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

Chapter 258: Approval

The Varkos screamed down the track now—Vivienne opening it up like she’d been waiting all night. The mana-core surged, the tri-vaulted engine spitting heat and power into every inch of forward momentum.

Damien’s eyes flicked to the HUD.

219 km/h.

Fast.

Faster than anything he’d ever touched.

And she wasn’t even tense. Her hands didn’t grip—they glided. Her footwork was orchestral. Every shift of weight, every flick of pressure on the pedals felt rehearsed but alive.

She downshifted sharply before a corner—engine roaring, gears snarling.

BRAAAP—WHUMP—WHRAAAAM.

The car vibrated beneath them, not in protest, but like it enjoyed it.

“That,” Vivienne said, almost lazily over the noise, “is engine braking. You let the motor slow the machine before the corner, not the pads. Less wear, more control.”

She downshifted again just for sound—aggressively, the RPM spike sharp and rich.

WHAAAAMMM—BRAP—POP.

“You youngsters would love this,” she added, eyes locked forward as they flew into the turn.

Damien blinked at her. “It’s universal.”

Vivienne cracked a grin—thin, precise.

“…Yeah,” she murmured.

She didn’t need the limiter disabled. She was the limiter.

She moved through the track like a rumor. The car never slid. Never twitched. It roared, yes—but only because she let it. Her braking zones were perfect. Her throttle returns were clean. And when she cornered, it was with the kind of spatial instinct that didn’t check distance—it knew it.

Damien couldn’t even feel when she shifted lanes. The car transitioned like it was on rails.

He stared at her profile as she worked—shoulders level, eyes narrow, lips slightly parted as if tasting the air.

He hadn’t expected this.

Not like this.

Vivienne Elford, his mother, apparently had always been poised, deliberate—polished like a blade left just out of reach.

At least that was the side he had seen today.

He’d seen her dismantle boardrooms with four words and a half-tilt of her head. He’d seen her silence entire departments with a single look.

Of course at home, she was a mother that doted on his children. Mostly on him, since previous Damien was rather pathetic.

But this?

This was a little different than the above two. This was fire.

The woman in the driver’s seat wasn’t managing a legacy or guiding a son.

She was flying.

Every motion carved through inertia like she was born to it. The mana-core howled beneath them, the Varkos holding together on raw loyalty. Vivienne didn’t just drive. She danced. Tight, sharp accelerations. Brutal weight cuts into corner entry. Clean throttle snaps on the exit. It was art, painted in combustion and control.

And she looked—

Cool.

Unapologetically cool.

Damien leaned back in his seat, watching the road blur past, then glanced sidelong at her again.

She was beautiful. That much had always been obvious—even from childhood, even when he’d been too young to name it. Elegant, cold, sharp at the edges. The kind of beauty that made people straighten their posture without realizing.

But this was different.

This was beautiful without distance. A raw edge. Adrenaline carved into posture and momentum.

“Not bad,” Damien muttered, just loud enough to be heard over the engine.

Vivienne didn’t respond. Not with words.

She spun the wheel hard into a sweeping S-curve, timing it with a violent downshift—heel-tap blip, throttle feather, snap weight transfer—

WHRRRSHHH—

The tires shrieked.

The car drifted.

Not showy. Not reckless. Just enough oversteer to make the tail sing before she corrected mid-slide and returned to line like she’d never left it.

Perfect drift. Perfect exit.

Damien’s mouth parted slightly. “…Shit.”

Still no words from her.

Just that smile.

It wasn’t smug. It wasn’t even pleased.

It was pure.

Excitement, laced with satisfaction—drawn across her face like someone who’d found an old friend they hadn’t realized they missed.

She didn’t need to say anything. Damien understood.

She hadn’t done it to teach him.

She’d done it because she wanted to.

Because she still loved this.

And as if reading his thoughts, Vivienne finally said, tone casual but with that same glint behind it:

“You’re not doing that yet.”

