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

Celia sat in the backseat of the car, her legs crossed, fingers tapping against the soft leather of the armrest. The engine had long since gone silent, the driver waiting for her next command, but she had given none. She wasn't leaving. Not yet.

Damien wasn't the type to be locked away in a mansion like this.

No, that fool had always been restless, always looking for some pointless way to fill his days—whether it was wasting money on luxury goods, drifting through social gatherings like a lost child, or sulking in some dimly lit bar, drowning himself in self-pity. He was not someone who could simply sit still and accept confinement.

If he was here, if he was truly inside that house, then something was wrong.

It would mean that this wasn't just his decision. It would mean that someone—his family—was forcing him to disappear.

That thought sent another sharp pang of irritation through her.

Celia leaned back, tilting her head slightly as her emerald gaze remained fixed on the mansion's massive gates.

Time passed.

Minutes. Then an hour.

The guards remained firm in their positions, never sparing her another glance. The mansion loomed in the distance, silent, unyielding. No movement. No sign of life.

Celia refused to believe that Damien had simply vanished inside, never to resurface.

Sooner or later, he would leave.

And when he did, she would be waiting.

She would corner him, demand answers, force him to face the consequences of his cowardice.

And if he didn't leave?

Then that would confirm it.

That someone else had made this choice for him.

That someone was controlling him.

And Celia hated the idea of anyone else deciding something that involved her.

She shifted slightly, adjusting the hem of her coat as the morning slowly melted into the afternoon. Her patience was wearing thin, but she held herself still, unwavering.

And then—

Movement.

The grand doors of the mansion finally opened.

Celia's gaze sharpened, her fingers stilling against the leather.

A woman stepped out.

She was breathtaking, even now—her beauty untouched by time, refined by age rather than diminished by it.

Golden-blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders in soft, effortless waves, catching the light like spun silk. Her emerald-green eyes—so much like Damien's, yet infinitely more striking—held a quiet strength, tempered by warmth.

Vivienne Elford.

Damien's mother.

Celia felt something unfamiliar coil in her chest—something tight, something uncomfortable.

Jealousy.

She hated to admit it, but Vivienne was beautiful. And not just in the way most noblewomen were.

There was a natural grace to her, something that could not be bought with status or perfected with careful posture. It was effortless, ageless, a beauty that did not rely on youth but instead commanded attention in its own right.

Celia clenched her jaw.

She had met Vivienne before, of course, at various Elford events. The woman had always been composed, polite, with a soft voice that held surprising weight beneath its gentleness. But they had never spoken much beyond formal pleasantries.

Celia exhaled slowly, steadying herself as she reached for the door handle.

Leaving now, after waiting for so long, would be pathetic. She had come here for answers, and she would not leave empty-handed. If Damien was truly beyond her reach, then his mother would do just fine.

Her heels clicked against the pavement as she stepped out of the car, the afternoon sun catching the smooth fabric of her coat. She walked forward with purpose, ignoring the stiffening of the guards at the gate. They did not matter. The only one who mattered was the woman descending the mansion steps with all the elegance of a queen.

Vivienne Elford.

Her beauty was even more striking up close, framed by the golden light of the sun. There was not a single flaw on her—no signs of age beyond what merely enhanced her, no tension in her movements, no irritation in her posture.

But her eyes—those piercing emerald-green eyes, so much like Damien's—glared at Celia.

And yet… she smiled.

A slow, polished expression, perfectly poised. Not a forced smile, not a tight-lipped attempt at civility, but something effortless, unchanging, as if nothing in this world could truly bother her.

And that—that—irritated Celia more than anything else.

"Who do we have here?" Vivienne's voice was soft, almost musical, as though Celia's arrival was nothing more than a pleasant surprise. She descended the last few steps, her heels making no sound against the polished stone. "I wasn't expecting a guest today."

Celia kept her back straight, her expression unreadable, but inside, she felt a deep, visceral sense of irritation clawing at her.

'Don't act like you don't know why I'm here.'

Everything about Vivienne's demeanor was designed to be infuriating. The way she spoke, the way she smiled, the way her expression held just the faintest trace of amusement, as if Celia's presence was entertaining to her.

