Damian's POV

“You will never carry my heir.”

Damian Blackwood said it without turning around.

He stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows of his penthouse office, hands buried in his pockets, shoulders squared beneath an impeccably tailored suit. New York glittered below him—restless, alive, obedient. From this height, the city looked exactly how he liked it: distant and controllable.

The room fell silent.

Vanessa Hart had not expected those words. She had walked into his house confidently, certain of herself this time around, dressed to seduce. Years at his side had taught her confidence, and somehow, she felt he'd concur and accept her offer, because he had been waving it off stylishly. She never thought he'd decline, talk more of saying she'll never carry his child.

“Never?” she asked finally, her voice unsteady despite her effort to keep it smooth. “Damian… that’s not funny.”

He turned then.

Vanessa rose slowly from the sofa, her long legs unfolding with practiced elegance. The silk dress clung to her curves, her red lips parted slightly in disbelief. She was beautiful—undeniably so. She always had been.

But beauty had never been enough.

“I’m serious,” Damian said coolly. “This ends at this.”

She crossed the room toward him, heels tapping softly against marble. He watched her approach the way he watched boardroom rivals—alert, unmoved, and already detached from the outcome.

“I’ve stood by you for years,” she said. “When the press circled. When other women threw themselves at you for your name alone. I gave you loyalty. Discretion. My body.” Her eyes searched his face, desperate for a crack. “You don’t get to discard me.”

Damian’s expression didn’t change.

Emotion was a liability, he had learned that lesson early, and he had learned it well.

“You misunderstand your place,” he said calmly.

Her jaw tightened. “My place?”

“I don’t need a partner, what we have is enough,” Damian continued. “I don’t need affection. And I don’t need ambition disguised as devotion in high heels.”

Anger flashed across her face before she could stop it. “What we have is enough?” " You want me to be by your side, while there's no official title to our relationship? “Damian, you want me to remain your friend with benefits for life?" She scoffed in disbelief.

“Yes.”

The word hit harder than a slap.

For a brief second, the mask slipped, hurt flickered in her eyes. Then Vanessa recovered, lips curling into a sharp, controlled smile.

“You won’t find someone better than me,” she said. “Someone who understands you. Someone who fits beside you.”

Damian stepped closer, forcing her to tilt her chin up to meet his gaze. He towered over her effortlessly, dominance radiating from him without effort.

“I don’t need understanding,” he said quietly. “I need certainty.”

She frowned. “Certainty of what?”

He didn’t hesitate.

“Purity.”

The word shattered the room.

Her eyes widened, disbelief cutting through her composure. “Purity?” she repeated sharply. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am.”

She laughed—a brittle, hollow sound meant to disguise the humiliation she felt. “Purity doesn’t build empires, Damian. Power does. Influence. And I can give you all of that.”

“You’ve given enough,” he replied. “But when it comes to my heir, I won’t allow ambition to taint my bloodline.”

Her breath hitched. She reached for him instinctively, fingers brushing the front of his suit as if touch alone could change his mind.

“You really believe you’ll find someone better?” she whispered. “Someone willing to give you everything without wanting anything back?”

His hand closed around her wrist—not harsh, but final. He lowered her hand slowly, deliberately, rejecting her touch as if it were contamination.

“It will never be you,” he said.

Silence swallowed the room.

For the first time, Vanessa couldn’t hide the pain anymore. Her lips trembled before hardening into a venomous smile.

“You’ll regret this, Damian Blackwood,” she said coldly. “Men like you always do.”

She snatched her wrist free, grabbed her purse, and stormed toward the elevator. The doors closed behind her with a soft, click sound.

Damian turned back to the window.

The city reflected in the glass, fractured and bright. His reflection stared back—tall, controlled, untouchable. And yet, beneath the polished surface, something twisted briefly in his chest.

He crushed it instantly. Regret had no place in legacy.

The sharp buzz of his phone broke the silence.

From: Father

Come to the estate. Immediately.

Damian’s jaw tightened.

Whatever waited for him there, he knew one thing with certainty— His father never summoned him without a price.

Gregory's POV

Damian drove through the iron gates of the Blackwood's mansion without slowing, the gravel crunching beneath his tires as the guards stepped aside.

He shut off the engine and stepped out into the night air, his jaw set.

Gregory Blackwood never summoned him without reason, and never without consequence.

Inside, the mansion was quiet. Too quiet, like always. Damian’s footsteps echoed as he moved through familiar hallways, past portraits of Blackwood men staring down from gilded frames—men who had ruled, conquered, expanded. Men who had never been questioned.

Men who had never failed to produce heirs.

The study door was ajar, and a firelight flickered inside.

Gregory sat behind his massive desk, posture rigid despite his age, a glass of wine resting untouched beside a leather-bound book. His gray hair was combed back with military precision, his sharp eyes already fixed on Damian before he spoke.

“You came,” Gregory said. “Good.”

Damian closed the door behind him. “Your message wasn’t optional. Good evening, Father.”

“No,” Gregory agreed calmly. “It wasn’t. Good evening.”

Damian loosened his tie as he stepped farther into the room. The heat from the fireplace pressed against his skin, but it did nothing to calm the chill settling in his chest.

