Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate-Chapter 95: Class Rep

Isabelle Moreau.

The Class Representative of 4-A.

The First-Ranked Student of Vermillion Private School.

And a Scholarship Student.

A hush fell over the room the moment Isabelle Moreau stepped inside.

Unlike Celia Everwyn’s poised elegance or Iris Blackwood’s quiet dominance, Isabelle commanded attention with sheer authority. Not through words, nor through an overwhelming aura, but through the weight of expectations that came with her presence.

Her every step was measured, precise—heels clicking against the marble floor in a rhythm that was neither hurried nor hesitant. She was a woman who belonged here, not because of lineage or wealth, but because she had earned it. And that, more than anything, made the students despise her.

The so-called scholarship student.

The commoner among royalty.

She could hear the murmurs even without listening.

"Tch. Here comes the queen of the peasants."

"Seriously, does she ever smile?"

"I heard she got perfect marks again. Figures."

Isabelle ignored them.

She had long since stopped caring about the whispers, the resentment, the way they sneered at her behind their polished façades.

Let them talk.

It didn’t change the fact that, in this room, she held more power than any of them.

Her brown eyes swept over the class, sharp and calculating. She was, as always, flawless in appearance—her uniform crisp, her midnight-black hair tied neatly back into a ponytail, not a single strand out of place.

She reached her desk without breaking stride, setting down her bag with quiet precision before turning to face the room.

A second passed.

Then, she spoke.

"Take your seats."

Her voice, smooth yet firm, cut through the last remnants of chatter like a blade. It wasn’t loud, nor did it need to be. The students obeyed, some grumbling under their breath, others begrudgingly flipping open their textbooks.

She let her gaze linger, her expression unreadable.

It was a ritual at this point—this silent battle between her and the class. They resented her for being here, for proving that someone without wealth, without connections, could surpass them. And she, in turn, pitied them for how fragile their egos were.

Her gaze briefly flickered to Celia Everwyn.

The girl was watching her, emerald eyes cool and calculating. Not hostile—no, their rivalry had never been one of open aggression—but aware. Measuring.

Iris Blackwood, too, had barely glanced up, but Isabelle knew better.

These two never ignored anything.

Not when it came to power.

Not when it came to threats.

She turned her attention away. For now, they were irrelevant.

Instead, she took a step forward, her voice cutting through the room once more.

"Before we begin, I have an announcement."

She let the silence stretch, ensuring every pair of eyes was on her before continuing.

"There will be a meeting after school today regarding the upcoming National College Exams. Attendance is mandatory for all students in Class 4-A."

A groan came from the back.

"Seriously? Another meeting?"

She didn’t bother turning to look.

"Yes," she replied coolly. "Unless, of course, you’d rather fail and drag this class’s ranking down with you?"

The classroom fell silent.

Not a single student dared to argue.

Even those who had groaned seconds earlier knew better than to push against Isabelle Moreau.

She had spent years proving that she was not someone who could be ignored, and certainly not someone who could be dismissed.

Her gaze swept across the room, brown eyes sharp and analytical. She took in the familiar sights—the usual clusters of students, the calculated expressions of Celia Everwyn and Iris Blackwood, the lingering irritation in Leon Ardent’s posture.

But as her gaze moved toward the back of the room, a small frown crept onto her otherwise neutral face.

An absence.

A very particular absence.

Damien Elford’s seat was still empty.

Of course, it had been empty for an entire week now. But seeing it again, left untouched like that, made her realize just how unnatural it was.

Damien Elford—the lazy bastard—had actually skipped school.

Isabelle clicked her tongue in irritation.

She never liked Damien. Not because of any personal grudge, but because he was everything she despised in a student. Lazy. Unmotivated. Spoiled. He had every privilege, every resource at his disposal, and yet he had been content to wallow in mediocrity.

Even with tutors and endless study opportunities, his grades had remained abysmal. The only reason he hadn’t been expelled was because of his family name.

And because of that, he had been dragging her class’s average down for years.

She hated that.

