no one expected."

The moment the words left his mouth, Victoria felt it again.

That cold ripple behind her ribs.

It was subtle. Invisible to anyone watching. But it was there—a twitch of her fingers as they clutched her crystal glass just a bit too tightly. A faint tightness at the corners of her eyes.

'Unveil something…'

Her mind flashed.

To this morning.

To the smirk on Damien's lips.

To the words still echoing in her head like they were carved into her skull.

"I wonder… how would those simps of yours react… if they learned you had a secret boyfriend?"

Victoria forced a smile, perfectly poised, but her breath hitched ever so slightly behind her glass. She swallowed the tension with a sip—cool and fragrant, but not nearly enough to douse the chill Ezren had stirred up inside her.

Damn him.

Damn both of them.

Ezren leaned back in his seat once more, clearly content, clearly enjoying the silence he'd summoned. He said nothing else, but Victoria could feel it in the air—the way his words lingered like smoke.

A warning?

No.

A prediction.

And one she didn't like at all.

Victoria's grip on her glass tightened, her manicured nails pressing faint crescents into the smooth stem. The glint of the chandelier above caught the trembling surface of her cider, and in it, she saw her own reflection—still, poised, perfect.

But beneath?

A coil of unease winding tighter by the second.

What if he knows?

That voice had been clawing at the edge of her mind ever since this morning. Damien's words, sharp and amused, hadn't been a throwaway jab. It sounded like a bluff—too vague, too coy. But the way he'd leaned in… the look in his eyes…

It hadn't been a guess.

It had felt like a man holding cards.

Not a bluff.

A threat.

And now Ezren—of all people—was toying with the same tone. Unfolding the same suggestion like a game piece moved two spaces too early.

What if he does know?

What if someone saw them?

That alley.

Her lips pressed into a thin line.

She had told Marek it was too risky. That the cameras were there for a reason. That just because the guards were bribed didn't mean the footage couldn't leak. Didn't mean someone else wasn't watching from the shadows.

And if Damien had caught wind of it…

If he even hinted at it aloud—

'No. No, who would even believe him?'

Her jaw tensed. She shifted her gaze to the far side of the cafeteria, where a group of boys from Class 4-A were laughing around a tray of roasted duck and imported green tea.

Damien Elford, despite his resurgence, was still that boy.

The troublemaker.

The one who'd failed more tests than he passed before his so-called "awakening."

Even now, there were still whispers. People questioning if this new version of him was real—or just another flare before the inevitable crash.

Who would take him seriously?

Certainly not the nobles. Not the court of petty kings and queens who clung to her every glance, who bent over backward for a nod of approval. Her followers wouldn't care what Damien said. They'd laugh. Mock him. Assume it was jealousy or another one of his provocations.

Wouldn't they?

She glanced at the nearest table. One of her admirers—Lucien—was watching her with soft eyes, twirling a pen between his fingers like he wanted to approach but didn't dare interrupt her circle.

If he thought she had a boyfriend…

He would disappear.

So would the gifts.

So would the power.

And not just because they'd be heartbroken—but because that image of hers, the one she'd sculpted so carefully, would fracture. Shatter into a thousand sharp truths.

Because no matter how beautiful she looked, no matter how elegant she carried herself—

They wouldn't see Victoria Langley.

They'd see a girl who lied.

A girl who hid something beneath the surface.

A girl less.

'He's bluffing. He has to be.'

Her lips twitched as she set her glass down and forced her shoulders to ease back.

But still.

The question lingered.

What if he's not?

Just then—

Leon's fork stopped mid-air.

The soft clatter of polished silver against porcelain was faint, but it caught everyone's attention.

Because when Leon Ardent looked up, the room felt colder.

His golden-brown eyes, normally calm—controlled—had darkened. The soft glint of sunlight that streamed through the glass no longer reflected in them. There was no warmth.

Just ice.

His jaw tightened.

His posture didn't shift much, but something in the air did.

That subtle shift in tension, like the calm before a storm.

Ezren noticed it immediately.

And, of course—he smiled.

Slow. Crooked. Amused.

As if he'd been waiting for this exact moment.

"Ah," he said, voice smooth as silk soaked in poison. "Right."