Gregory studied him in silence for a moment, his gaze assessing—measuring strength, control, and obedience.

“You’re thirty-four,” Gregory said at last. “And still without an heir.”

There it was, Damian facepalmed internally. His expression didn’t change. “We’ve had this conversation before, and we're over it.”

“Not like this.” Gregory leaned forward slightly. “Before, you had time. Now, you don’t.”

Damian’s fingers curled slowly at his sides. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” Gregory replied evenly, “that if you want Blackwood Enterprises to remain in your name, you will produce a child before your thirty-fifth birthday.”

The words landed like a blade.

Damian crossed the room to the liquor cabinet, poured himself a glass of whiskey, and waited. He refused to give his father the satisfaction of a reaction.

“And if I don’t?” he asked coldly.

Gregory didn’t hesitate. “Then the company passes to the board.”

Damian turned, glass frozen halfway to his lips.

“You’ll remain wealthy,” Gregory continued. “Comfortable. Respected. But the empire will no longer be yours. The Blackwood name will move forward without you.”

The whiskey burned as Damian swallowed it down. It wasn’t the loss of money that made his blood simmer—it was the implication. To Gregory, legacy mattered more than blood ties. More than Damian himself.

“You’d strip me of everything I’ve built,” Damian said quietly.

Gregory’s gaze was unyielding. “You didn’t build it. You inherited it. And inheritance is conditional.”

Damian laughed once, sharp and humorless. “This is about control.”

“This is about survival,” Gregory corrected. “Empires don’t endure on sentiment.”

Damian set the glass down with more force than necessary. “I’m not interested in marriage.”

Gregory waved a dismissive hand. “I didn’t say marriage.”

Damian stiffened. “Then what exactly are you suggesting?”

“A child,” Gregory replied simply. “Nothing more.”

The silence that followed was thick.

Damian’s mind raced despite his outward calm. “And how do you expect me to produce one?” he asked. “Pull a stranger off the street?”

Gregory’s lips curved slightly—not in a smile, but something colder. “There are arrangements for men in your position.”

Damian narrowed his eyes. “You’re referring to Vanessa.”

“She seemed eager enough,” Gregory said mildly. “I assumed you would’ve resolved this already.”

“She’s not fit for it,” Damian snapped. “She will never carry my child.”

Gregory’s brow lifted slightly. “So decisive.”

“She’s ambitious,” Damian continued. “And ambition corrupts.”

For the first time, Gregory studied him more closely. “You sound certain.”

“I am.”

Gregory leaned back in his chair. “Then you’ll find another solution.”

Damian’s chest tightened. “You’re talking about using a woman like an incubator.”

“I’m talking about efficiency,” Gregory replied. “You don’t need a wife, you need a womb.”

The words made Damian’s stomach twist, though he didn’t show it. But he felt like puking.

“And the woman?” Damian asked. “What happens to her?”

Gregory shrugged. “She’s compensated. Generously. Contracts ensure discretion. No attachments, and definitely no claims.”

“You’ll choose someone suitable,” Gregory added. “Healthy. Clean. Efficient.”

The word sat heavily in the air.

Damian looked away, staring into the flames. This was madness, cold, calculated. And, exactly like the man who raised him.

“And if I refuse?” Damian asked quietly.

Gregory stood. Despite his age, he commanded the room effortlessly. He stepped closer, his gaze locking onto Damian’s with chilling clarity.

“You won’t,” he said. “Because you know what’s at stake.”

For a moment, Damian saw it clearly—the trap tightening, options narrowing. The empire he had spent his life preserving balanced on a condition he despised.

“This is blackmail,” Damian muttered.

“This is legacy,” Gregory corrected. “And legacy demands sacrifice.”

Damian turned sharply toward the door. “You’re asking me to sell a child’s existence for power.”

“No,” Gregory said, voice low and unwavering. “I’m asking you to secure our bloodline. The rest is irrelevant.”

Damian didn’t respond. He left the study without another word. Outside, the night air was colder than before.

He drove away from the estate with tension coiled tightly in his chest, Gregory’s ultimatum echoing relentlessly.

No heir. No inheritance.

His phone vibrated suddenly against the console.

A notification flashed on the screen—an incoming email forwarded from the family legal office.

Subject: Confidential — Surrogacy Program Application.

Damian’s grip tightened on the steering wheel.

Against his will, he opened it. The first profile loaded.

Female.

Healthy.

Unmarried.

Damian exhaled slowly. The path had been laid, whether he liked it or not.

Damian's POV

Damian sat in silence, the weight of his father's ultimatum pressing against his chest like iron shackles. The penthouse was dark except from the reflection from the nearby city lights entering through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows. Everything seemed perfect, but Damian knows better.

He stood at the bar, pouring himself another glass of whiskey. His reflection stared back at him from the window, his cold eyes enough to freeze the night.

No heir. No inheritance.

His father's words had not left him since the meeting. They echoed louder than the noise from the city traffic.

Gregory didn't care and is not requesting marriage. He didn't care about love. All he wanted was a child to uphold the name and the legacy.