Damien let out a slow breath, the weight of what he’d just witnessed still settling behind his ribs like a second heartbeat. The car was still moving—Vivienne cruising now, the engine calmed—but the silence that followed the drift wasn’t empty.

It was loaded. Changed.

He glanced over at her, that smile still lingering faintly across her lips, like the curve of a blade that had just been sheathed.

“After seeing something like that,” he said, voice low, “after feeling it… how could I not want to do it?”

Vivienne didn’t look at him. She just gave a small shake of her head—more reflex than judgment. “We’ll see,” she murmured. “I’ll decide when you’re ready.”

Damien didn’t argue.

He just leaned back into the seat, eyes drifting forward again. Not passive—tracking. His thoughts weren’t on caution. Or awe. Or waiting for approval.

They were already reconstructing every movement. Every corner. Every decibel of engine pitch. Every tire scream. His mind was wrapping around the memory like a snake around bone.

She wasn’t just fast.

She was flawless.

And now?

Now the bar had a shape.

Now her lessons had context.

Words had weight, because he’d felt what they described. Under his skin. In his spine.

Vivienne had said driving was about control.

But what she’d shown him was something else, too.

Command.

She commanded the car. The track. Herself.

And that made it clear.

He couldn’t just match her. Couldn’t just chase her shadow.

He had to earn the right to compete in it.

No excuses. No shortcuts. No pretending smooth was good enough.

He was confident in himself—always had been.

But now that confidence had something sharper to chase.

She hadn’t drifted to impress him.

She had drifted to remind him.

That being good wasn’t enough.

Not when mastery looked like this.

The track stretched ahead in soft gradients of silver and shadow—long straights, whispering curves, glints of mana conduit humming beneath the alloy veins. The Varkos slid through it now in a relaxed prowl, its earlier roar reduced to a low growl, like a predator cooling off after a clean kill.

Damien sat back, one arm resting across his knee, the other tapping idly against the door panel. He wasn’t tense. Wasn’t brooding.

He was smiling.

Not wide. Not arrogant. Just settled—like someone who had finally seen the edge of a new map.

This whole thing—Vivienne’s performance, the sheer control in her motions, the impossible clarity of it all—had been a slap and a gift wrapped into one. And he welcomed it.

He didn’t need her to lower the bar.

He wanted to meet it.

He glanced toward her, watching the faint lift in her brows as she shifted the wheel one-handed through a shallow bend, not even breaking pace. There was still that sharpness around her. That grace wrapped in dominance. He knew better than to mistake it for show.

She wasn’t performing.

She was simply being.

“Mother…” he said, voice even now, the grin still playing at the edge of his mouth.

She glanced at him briefly, reading something there but not interrupting.

“At the end of the night,” he continued, “I’ll get your approval.”

Vivienne didn’t laugh. She didn’t scoff.

She just looked forward again and pressed a bit more weight into the throttle, like her answer was built into acceleration itself.

And Damien leaned back, smile deepening.

New goal set.

New field of war.

And the target?

Simple.

Not to impress her.

To surpass her.

To become a better driver than his mother.

Not because he needed to prove anything to her—but because the moment she took that turn at 219 like it was a casual lap around the estate, something had shifted. A challenge had been laid down without words, and Damien had accepted it the second his heart kicked faster.

Vivienne Elford was a force—calm, deadly, flawless. But Damien wasn’t built to admire from behind. He’d never liked chasing shadows.

He would not lose.

Not to legacy. Not to title. Not even to her.

Especially not to her.

Because buried beneath that clean grin was something else now—an edge.

Ambition.

“Good,” he murmured, more to himself than her. “A bar that matters.”

Vivienne didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

She just kept driving—sharp into the next corner, downshifting without thought, the car singing its answer for her.

And Damien, watching everything—her rhythm, her tempo, the minute twitches in her hand and heel—memorized it all.

Because this wasn’t admiration.

This was preparation.

By the end of the night?

Approval was just the start.

Sooner or later….

He was going to take her crown.

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