She hated that she had to work for everything while people like him could sit back and expect the world to hand them success on a silver platter.

So, when she had first heard that he got into a fight at the entrance ceremony and hadn’t shown up since?

She had expected it.

She had expected him to crawl into a hole somewhere, licking his wounds, too humiliated to return.

But then she started hearing the rumors.

And the rumors painted a very different picture.

"Did you hear what happened? Damien actually insulted Celia. In front of everyone."

"He called her a whore. In public. Right to her face."

"He humiliated her. Completely. He was actually… different."

Isabelle wasn’t one for gossip, nor did she waste time indulging in meaningless social dramas. But even she had to admit—this was unprecedented.

Damien had always been Celia’s lapdog.

Pathetic. Obedient. Willing to grovel at her feet like a lovesick fool.

So for him to suddenly turn around and throw her away?

That wasn’t just surprising.

That was unnatural.

And from the way Celia had been carrying herself ever since—like a storm barely contained behind her polished mask—it was clear that she had not recovered from that moment.

And maybe, just maybe…

That was the most shocking thing of all.

Celia Everwyn had never been humiliated before.

She had never been discarded.

Yet Damien Elford—the worthless, lazy bastard who couldn’t even score above the class average—had done exactly that.

And then he vanished.

Isabelle exhaled through her nose.

She didn’t care about Celia’s pride.

But even she had to admit—Damien had gone too far.

Even if Celia was insufferable, no one deserved to be insulted like that.

She had been absent during the entrance ceremony—too busy with administrative work, preparing documents for the faculty. By the time she had returned, the incident had already passed, and the details had begun to warp with every retelling.

Isabelle exhaled quietly, pressing her fingers against the bridge of her nose for a fleeting moment before lowering her hand.

She didn’t want to care.

Damien Elford’s absence wasn’t her concern. If anything, his lack of attendance was a relief. Fewer distractions, fewer problems. His absence was just another way for her class’s academic average to rise.

And yet—

The school had made it clear that today’s meeting was mandatory for every student in Class 4-A.

Including him.

Her gaze flickered toward the back of the room, landing on one of the few people she knew had any connection to Damien.

"Moren," she called, her voice as crisp as ever.

Moren Vaughn, a lanky boy with unruly dark hair and a perpetually tired expression, blinked at the sound of his name. He had been slouched in his chair, half-heartedly flipping through a textbook he clearly had no intention of reading.

At Isabelle’s call, he straightened slightly, looking up at her with mild apprehension. "Yeah?"

She didn’t bother with pretense. "Where is Damien Elford? Will he be absent again today?"

Moren scratched the back of his head, his lips pressing together as he let out a quiet sigh. "Uh… honestly? I have no idea."

Isabelle’s gaze sharpened.

"He hasn’t answered any of my calls," Moren admitted, shifting in his seat. "I mean, yeah, he does this sometimes—ignores people when he’s in one of his moods—but this is kinda weird. Even for him."

That was… unusual.

Isabelle had expected him to say Damien was holed up in his mansion, indulging in whatever self-pitying habits he usually drowned himself in. But this? This implied something else.

"Has anyone spoken to him since the entrance ceremony?" she asked, her tone even.

Moren hesitated, glancing at a few of the other students as if hoping someone else would answer for him. When no one did, he let out another sigh.

"Nah," he muttered. "Not really."

That settled it.

Damien had effectively disappeared.

Isabelle frowned, tapping her fingers against her desk in thought. It wasn’t like she cared—she wasn’t about to go searching for him or waste time worrying about what idiotic decision he had made now—but the school had given her a responsibility.

If he didn’t show up, it would reflect poorly on her class.

And that was unacceptable.

She exhaled through her nose, closing her eyes briefly before refocusing on Moren. "If he doesn’t arrive by midday, inform me."

Moren raised a brow. "Uh, why?"

Isabelle’s gaze was cold. "Because if he thinks he can avoid this meeting, he’s mistaken."

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Just then, a slow, lazy clap echoed through the silent classroom.

"Oya, oya... Talking about me?"