The Billionaire's Virgin Surrogate

“You’ll never carry my heir.”

The words fell from Damian Blackwood’s lips like a verdict. Cold, sharp and irrevocable.

He didn’t flinch as he said them. He didn’t look at the woman sitting across the wide expanse of his penthouse either. Instead, he stood by the floor-to-ceiling glass, hands buried in the pockets of his tailored suit, staring at the New York skyline.

From this high up, the city looked alive, neon lights glowing in the dark, streets pulsing with noise. But to Damian, it was nothing more than a battlefield. One he owned, one he ruled.

Behind him, silence stretched.

Vanessa Hart blinked, her painted lips parting. She hadn’t expected this. Not tonight. Not after everything.

She had dressed to kill, a silk slip of a dress hugging every curve, emerald earrings swaying just so when she tilted her head. Her perfume, sweet, musky, expensive, coated the air. She knew the effect she had on men. She knew Damian was no exception, no matter how often he pretended otherwise.

Or so she thought.

“Never?” Her voice came out softer than intended, a shaky echo of his harsh words.

She rose from the sofa, heels clicking against the marble, posture regal, as if refusing to show how badly the rejection cut. Her green eyes narrowed with a dangerous kind of glitter.

“I’ve been here when no one else dared,” she said, her tone sliding between seductive and wounded. “I’ve warmed your bed, given you loyalty, given you pleasure. I’ve kept your secrets. Damian, what more could you possibly want?”

Only then did he turn.

Damian’s gray eyes cut into her like shards of ice. Broad shoulders filled his suit; his jaw was hard, carved with the kind of discipline that came from a lifetime of control. He studied her, silent for one second, two, long enough to remind her that his silence was just as lethal as his words.

“You’re not pure enough.”

It was the kind of cruelty only Damian could deliver. Not shouted, not sneered, just stated. Flat. Absolute.

For a moment, Vanessa’s mask cracked. A flicker of anger, disbelief, humiliation passed across her face before she masked it back into a sultry smile.

“Pure?” She laughed, the sound bitter, sharp. “This is New York, Damian. Purity doesn’t buy billion-dollar empires. It doesn’t get you boardrooms or respect. Power does. Influence does. And I—” she stepped closer, nails grazing his chest “—I can give you all of it.”

His hand caught her wrist before her touch could land. Not brutal, not soft. Just rejection. Final.

“You’ve already given enough,” he said, his voice low, cold. “Ambition disguised as devotion won’t taint my bloodline. Not with you.”

Her throat tightened. For once, she had no comeback.

The rejection wasn’t about sex. It wasn’t even about loyalty. It was about lineage. Legacy.

And Damian had just told her she would never be part of it.

She forced her lips into a smile, but the bitterness bled through. “You think you’ll find someone better than me? Someone who understands you?”

Damian leaned closer, his height towering over her even in heels. His voice was a razor against her pride.

“This isn’t about being understood. And it will never be you.”

The silence that followed was brutal. Vanessa could hear her own pulse hammering in her ears, could feel the sting of tears she refused to let fall.

Finally, she snatched her wrist from his grasp, her green eyes blazing.

“You’ll regret this, Damian Blackwood.” Her voice dripped venom, shaky with suppressed fury. “Men like you always do.”

She spun on her heel, snatched her purse from the sofa, and stormed toward the elevator. Each strike of her heels against marble was like a gunshot.

The elevator doors slid shut, cutting off the sight of her perfect figure, leaving only the faint echo of her perfume.

Damian exhaled slowly, as if her presence had been a toxin finally purged from the room. He turned back to the window, his reflection staring back at him—tall, powerful, untouchable.

But behind the façade, a shadow twisted in his chest. Not regret. Never regret. Just something unspoken.

His phone buzzed on the glass coffee table. The vibration broke the silence.

He picked it up. A single message flashed across the screen:

From: Gregory Blackwood

Come to the estate. Immediately.

Damian’s jaw flexed. His father. Always pulling strings. Always summoning, never asking.

Slipping the phone into his pocket, he grabbed his keys from the counter. He left without a word, without a glance back.

The city lights blurred past as he drove, his sleek black car gliding through the streets. But no matter how fast he went, he couldn’t outrun the weight pressing down on him.

It wasn’t Vanessa’s fury. It was Gregory’s demand.

And Damian already knew, whatever waited for him at the estate tonight was about to change everything.