Damian's hand tightening around the cup, veins popping out.

A child wasn't an heir, a child was innocent. A child was supposed to be born from love, from softness, from things his world has never given him. He had a flashback of his mother's voice, faint, soft and full of love. She had tried to protect him when he was young, to shield him from Gregory's cold hand. But Gregory always won. Always.

He had learnt early that emotions had no place in the Blackwood name.

Damian set the half-full glass down on the counter.

Love was a weakness. Marriage was a cage. He would never submit to either. His father thought he could manipulate him, but Damian is a grown man now, and he would rather burn down all the boardrooms in New York before letting Gregory chain him like that.

But, beneath the fury comes a thought. What if Gregory is right?

The company wasn't just huge figures and buildings, it was power, control. And it carried his name, his legacy. Without it? He would be just another man in New York with money. Disposable, replaceable.

The night dragged on slowly. Damian removed his suit jacket and unbuttoned his shirt, tossing the jacket on the sofa, he poured himself yet again another cup of whiskey, trying to numb the feelings making a turmoil in his mind.

He was halfway lifting the cup to his lips when the soft chime of the elevator broke

the silence.

Who could that be? He wasn't expecting anyone. And, nobody came to his penthouse uninvited. Nobody.

The glass doors slid open revealing Vanessa.

Vanessa stepped out, in a changed outfit from the one she had on earlier but still clinging to her curves, her lips painted the same blood red as a couple of hours ago when she left.

Her eyes glittered with determination. With hunger.

“Miss me already?” she asked, her voice sultry and dangerous.

Damian's jaw tightened. The glass in his hand didn't reach his lips.

She had come back. And she wasn't here to play. He knew that.

Vanessa's heels clicked on the marble floor as she entered, heads up high and confidence oozing out of her like she owned the place. She didn't wait for an invitation, she carried herself with the boldness of a woman who has absolutely nothing to lose, her hips swaying effortlessly with practiced precision, her perfume filling the air, sweet but sharp, an evidence of her presence.

Damian set his glass on the table, watching her every step like a predator does its prey. He wasn't surprised she had come back. Vanessa was like fire, always hungry, always consuming, never satisfied.

She dropped her coat over the arm of his sofa, standing there in silk that clung to her curves. “No reply?” she asked. “Rough night?” she inquired again.

Damian's eyes narrowed. " You should have gone home.”

Vanessa smirked, unbothered. “Maybe I don't like being dismissed so easily.” She walked closer, her fingers trailing the edge of the bar, brushing past the glass Damian had abandoned on the table. " Or maybe I don't like hearing that I'm not good enough for you.”

His jaw flexed. “I told you the truth. You're not pure enough to carry my heir. Don't twist it into something else.”

She laughed softly, low and mocking. “Pure enough? Come on Damian, this is New York, not some ancient times. You think you'll find a saint that'll bear your child? Well, good luck with that.”

Her words were sharp, but Damian didn't flinch. “ This isn't about luck. It's about control. And you, Vanessa, are chaos in heels.”

Her lips curled into a sly smile. “Chaos keeps life interesting, life's boring without it.”

She moved closer until she was right in front of him. Damian didn't move back, nor did he flinch. He never gave her that satisfaction. But when she reached up, brushing her fingers against his lips, he held her wrist, firm and unyielding.

“Don't mistake me for something I'm not”, Damian said quietly, his voice edged. “This, whatever that is between us, it's convenience, fun. Don't look for permanence where there's none.”

Vanessa's eyes stung, though she masked it quickly with a sultry smile. She leaned forward, close enough for her lips to graze Damian's ear. “You can say whatever you want, Damian, but you keep letting me back in, never resisting. You need me, whether you'll admit it or not, I know.”

Damian released her wrist and stepped back, turning away as if she wasn't behind him and she never existed. He grabbed his glass and poured himself another drink, ignoring the way her eyes followed his movements and bore into him.

He didn't need her, not her body, not her chaos. The only thing he cared about is his father's ultimatum , and the gnawing emptiness inside him made Vanessa a distraction he hadn't yet admitted.

“Stay if you want to,” he muttered absentmindedly, drowning his whiskey. “But do not have high hopes, and don't confuse this for what it's not.”

The next morning, Vanessa lay on Damian's bed, sheets tangled around her legs, watching him as he stood by the window, with his back to her.

He looked like a king surveying his kingdom, untouchable.

And yet, she thought bitterly, “He refused to crown me his queen”.

She bit her lower lip, determination hardening in her chest. She wasn't going to let any faceless ‘ideal’ woman steal her position in his life. She has fought too hard, climbed too far to end up being overthrown.

Her fingers trailed absentmindedly across the empty space where he was supposed to lay.

“You'll change your mind", she whispered, a dangerous promise hidden in her tone.

Her eyes flickered, sharp and calculating.

She wasn't leaving. Not tonight, not ever. Until Damian Blackwood was hers.

Damian finally turned, his icy gaze directed at her. “Vanessa”, he said flatly.

She smiled, waiting for his surrender.

But his next words hit her like a slap, throwing her off balance.

“You’ll never be the mother of my heir".