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

"But what can I do if I was born rich? Can't really swap it out for something else, can I?"

Isabelle studied him carefully, waiting for the inevitable arrogant twist in his words. But it never came. He said it not with pride, but with detachment. Like it wasn't something he was proud of—but just something that was. A fact, like the color of the sky or the number of desks in the room.

Her eyes drifted, just slightly.

She hadn't stood this close to Damien Elford in the past. Why would she have? Back then, he was a joke. The kind of person who slumped into a seat and disappeared behind his own shadow. But now—now that he was beside her, she could see just how much had changed.

His posture was different. The softness he used to carry in his face, his arms, even the way he moved—it was all gone. There was a sharpness to him now, hidden beneath his uniform. The lines of his jaw were cleaner. His skin clearer, tighter. His neck had a subtle definition to it. And beneath his blazer, the outline of his shoulders and chest hinted at something solid. Defined.

It wasn't just weight loss. It was transformation.

Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly, her voice quieter now. "How did you lose that much weight in such a short time?"

Damien didn't answer right away.

Then he turned his head slightly, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips. "I trained."

She arched a brow. "Obviously. But how hard?"

He leaned in a little, the grin still in place, but his voice dropped an octave—low, matter-of-fact, almost too casual.

"Eighteen hours a day. For two weeks straight. No breaks. No cheat days. Just pain."

Isabelle stared at him.

Isabelle's gaze sharpened, a flicker of disbelief crossing her face. "That's impossible," she said flatly. "Eighteen hours a day? For two straight weeks? That's not training, that's abuse."

Damien didn't blink. His smirk lingered, but there was something behind it—something still and unwavering. "It's impossible for you, Class Rep," he said softly, tapping his index finger once on the edge of his now-empty meal container. "But not for me."

Isabelle folded her arms, skepticism etched across her expression. "Why should I believe that?"

"Why not?" he replied, voice still relaxed. "Why would I lie about something like this?"

"To impress me," she said without hesitation, her tone cool, firm, and unflinching.

There was a beat of silence.

And then Damien laughed.

Not a soft chuckle, not his usual amused huff—but a real laugh. Full-bodied, sharp-edged, and completely amused. He leaned back in his chair again, rubbing the bridge of his nose as if she'd just told him the most ridiculous joke in the world.

"Gods," he muttered between laughs, "it is true that I want to impress you, I won't even lie about that—"

Isabelle blinked, caught off-guard by the honesty.

"—but even I'm not dumb enough to think that would do it." He grinned at her, wide and unrepentant. "You? Impressed by some meathead fantasy workout montage? Nah. You'd file it under juvenile delusions and move on."

He stared at her for a moment, leaning forward, arms now folded on the desk, his eyes gleaming with mock injury. "Stare at me all you want, but you don't actually think I'm that dumb, do you?"

Isabelle raised a brow. "You said it, not me."

Damien gasped—actually gasped—then clutched at his chest in a dramatic flourish. "I feel insulted! Dear Representative, you've broken my heart just now."

Isabelle rolled her eyes, but she didn't look away. Not this time. She let her stare linger, let the tension rest in that sliver of air between them.

Because beneath the theatrics, beneath the banter, there was something else. Something unspoken.

She didn't want to believe him.

And yet—

She couldn't shake the feeling that he hadn't lied.

Damien grinned, clearly still savoring her reaction, and leaned back in his chair with exaggerated flair, arms folding behind his head as he adopted a mock-serious expression. His voice dropped an octave, smooth and conspiratorial, like some internet pundit trying to sound profound.

"And you see, Class Rep… the rich," he began dramatically, "we have different methods than the common people. We don't diet—we detox. We don't train—we undergo transcendental optimization." He gestured vaguely to his body, as if proving a point. "Eighteen hours a day? Please. That's just standard elite routine. You know, grindset alpha mentality."

Isabelle raised an eyebrow. "What are you even—"

But she didn't finish.

Because the longer he went on, the more absurd he made it, and the more her lips threatened to betray her.

Damien kept going. "Next, I'll teach you the secrets of success handed down by the shadow cabal of trillionaires that run the world from their diamond bunkers. Lesson one: always eat imported quinoa. Lesson two: never trust people who chew loudly. Lesson three—"

And just like that, Isabelle laughed.

It was short. Soft. Controlled. But real. A brief burst of air followed by the smallest shake of her shoulders. Not the tight, polite smiles she gave her teachers or the empty nods to her classmates. This—this was genuine.

Damien froze mid-lecture, one eyebrow arching with satisfaction. "There it is," he said with a quiet grin. "See, Class Rep? If you laughed like that more often, your popularity would obliterate the Celias and Irises of the world. You'd be untouchable."

She blinked, a flicker of something unfamiliar crossing her face. A rare crack in her mask. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I mean," he said, his grin softening, "you're already intimidating as hell. Add a real smile to that? The whole school would worship you."

The compliment hit harder than she expected. A strange warmth curled in her chest, uninvited and stubborn. She looked away, shaking her head slightly, her voice quieter now. "You're ridiculous."

Damien leaned in just a bit, smirking as he gestured toward her shoulders. "You should relax those muscles more. Keep tensing like that and you'll end up a boss lady surrounded by spreadsheets and cats."

She raised an eyebrow. "Who said anything about cats?"

He gestured vaguely in her direction, feigning seriousness. "Future you. Alone. Rigid. Petting your fifth ginger tabby named Chairman Whiskers."

Isabelle gave him a look. "If I do end up like that, I'll personally sue you for manifesting it into existence."

Damien just chuckled and leaned back, hands behind his head again. "Too late, Rep. The timeline's been sealed."

Just as the playful atmosphere between them began to settle into a comfortable quiet, the classroom door creaked open again.

One by one, students trickled in, chatting in low voices, finishing their lunches, or glancing at their tablets and notebooks as they returned to their seats. The lull of break time was ending, and soon the air would shift back into that brittle, rigid focus the afternoon periods demanded.

But then—

"You…!"

The voice was sharp with surprise, not loud, but clear enough to cut through the murmur of returning students.

Damien lazily turned his head, one brow arched in mild curiosity.

"Me?" he replied with a smile, blinking as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

At the door stood Madeline, Isabelle's seatmate, a brow arched and a half-smile playing on her lips as her gaze bounced from Damien to Isabelle and back again.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, walking further in, a little too slowly, clearly enjoying the show.

"What am I doing?" Damien echoed innocently. "Just keeping the Class Rep company. Anything wrong with that?"

Isabelle, who had been sipping the last of her tea, choked ever so slightly before lowering her cup with a bit too much precision. Her face stayed composed, but a faint pink rose at the edges of her ears.

Madeline's grin widened.

"Isabelle?" she asked, tone thick with meaning.

Isabelle cleared her throat softly, looking down at her notes with exaggerated focus. "He suddenly sat beside me," she muttered, her voice controlled but laced with faint embarrassment. "I didn't see a reason to refuse."

Madeline snorted. "Didn't see a reason to refuse, huh?"

----------A/N-----------

There appears to be a mistake in my writing in the chapters regarding Goddess Selene.

She is not a cheater 'whore' that one may claim, I just miswrote the couple words there. I normally would not change this since I don't think a goddess who has lived for many years should be held to the same standard as a mere human, and it would be even weirder if she was simply a virgin or something.

But, considering the relationship between Selene and the Righteous_one, the dialogues would appear to be conflicting, and some of them doesn't make sense.

I fixed some parts, but if you see anything else that I have overlooked, feel free to comment on it.