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".

Gregory's POV

The ballroom glittered with decorations and chandeliers that dropped with crystal and wealth. It was the kind of event where champagne flowed like water and the smile of everyone present hid an agenda. Gregory stood at the edge of the ballroom, came in hand, eyes scanning the polished and bright faces around.

He'd spent a lifetime building an empire, navigating men who smiled with knives hidden behind them. Tonight was no different, beautiful women and men covering up with philanthropy but wrapped in silk and suit of deceit.

Gregory's thoughts spiralled around his conversation with Damian.

An heir. A secured bloodline.

His son thought he could defy him, thought he could ignore his legacy for the sake of stubborn pride. Gregory's jaw tightened at the thought of Damian's icy resistance. The boy has everything but sense, which makes Gregory wonder where he got his senselessness from. He doesn't understand that love is weakness and only lineage survives, and one doesn't need love to keep the lineage.

As he moved through the crowd, nodding at investors and rivals alike, his eyes caught someone unexpected, and he was instantly blown away by her simplicity and beauty.

She wasn't dressed like the others, dripping in diamonds or parading their wealth. She wore a simple gown, elegant but modest, her hair packed up in a neat ponytail. She stood at the volunteer table, arranging auction items with careful precision. No one paid her much attention, but Gregory did.

Her movements were slow, graceful. And her smile, genuine.

“Now,that is rare”. He thought,his lips pressing into a thin line.

Something about her interested him.

He studied her posture, her calmness, the way she carried herself with dignity even though she clearly didn't belong among the wealthy elites. And for the first time, Gregory felt satisfied seeing someone different from the elites in the same space.

Yes, he thought. She isn't like the others.

Gregory adjusted his cufflinks, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He saw the flicker of unease on her face when their eyes met. She wasn't used to being stared at, wasn't used to being observed, wasn't used to being considered. That alone made her interesting.

She wasn't chasing wealth. She wasn't draped in vanity. She carried herself with humility, and yet he could see the visible traits of strength in the way she straightened her shoulders after faltering beneath his stare.

Gregory tapped his cane lightly with the ring on his finger. Yes, he thought with certainty. This one has the right kind of purity. The right kind of aura and character. “She could be the one”.

Gregory turned away with the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. And, he felt a flicker of something he hadn't felt in a long time: approval.

Gregory lingered near the marble staircase, watching the crowd swirl around him. His presence,even in retirement, carried weight. People approached him with bright smiles, shook his hand, exchanged pleasantries, then drifted off to chase others with deeper pockets.

But he wasn't even paying much attention to them, his attention was elsewhere.

The beautiful young woman he had noticed earlier was now a few feet away from him. Balancing a tray of glasses with practiced ease. She offered one to a guest close by, bowed her head politely, then continued her quiet path. There was no performance, no pretense. Just humility and dignity.

On impulse, Gregory stepped forward for a glass.

“Thank you”, he said as she offered him a glass of wine. Her eyes flicked up to him,polite but steady.

“Youre welcome, sir”. Her voice was soft but firm, carrying a sweetness that's different from the desperate ones he was used to. She gave him a small nod, then moved on with her duty, as though she had no idea who he was, she just or didn't care.

Gregory watched her disappear into the crowd, a crease forming between his brows. The women in the hall were all polished and painted like ornaments. But this one? She was different. She was unshaken, unbothered and unpretentious.

He lifted the glass slowly, taking a sip. For the first time in years, he felt certain of something.

The girl carried the kind of humility that money couldn't afford. Money couldn't buy this.

He set the glass down, eyes narrowing with quiet satisfaction. His son would resist. Damian had made it his life's mission to wall himself off feelings. But Gregory knew bloodlines, and he knew women. And he could tell when someone was different. And she was different, not the kind of woman he was used to.

And this Evelyn?

Yes, he had paid so much attention to her, that he had heard her whisper the name to another volunteer. Evelyn had potential.

Gregory straightened his back, the faintest smirk crossing his lips. “Damian may not see it yet”, he murmured softly, “but I do”.