This wasn't a woman who had been caught off guard.

This was a woman who was already ten steps ahead.

Celia stopped just short of the gate, lifting her chin slightly. "I came to see Damien." Her voice was smooth, cold, measured. "But it seems I'm not welcome."

Vivienne tilted her head slightly, her golden locks cascading over one shoulder. "Ah, yes. That's right." She tapped a manicured finger against her cheek. "You were his fiancée, weren't you?"

Celia's nails pressed into her palm.

'Were.'

She knew.

She was playing with her.

"Surely," Celia continued, forcing herself to match the woman's elegance, "you understand how ridiculous this situation is. Damien and I had an arrangement. I have every right to see him."

Vivienne's smile didn't waver. If anything, it softened, becoming something dangerously close to pity. "Oh, Celia, dear," she said gently. "I'm afraid you don't have any rights here anymore."

The words landed like a slap.

Celia stiffened, but she refused to let her expression crack.

'This woman…'

Vivienne wasn't outright mocking her. No, she was far too polished for that. Instead, she was graciously dismissing her, speaking as if Celia was some poor thing who had simply wandered somewhere she didn't belong.

She was humiliating her without ever raising her voice.

And Celia hated it.

"Is that so?" Celia's lips curled slightly, a mockery of a smile. "Well, that's strange. Considering that Damien and I have been engaged for years, I would think that I at least deserve an explanation."

Vivienne let out a soft, airy laugh. "Oh, Celia. If you were waiting for an explanation, then you should know by now that one isn't coming." She clasped her hands in front of her, the picture of effortless control. "Damien made his decision. I suggest you respect it."

Celia's patience snapped, her voice cutting sharper now. "That's ridiculous. Damien doesn't make decisions. He follows orders. Someone told him to do this. And if it wasn't Dominic, then perhaps it was you?"

The moment the words left Celia's mouth, Vivienne's expression changed.

The polite, graceful mask shattered.

Her soft, practiced smile faded, her emerald-green eyes darkening with something cold and undeniable—anger.

For the first time since this conversation began, Vivienne Elford no longer looked like a woman indulging in a fleeting amusement.

She looked like a woman who had been waiting—waiting for Celia to cross the line.

And Celia had just done exactly that.

The air between them shifted, thick with something unspoken, something that had always been there but had never been acknowledged aloud.

Vivienne inhaled, slowly, through her nose.

And when she finally spoke, her voice was no longer kind.

"How very typical of you, Celia."

There was no amusement in her tone. No warmth. No pretense.

Just thinly veiled disgust.

Celia's jaw clenched. "What did you say?"

Vivienne took a step closer, the grace in her movements still present, but now carrying a weight behind them—a warning.

"You and your father," she continued, her voice sharp and smooth as glass, "have always acted as if this family owed you something."

Celia's eyes narrowed.

"You believe that your mere presence in my son's life should have been a privilege for us." Vivienne's gaze bore into her. "But tell me, Celia—who was it that chased after you in the first place?"

Celia's breath hitched.

Her lips parted slightly, as if to speak—but no words came out.

Because the truth was undeniable.

It had been Damien.

Damien, who had insisted on pursuing her. Damien, who had clung to her, even when she treated him with nothing but cold indifference. Damien, who had done everything in his power to prove himself worthy of standing beside her.

Vivienne knew it.

And now, she was forcing Celia to acknowledge it.

"You've always acted as if you were the one doing him a favor," Vivienne continued, her voice cool but edged with something sharp, something long buried. "And yet, I can count at least seven times that you and your father attempted to break off this engagement yourselves."

Celia stiffened.

Seven times.

Vivienne knew.

She had always known.

She had known about every single conversation between her father and Dominic, every request for more funds, every thinly veiled threat that if the money stopped, so would the engagement.

Celia's fingers curled into fists.

Because she could not deny it.

This engagement had never been about love. It had never even been about status. It was a transaction—a deal made under the guise of tradition.

And Vivienne Elford had hated every second of it.

"I have always despised this arrangement," Vivienne admitted, her voice dropping just slightly. "But I respected my son's decision. I respected his choice, even when I knew you would never appreciate it."

Celia's nails dug into her palm, rage boiling under her skin.