Chapter 11 – Gregory’s Trap

Gregory's POV

The Blackwood estate was quiet except for the continuous tick of the grandfather clock in Gregory Blackwood’s study. Massive plush curtains blocked the morning light, casting the room in muted shadows. It was exactly the way Gregory liked it—controlled, deliberate, timeless.

He sat behind his massive mahogany desk, a glass of aged brandy in hand though the sun had barely risen. The low glow from the fireplace danced against the deep lines of his face. To the world, Gregory was a retired billionaire, the mastermind who had built Blackwood Enterprises from nothing but grit and cruel decisions. To Damian, however, he was still the cold, harsh father who believed emotions were a disease.

The door opened without a knock. Damian stepped in, tall and confident, his broad shoulders cutting a sharp figure against the dim light. His tailored suit clung to his muscular frame, and his icy gray eyes were hard as steel. He hadn’t come for pleasantries.

“You asked to see me,” Damian said flatly, closing the door behind him. His voice carried no warmth—only irritation.

Gregory took a slow sip of his brandy before setting the glass down with a quiet clink. “Sit down, Damian.”

“I’ll stand.”

“As you wish.” Gregory tilted back in his chair, studying his son like a predator circling prey. “I won’t waste your time. You’ve wasted enough of mine already.”

Damian raised a brow. “This should be good.”

“You’re thirty-four.” Gregory’s tone was razor sharp, each word intentional. “In exactly ten months, you’ll be thirty-five. And unless you have an heir by then, you’ll inherit nothing.”

“We've had this discussion countless times and you seem to be acting stubborn”.

Damian let out a sharp laugh, skeptical. “You’re joking, right?”

“Do I look like a man who jokes?”

“You’ve lost it.” Damian shook his head, a mocking smile tugging at his lips. “This company—Blackwood Enterprises—runs because of me. I’ve doubled our assets in the last five years, expanded into Europe, crushed competitors you couldn’t even touch in your prime. And now you’re telling me I’ll lose everything if I don’t… breed?”

Gregory’s eyes narrowed. “Legacy, Damian. That is what matters. Not expansion. Not numbers on a spreadsheet. Blood. The Blackwood line must continue.”

“Blood?” Damian’s voice dripped with disgust. “You’re treating your grandson like a business asset.”

Gregory slammed his palm on the desk, the sound echoing through the room. “Don’t you dare lecture me. You are standing where you are because I built this empire with blood, sweat, and ruthlessness. Do you think softness built this?” His hand swept across the room, gesturing at the oil paintings, the antique shelves, the fortune written into every detail.

Damian’s jaw tightened. “And what if I don’t want a family? What if I don’t want a child to be another pawn in your sick chess game?”

“Then you walk away with nothing,” Gregory replied coolly.

The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating. Damian’s breathing slowed, his fists clenching at his sides. He wanted to walk out, slam the door, never return—but a part of him knew Gregory never made empty threats.

Finally, Gregory reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a thick envelope. He slid it across the polished wood toward Damian.

Damian didn’t move. “What’s this?”

“Your only solution.” Gregory’s voice was calm, almost casual. Too casual.

Damian snatched the envelope, tore it open, and scanned the papers inside. His icy eyes darkened. It was a contract—sterile, clinical, legal. It outlined terms for surrogacy, with details of a private agency attached. Confidentiality clauses. Medical stipulations. Even financial settlements.

Damian’s laugh was bitter. “You want me to pay a stranger to carry my child?”

“I want you to secure your legacy.”

“This is madness.”

“No, son.” Gregory leaned forward, his expression hardening into something dangerous. “This is survival. You think power comes from money? From your skyscrapers and your headlines? Power comes from bloodlines. From heirs. The Blackwood name must not die with you.”

Damian’s grip on the papers tightened until the edges crumpled. “You disgust me.”

“Perhaps.” Gregory sat back, calm. “But I’ve lived long enough to know one truth: men like us don’t get to choose happiness. We get to choose power—or extinction.”

Damian’s teeth clenched. He hated the way Gregory always spoke in absolutes, as though the world bent to his philosophy. He hated even more that part of him, the part that had grown up under Gregory’s cold shadow, still felt the weight of his father’s words.

He tossed the papers back onto the desk. “I don’t need a woman. I don’t need a child. And I don’t need your money.”

Gregory’s lips curled into a chilling smile. “Keep telling yourself that. But remember this, Damian: when the clock strikes your thirty-fifth birthday, your empire dies unless you produce an heir.”

The grandfather clock ticked louder in the silence, each second a reminder of time slipping away.

Damian turned toward the door, fists clenched, fury simmering beneath his cold exterior.

“Run, if you like,” Gregory called after him. “But you can’t run from time.”

Damian froze for just a heartbeat, his jaw tight. Then he pushed the door open and walked out, the slam reverberating through the building.

Gregory leaned back in his chair, the faintest smirk touching his lips. He reached for his phone, dialing a number from memory.

The line clicked. “Yes?” a voice answered.

Gregory’s eyes glinted with ruthless satisfaction. “She’s perfect. Make the arrangements.”

Gregory hangs up, staring into the fire as if he can already see the Blackwood heir being born, while Damian storms out into the night, unaware that his father has already chosen Evelyn Carter for him.