He leaned forward slightly, resting an elbow against the edge of the table, his silver eyes gleaming.

"I nearly forgot," he added with a chuckle, "you two had that little… moment in the courtyard, didn't you?"

A ripple passed through the table.

Even Cassandra hesitated, her fingers curling slightly over her glass. Lillian shot a quick look toward Leon, clearly uncertain about where this was headed.

Celia, as usual, didn't react—at least not outwardly. Her eyes were locked on her plate, but the slight tension in her wrist gave her away.

Victoria's expression didn't shift, but her glass trembled for a second before she set it down, slowly.

Ezren tilted his head toward Leon, feigning innocence.

"Punching him in front of the whole student body…" he murmured, "a bit dramatic, don't you think? Even for you."

And then—

"Shut up."

Leon's voice was low.

Quiet.

But lethal.

The words cut clean through the ambient noise of the hall.

Ezren paused, his smile widening just a fraction, his eyes narrowing with interest.

There it was.

The crack.

He leaned back in his seat again, completely unbothered, swirling his glass casually as if nothing had happened.

But beneath that languid posture, there was something else.

Curiosity.

Ezren didn't just provoke for amusement.

He provoked to see.

To observe the reactions. To find the edges of people. To test what could be broken—and what couldn't.

And Leon's silence?

That wasn't surrender.

It was the sound of a man waiting to strike.

Ezren's grin never quite faded.

But he said nothing else.

Because in that moment, even he knew—

He'd pressed far enough.

For now.

******

The hallway was quiet.

Most students were still finishing their lunch, laughter echoing faintly from the grand cafeteria down the corridor. Victoria's heels clicked softly against the polished marble floors as she made her way back to Class 4-A. Her expression was calm, as always, but her mind wasn't.

She told the others she had forgotten her lip balm.

A harmless excuse.

But the truth?

She needed a moment.

Alone.

A moment to breathe. To think. To still the noise rattling in her skull since this morning. Since Damien's whisper. Since Ezren's lazy smile and the doubt he'd sewn like silk-threaded poison.

As she stepped into the classroom, sunlight pooled through the tall windows, casting warm gold across the empty desks.

Except—

The room wasn't empty.

Victoria froze.

There, near the back, seated across from one another with matching bento trays spread between them, were Damien and Isabelle.

The sight should have been forgettable.

Ordinary.

Just two classmates eating lunch together.

But it wasn't.

Because they weren't speaking like classmates. They were talking—quietly, with low tones and subtle glances, their posture too casual, too unguarded. Damien leaned back slightly in his chair, half a bite into his rice ball, while Isabelle spoke with a faint tilt to her lips. Not quite a smile. But close.

Victoria's breath caught in her throat.

No.

Her hand clenched slowly at her side.

This… This wasn't part of the rhythm. Damien and Isabelle? When had that started?

And more importantly—why?

Her heart thudded once—sharp, quick.

What if he tells her?

The thought was ice in her spine.

Because Isabelle Moreau might have been composed, polite, and principled—but she was also sharp. She noticed things. She was methodical, respected by staff, and worst of all—

Not someone Victoria could control.

The Langley circle had always made it clear: they didn't like Isabelle.

And Isabelle didn't care.

She kept to herself. Held no reverence for the academy's social hierarchy. Never bowed her head to Victoria, or Celia, or any of them.

And if she found out?

If Damien, for whatever twisted reason, told her about Marek—

A cold pit opened in her stomach.

Could Isabelle use it?

Weaponize it?

Or worse—expose it without reason, out of some moral sense of justice?

Her mind raced through possibilities.

No. That wouldn't make sense. Isabelle doesn't care about petty drama. She wouldn't stir a scandal unless… unless it served something greater.

But still.

Victoria couldn't risk that.

Her gaze lingered on them for just a second longer—watching how Damien said something under his breath, and Isabelle actually laughed. Soft. Controlled. But real.

It made her skin crawl.

Not with jealousy.

With danger.

That boy—Damien—was unpredictable. He held no allegiance to anyone. Not anymore. He could reveal the truth. Out of spite. Out of boredom.

Out of pure malice, just to watch it burn.

And if he chose to?

Isabelle could light the match.

'Sigh…'

She decided.