Chapter 8

The world had shifted overnight.

One photograph. That was all it took. Damian’s arm around me, his protective stance, the faint softness in his eyes — captured, frozen, and plastered on every major news outlet and gossip blog within hours.

“Blackwood Heir Claims Pregnant Fiancée.”

“Who Is Evelyn Hart?”

“From Prison to Penthouse: The Mysterious Woman Damian Blackwood Can’t Let Go.”

My name, my face, my swollen stomach — all laid bare. It felt like every stranger on the street knew me, dissected me, judged me. Everywhere I went, I felt eyes. Some curious, some envious, some downright cruel.

And Damian? He seemed… unfazed. If anything, the chaos only made him sharper, more determined.

That morning, I found him in the study, standing by the window with a glass of scotch in hand — at nine in the morning. His broad shoulders were stiff, his profile carved in cold concentration as he stared out at the skyline.

“Damian,” I said softly, stepping inside.

He didn’t turn at first. “We don’t have time to let this spiral,” he said finally, his voice clipped, commanding. “The story is already running wild. If we don’t seize control, Adrian will.”

My chest tightened. “Adrian…” The name tasted bitter.

Damian finally turned, his eyes finding mine. They weren’t warm, but they weren’t cruel either. They were steady, grounded, like a man already planning three steps ahead.

“We have to formalize this,” he said.

I blinked. “Formalize… what?”

“Our engagement,” he replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Today, tomorrow at the latest. Rings, announcements, the entire charade. We cannot let Adrian use this child to undermine us. If the world thinks you are mine, officially mine, then every whisper, every headline, every accusation loses power. You and the baby will be untouchable.”

I felt the words slam into me like a physical force. Engagement. Marriage. With Damian Blackwood.

My heart raced. “You can’t be serious.”

His expression didn’t flicker. “I have never been more serious.”

I shook my head, clutching the edge of the desk like it could anchor me. “Damian, this isn’t just a business deal. This is my life. My baby’s life. You think plastering a diamond on my finger is going to fix everything? It won’t erase the past. It won’t erase prison. It won’t erase Adrian.”

His jaw tightened. “You don’t understand the stakes, Evelyn. Adrian is circling. He will not stop until he discredits you — until he claims what’s inside you as his. If he spins the narrative that the child is his, that you deceived me, the media will devour you alive. And once the public turns, the court will follow. Do you want to risk custody battles before your child even breathes?”

The room tilted. Custody battles. My stomach churned. He was right — Adrian wouldn’t hesitate to use the baby as a weapon.

But still… “And what about you, Damian?” I asked quietly. “Why does this matter so much to you? Why do you care if Adrian claims the baby?”

His eyes darkened, something flickering there that I couldn’t quite read. “Because this isn’t just about you. Or him. It’s about power, Evelyn. Control. And I will not let him win.”

The cold honesty of it made my chest ache. Was this protection… or possession?

“I don’t want to be someone’s pawn,” I whispered.

He stepped closer, closing the distance until the scent of his cologne wrapped around me. “You’re not a pawn. You’re the queen. But queens don’t survive unless they play the game.”

My pulse thundered in my ears. I wanted to argue, to push back, to scream that I wasn’t ready. But the truth was there in his eyes, unyielding and undeniable: this was the only path forward.

And so, hours later, I found myself standing in front of Damian’s parents.

The Blackwood estate was everything you’d expect from old money: sprawling marble halls, chandeliers dripping crystals, portraits of stern ancestors glaring down from gilded frames. It smelled like wealth, like legacy, like judgment.

Damian’s mother, Seraphina Blackwood, sat in a high-backed chair that looked more like a throne than furniture. She was regal, beautiful in a chilling way — diamonds glittering at her throat, her silver hair swept into a perfect chignon. Her eyes, however, were ice.

Beside her, Damian’s father, Alistair Blackwood, was no less intimidating. His presence filled the room even in silence. His tailored suit was immaculate, his expression unreadable. Together, they looked less like parents and more like monarchs awaiting tribute.

“So,” Seraphina said at last, her voice smooth as glass but edged with disdain. “This is the woman.”

Her gaze slid over me, not lingering, not warm. Just… assessing. Like I was a horse she was deciding whether to buy.

I straightened, forcing my voice not to shake. “Yes. I’m Evelyn.”

Seraphina’s lips curved, though it wasn’t a smile. “We’ve read quite a bit about you already. The internet is most… informative.”

Heat burned my cheeks, but I held her gaze. “Then you know not all of it is true.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, as if amused by my nerve. “Perhaps. Or perhaps truth is irrelevant when perception is reality.”

Alistair finally spoke, his voice deep, steady. “Our son insists this engagement is necessary. That it will… protect certain interests.” His eyes pinned Damian, sharp as a blade. “We hope you understand the consequences if this arrangement proves to be a mistake.”

Damian’s jaw clenched, but his voice was calm. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

The scrutiny shifted back to me. Seraphina leaned forward slightly, her diamonds catching the light. “Tell me, Evelyn. Why should we believe you are worthy of our name? What proof do you have that you will not drag us through scandal after scandal?”

The weight of her question pressed on my chest like a stone. I wanted to scream that I hadn’t asked for this, that I hadn’t begged for their world. But instead, I lifted my chin.

“I don’t have proof,” I admitted, my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands. “All I have is my word. I made mistakes. I paid for them. But I will not apologize for wanting to protect my child. And whether or not you believe in me, I’ll keep fighting for that.”

The room went still. For a moment, I thought I’d overstepped.

Then Seraphina’s lips curved again — sharper, colder this time. “Fascinating. She has spirit.”

Damian’s father said nothing, only studied me like a man cataloging weaknesses.

The conversation dragged on, each question more probing than the last — my past, my prison sentence, my supposed motives. With every answer, I felt more exposed, more cornered. But I also felt something else: Damian’s gaze, steady on me, like a silent shield. He never interrupted, never corrected me, but he didn’t look away either.

It was as though he wanted me to feel the fire, to prove I could stand in it.

And then, just as I thought the interrogation was ending, Seraphina leaned back, her expression cool and unreadable.

Her next words sliced through the air like a knife:

“If the child is not yours, Damian…” She paused, her eyes like shards of ice as they flicked from her son to me. “…we will know.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. My breath caught in my throat, my pulse racing as if the floor had dropped beneath me.

And for the first time, I realized — this engagement wasn’t just about Adrian. It wasn’t just about the media. It was about surviving the Blackwoods themselves.