Chapter 2- A new clause

By the time I reach the revolving doors, my driver emerges with my car. A silver range rover, almost as tall as I am.

I slip into it and lean back, buckling my seatbelt. I let out a sigh as I contemplated my next move.

Harold wasn't going to like this. I knew I'd never hear the end of it.

Just moments before Miss Robinson entered my office with her ridiculous request, Miles had informed me that another company was being considered for a very lucrative long-term contract that we've been trying to secure.

Miles Hale was one of by best friends. He was sort of a consultant for Blackwood and had worked with the company ever since I became CEO. He is dangerously good at his job, so when he called me this afternoon and said, "It's not looking good Damien," I knew something was terribly wrong.

“Fuck.” The word leaves my mouth before I can stop it.

The thought that another company might even be considered for the Eden District contract is an insult in itself.

I rubbed a hand across my jaw, trying to shake off the frustration, but instead, my mind drifted back to Kayla Robinson.

It was the first time I’d heard her say more than five words to me that weren’t “Good morning, sir” or “Would you like your coffee now?”

She’d stood there shaking like a leaf, asking me for an advance.

For a second, I’d been too stunned to respond. Kayla never talked back. Never asked for anything. She moved through my office like air, quiet and invisible. And yet, today, for the first time since the six months she was moved to my office, she looked me dead in the eye.

I should’ve been impressed. Instead, I was irritated.

What could she possibly need money for?

She gets paid more than every assistant in the building. I’d even told her to drop that ridiculous part-time job she had, the one she tried to hide until she started yawning through meetings instead of writing minutes.

Maybe this was why. People are never satisfied. Give them a decent salary, and they’ll want an advance. Give them comfort, and they’ll find another reason to beg.

I’ve seen it a hundred times, the same desperate eyes and polite smile, masking entitlement.

They always want something, whether it was money, power, or access.

Women especially.

I scoffed quietly. Maybe she wasn’t as soft as she looked. The quiet ones are always like that.

I snapped out of my thoughts as the car rolled through the underground parking lot. The motion jarred me back to the present.

When we stopped, I got out, loosened my tie, and stepped into the private elevator. I hit the button for the penultimate floor.

The elevator doors slid open, and I immediately heard the thud of gloves hitting a punching bag, laughter and the occasional grunt. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

Good, I wasn’t training alone tonight.

Miles and Ethan were already in the workout room. Miles spotting himself at the bench press while Ethan took swings at the heavy bag like it owed him money.

As soon as I stepped in, Ethan tossed me a pair of gloves. I caught them midair and pulled my tie loose. Boxing has always been my out. It was how I channneled all the pent-up frustration.

The gloves slid on easily, the leather cool against my palms. I threw the first punch. The sound of impact echoed through the room.

“Sheesh,” Ethan dragged out the sound, grinning. “Someone’s in a mood.”

Miles chuckled nervously, keeping his eyes on the weights. “Don’t tease the CEO, please. He’s in deep shit already.”

Before I could respond, a familiar commanding voice cut through the room. “You. Come with me.”

I froze mid-punch. Harold Blackwood, my grandfather stood by the doorway in his usual suit and walking cane, even though he barely needed it.

The room fell silent. Ethan immediately straightened, biting back a smirk. “Someone’s in trouble,” he muttered under his breath.

Miles shifted awkwardly, almost dropping his dumbbells. He still wasn’t used to being around my family, couldn’t really blame him. Working for the Blackwoods wasn’t for the faint of heart. Ethan, on the other hand, had known me since we were kids. We practically grew up together so Harold didn’t scare him half as much.

I peeled off the gloves and followed my grandfather out.

Once we got into his office, he didn’t waste time. “We can’t lose out on this deal. You understand that, right?”

“Yes,” I said evenly, sinking into the chair opposite his desk. “I’m not a child, and I know exactly what this deal means for us.”

“This deal is one of the largest contracts we’ve ever had the chance to land,” he snapped. “And you’re the reason someone else is being considered to run it.”

I clenched my jaw. “I’m aware. Look, all this Halden and Moore shit is stupid. They're not fit to compete for a contract of this magnitude. We own the industry, it's stupid that they're even being considered.”

He leaned forward, eyes sharp. “You know this man wants a family-oriented person. Your girlfriends and their outbursts aren’t helping us.”

I sighed. “That was one time—”

“One time that went viral,” he cut me off.

I didn’t respond. He wasn’t wrong. My last girlfriend had been an influencer—loud, dramatic, and obsessed with her followers. After our breakup, she showed up at Blackwood Industries with her friends, holding picket signs that said ‘Free the Devil’s Girlfriend.’ They made videos, posted them everywhere, and within hours, the nickname ‘Devil in a Suit’ was born.

I still remembered the look on Harold’s face when he saw it trending.

“You need to get your act together,” he said now, his voice dropping lower.

“I know.”

“No,” he snapped, slamming his palm on the desk. “You don’t understand. You’re going to get your act together." Harold picked up the newspaper on his desk.

He flipped in a few times and brought it dramatically closer to his face. "Have you seen this shit?" Harold squared his shoulders then read, "Damien Blackwood--"

I cut him off before he could start, "Aren't you the one who said you should never believe everything you read in the papers?" I watch his nostrils flare as he tried to maintain his composure. Harold isn't as young as he used to be. Usually, a comment like that would have earned me a good whooping.

He stared at me for a moment, disregarded my comment and continued speaking, "Damien Blackwood, business mogul and Casanova is too detached from human connection."

His eyes bulged, "too detached from human connection. My own flesh and blood."

I didn't know when laughter escaped my lips, "You raised me, and you're surprised that I'm as cold as the ice I was carved from."

"You think this is funny?" He says turning red. Harold seems genuinely mad. "Damien, I need a grandchild. And you need to grow up."

"If you need a grandchild, adopt one. It's not my fault you had one kid Harold."

"I’m changing the final clause in the inheritance documents,” he said adjusting his glasses.

I frowned, leaning forward to make sure I was hearing right. “What?”

He adjusted his cufflinks with infuriating calm. “You won’t inherit Blackwood Industries unless you have a wife and a child. By the end of the year, if you're still single, I'll hand over the company to Miles, he knows how to handle--”

"What," seems to be only word I can form, for a second, I thought I’d misheard him. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not,” he said simply. “You need to learn what it means to be responsible, for someone other than yourself. I know how stubborn you are, Damien. You don’t like rules. But this time, you’ll bend. Because I’m not asking.”

I stared at him. Of course he’d find the one thing I’d never wanted and make it a condition. Marriage. Family.

Harold Blackwood always played to win. And now, apparently, so would I.