Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate-Chapter 173: Sister

"Corrected a mistake."

She blinked. "What kind of mistake becomes… this?"

Vivienne watched in silence, her expression unreadable—calm, but with the faintest trace of curiosity at the corner of her mouth. She'd seen Adeline in many moods, but rarely this one.

Dominic, arms still folded behind his back, remained composed, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes as well.

Not just pride.

Satisfaction.

Because he had seen this moment coming.

Adeline, meanwhile, was still trying to place the weight of the figure standing before her. Her brother. Her former punching bag. The one she used to call "dead weight" with a laugh over dinner.

Now?

He wasn't just lighter.

He was ascendant.

She wet her lips unconsciously, her gaze flicking from his chest to his arms to his jaw again, as if trying to reconcile the pieces into something familiar.

But there was nothing familiar about this man anymore.

Damien let the silence stretch, enjoying it for a second longer.

Then—

"I see you're speechless," he said lightly. "You used to be so good at filling a room, Adeline. What happened?"

Her eyes sharpened instantly, as if the jab pulled her back into herself.

There she is, he thought. The cold heir. The woman who stood above him for years. The golden sister. Always composed. Always victorious.

But now?

She wasn't above him.

They stood on level ground.

No—he stood taller.

"I'm just… evaluating," Adeline replied finally, her voice returning to its usual silk. "It's not every day the family disgrace crawls out of his pit and shows up looking like a—"

She stopped herself. Too late.

Damien's smile widened.

"Like a what?" he pressed, voice low. "A man?"

She flinched internally—but didn't show it.

"You think this changes anything?" she asked, stepping closer now, her heels clicking louder. "You think some muscle and a sharper chin erases everything?"

"No," Damien said simply. "But it changes enough."

Her eyes locked onto his again. Challenging. Daring him to flinch. But he didn't.

He just looked at her with that same unsettling calm. That stillness that unnerved her more than all his past tantrums and whining ever could.

Adeline held his gaze a moment longer—but something in her posture shifted.

Her spine remained straight, her shoulders poised, but the steel behind her eyes had begun to thin. She was calculating now. Not commanding. Not mocking. And certainly not comfortable.

There was something in Damien's silence—that stillness—that unnerved her far more than she was willing to admit.

He wasn't reacting. He wasn't biting like he used to. Not even a twitch.

And worse—his eyes.

The way he looked at her.

Not like a brother.

Not like a rival.

Like someone who had already measured her… and found her lacking.

She felt it in her stomach—a flicker of unease that threatened to sink deeper.

He looked at her like she was irrelevant.

Like she had already been surpassed.

And that infuriated her.

She forced herself to smirk, arching a brow with polished elegance, though there was an edge to it now. A sharpness too brittle to be called playful.

"Well," she said, brushing an invisible speck from her sleeve, "you lost weight. Congratulations. It only took… what? A decade of being useless?" freeωebnovēl.c૦m

Damien didn't move. Didn't blink.

Just watched her.

The silence dared her to keep going—but she didn't take the bait.

Instead, she gave a soft, breathy laugh and waved her hand dismissively, stepping past him.

"Whatever. I have better things to do than marvel at your glow-up," she said, as though her voice didn't strain at the edges. "I'm here to speak with Father. It's about the procurement deal with the Estelle Group."

Damien said nothing.

She hated that.

Hated that she had to walk past him and pretend she didn't feel the weight of his eyes following her like a blade resting just above the base of her neck.

She didn't turn back.

She wouldn't.

Not when her heart was thudding like this. Not when every step away from him felt like retreat.

But just as she neared Dominic's desk, Vivienne's voice cut softly through the room.

"Adeline."

It wasn't loud. But it made Adeline stop.

She turned, a flicker of annoyance slipping into her expression. "Yes, Mother?"

Vivienne didn't rise. She sat with one leg crossed over the other, fingers interlaced neatly on her lap, but her emerald eyes were sharper than they had been the entire evening.

Vivienne's eyes held firm as she spoke, voice still composed—but lined with steel.

"Your brother has shown clear signs of change," she said, enunciating each word. "Why do you speak as though it's worthless? Is that how an older sister should behave toward her younger brother?"

The question landed with precision.

Not loud. Not scolding.

But measured. Sharpened like a blade designed to cut just deep enough.

Adeline stilled.

Her jaw tightened, just slightly.

But inside, the tension flared like a lit match tossed into dry grass.

Older sister needs to behave, heh?

The words echoed in her skull, scraping against something raw and long-ignored.

She didn't look back at her mother.

Didn't need to.

The bitterness surged anyway.

When he was gorging himself on sweets and wasting years in bed, when he lashed out like a brat, humiliated this family with every indulgent, pathetic act—

Where was that grace then?

Where was your wisdom, your compassion, your motherly concern for how it looked when he dragged our name through the mud?

Where was this speech when I was the one holding this house together while he played the martyr in a velvet cage?

She clenched her hands behind her back, fingers curling tight against her palms. Her voice, when it came, was clipped. Sharp.

"If you're so impressed, Mother," Adeline said without turning around, "maybe you should've had this talk years ago. Back when he was still digging the hole he only now decided to climb out of."

A pause.

Then she added, voice low but biting:

"Some of us didn't have the luxury of falling apart just to earn applause for standing up again."

Vivienne's expression remained unchanged—but her gaze followed her daughter in silence.

Damien watched her with that same calm, unreadable expression, but this time, he broke the silence.

He gave a slight nod.

"You're right," he said evenly. "You didn't fall. You didn't collapse. You held everything together. I won't take that from you."

Adeline didn't move—but the tightening in her shoulders gave away her surprise at his agreement.

"But…" Damien continued, voice steady, deliberate, "it's also true that some of us liked looking down from above. Liked standing tall while stepping on the ashes of someone else's legacy."

His eyes didn't waver.

"You didn't just endure, Adeline. You benefited. Every time I failed, you shone brighter. Every time I embarrassed the family, you looked cleaner by comparison. You didn't try to help me—because my failure was your stage."

That made her turn.

Slowly. Her eyes narrowed, her lips tight.

"Is that what you think?" she asked, voice low. "That I used your failure? That I was supposed to hold your hand while you pissed away every ounce of your potential?"

Her gaze hardened. "People have their own responsibilities, Damien. It is narcissistic and selfish to expect others to fix your mess for you. Change doesn't come from pity—it comes from personal choice."

"I agree," Damien said, without missing a beat. "No one's obligated to lift someone else out of the pit."

He took a step forward now—not confrontational, but clear. Grounded.

"But here's the thing," he said, voice quieter now, sharper. "If you walk through life acting like a saint—if you wear virtue like perfume and preach responsibility like a sermon—then you better be the kind of person who lends a hand."

His eyes flicked to hers, dark and unmoving.

"Otherwise, stop pretending."

That struck deep.

Adeline's breath caught—just a fraction of a second. But it was there.

Vivienne didn't speak.

Dominic remained still.

The air between the siblings crackled now—not with rage, but something colder. Older. The kind of rift that had festered too long in silence, fed by glances, gestures, offhand remarks no one ever acknowledged until now.

"You want me to drop the act?" Adeline asked, her voice quiet and sharp. "Fine. Here it is."

She took a step toward him, her heels echoing against the floor like closing gates.

"I didn't help you because I didn't believe in you," she said. "I thought you were weak. I thought you were pitiful. And I thought—maybe hoped—that the weight of that would break you completely so we'd never have to pretend again."

Her expression didn't waver.

"But now you're here. And you've changed. And maybe I was wrong."

A pause.

"But don't expect applause from me."