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

Chapter 245: Mother and cars ?

As Damien adjusted the sleeve of his matte-black jacket, stepping into the light like a blade unsheathed, the promenade shifted.

It was subtle. A moment of breath held too long. A pause in someone’s step that didn’t quite register. The ripple effect of attraction, confusion, recognition—and hesitation.

Two younger socialites in pastel coats stopped mid-stride at the edge of a neighboring storefront.

“Wait—who…?”

“Is he an actor?”

“No, I—I think that’s Damien Elford. The Elford heir.”

“What? Him?”

“He doesn’t look like the photos.”

“Exactly.”

A trio of older businessmen seated under a shade-ward for a rooftop café turned their heads, eyes narrowing, one murmuring low, “Is that Dominic’s boy? Didn’t think he had that in him.”

A pause.

Then a second voice: “He’s going to be trouble.”

Even a pair of off-duty academy instructors, standing by the promenade’s edge, stiffened slightly. One of them, a professor of political economics, tapped his colleague’s arm and gestured subtly toward Damien.

“That’s the Everwyn annulment case, isn’t it?”

“…Gods, what happened to him?”

Vivienne, standing a few steps beside her son, caught the voices without needing to strain. Her hearing was too trained. Her instincts too sharp.

She didn’t look at them.

Didn’t need to.

She simply smiled—small, composed, a glint of knowing in her emerald eyes.

“Yes,” she said aloud, voice soft and warm as a polished dagger. “This is better.”

Damien’s lips twitched at the corner, his gaze lazily scanning the street without acknowledgment. He felt the weight of attention—not oppressive, not overwhelming.

Just useful.

It didn’t matter what they were thinking. Praise, awe, jealousy, confusion—it was all the same currency in the end.

They were looking now.

That was enough.

Without a word, he stepped forward again, and Vivienne followed.

The air parted for them like the center of a ripple. Their stride in sync—her poise and elegance, his calm and contained storm.

And as they continued down Cadenza Promenade, Damien didn’t just walk beside his mother anymore.

He matched her.

*****

By midday, the final list was signed, sealed, and transferred. Every boutique visited had taken meticulous scans—precise measurements down to posture patterns, skin tone in varying light conditions, even the subtle shifts in Damien’s shoulder alignment after movement.

Damien Elford now had a full wardrobe in production—custom-tailored ensembles from Vermillion’s most exclusive clothiers, scheduled to arrive at Blackthorne Villa by nightfall. A curated blend of traditional noble cuts and modern silhouettes: formal wear, casual urban formals, tactical coats laced with defensive thread, shoes calibrated to terrain density and mana pressure zones. Everything stored in protective mana-sealed crates, of course.

And currently?

He’d already changed.

Gone was the suit from earlier. In its place: a tailored steel-gray blazer over a dark midnight shirt, collar open just enough to seem casual without surrendering formality. Slim slacks, tapered at the ankle. A mana-reactive belt with shifting emblem detail, and gloves tucked casually in one pocket—ornamental, but sleek.

He didn’t just look expensive.

He looked like he belonged to someone powerful.

Vivienne gave him a long once-over, the corner of her lips lifting in something bordering affection.

“Now,” she said with quiet finality, “you finally look like my son.”

Damien raised an eyebrow, amused. “You mean I didn’t before?”

Vivienne stepped closer, adjusting the line of his collar with an almost ceremonial precision. “You looked like someone’s son,” she said, voice light. “Just not mine.”

Damien smirked. “Harsh.”

Vivienne arched a brow. “Accurate.”

He couldn’t argue.

He didn’t want to.

He let the silence ride, amused by her usual polish-wrapped discipline. It was a rare mood—this version of Vivienne that allowed herself just the barest flicker of maternal pride.

They stepped back toward the main walk, heading to where the car was waiting.

But something caught Damien’s eye.

Sleek lines. Midnight-black finish. Angled windows and a chassis that sat low, aggressive. The kind of design that made no attempt to be modest. It didn’t purr.

It waited.

Parked just outside Archeon Automatrix, the flagship dealership of elite-tier mana vehicles, it glinted faintly beneath a sun shield dome—a Seraph IX, latest model, restricted circulation. Legal for nobles. Prohibitive for everyone else.

Damien slowed slightly, head tilting.

Vivienne followed his gaze, one brow lifting.

“Ah,” she murmured, eyes flicking between him and the car. “That look.”

“What look?” Damien said, though his lips had already curled.

Vivienne’s smile turned nostalgic, a rare softness drifting into her usually razor-sharp features.

“That look,” she repeated, eyes on the Seraph IX, “is the same one your father used to wear whenever he passed something fast enough to make the air hum.”

Damien glanced at her, one brow rising. “Really? Hard to picture him giddy over a car.”

Vivienne gave a quiet laugh, elegant and brief. “He wasn’t giddy. Not outwardly. But I knew the signs. That subtle narrowing of his eyes. The twitch in his jaw when he was pretending not to care. Dominic used to sneak out at night to test drive mana-drifts before the manufacturers even finished safety checks.”

Damien smirked. “And here I thought I inherited only his cynicism.”

“Oh, you got his appetite too,” she said lightly. Then turned toward him, her eyes glinting. “Do you want it?”

Damien didn’t hesitate.

“Yes.”

Vivienne tilted her head. “And do you have a license?”

“…No,” Damien admitted with a shrug. “Unfortunately, no. The old me didn’t see the point.”

Vivienne hummed. “Of course not. That version of you thought ‘effort’ was a foreign word.”

“In his defense,” Damien said, deadpan, “auto-drive is legal.”

“And dull,” Vivienne replied immediately, folding her arms. “You could own it, yes. Ride around like a helpless heir in a chauffeur pod. But the Seraph IX wasn’t designed to drive itself.”

“Exactly,” Damien said, eyes returning to the vehicle. “It looks like it was made to be tamed, not used.”

Vivienne nodded once, decisive. “I’ll arrange a private instructor. A proper one. You’ll have a temporary license within the month.”

Damien raised a hand slightly. “Mother, how about this—” he smiled, playful, “you teach me.”

Vivienne blinked.

Just once.

Her expression didn’t change much, but Damien saw it—the tiniest shift, the ghost of a smirk pressing at the corner of her lips.

“You remember that?” she asked, voice quiet.

“I do,” he said. “That old Crimson Nocturne you used to ride. You kept the racing footage hidden, but I found it once.”

Vivienne exhaled through her nose, almost—almost—a laugh. “Dominic told me not to show you. Thought it would give you ideas.”

“It did,” Damien replied, stepping closer to the glass, watching his reflection curve beside the car’s smooth lines. “But I didn’t have the body or the mind to follow through back then.”

Vivienne stood beside him again, arms lightly crossed. “And now?”

“Now?” Damien’s eyes gleamed. “I want to feel the wheel twist when I take a corner at 240.”

She glanced sideways at him. “So dramatic.”

“You used to say the same thing before every sprint on the circuit.”

A beat passed.

Then Vivienne’s shoulders shifted, her posture relaxing just slightly as her fingers tapped against her arm in thought.

“Alright,” she said finally. “I’ll teach you.”

Damien turned to her, brows raised. “Seriously?”

Vivienne nodded. “But only if you keep up. My tolerance for bad reflexes is lower than most professional instructors.”

“Good,” Damien said, grin widening. “Because I’m not most students.”

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