Chapter 2 - The Ultimatum

Damian’s POV

The Blackwood estate stood tall in the night like a fortress carved from stone. Its elegant walls even in the darkness, sprawling gardens stretched wide under the pale glow of the moon and the dim lamps. Damian tightened his grip on the steering wheel as he drove into the driveway. He had grown up here, every hallway and every echo a memory, but the house had never once felt like home.

The butler opened the double doors before he even knocked. “Your father is waiting in the study, sir.”

Of course he was.

Damian stepped inside, the air heavy with the smell of oak, lavender, and the faint trace of leather polish. He walked down the corridor lined with family portraits—Blackwoods staring down at him, each one a reminder that legacy was supposed to matter more than life itself.

The study door stood open. Gregory Blackwood sat in his high-backed chair, the firelight making crackling sounds and throwing sharp shadows across the deep lines of his face. His gray hair gleamed, trimmed neatly with military precision. In one hand, he held a crystal glass of wine, with the other hand, he gently tapped on his cane, one he rarely needed but always carried around like a weapon.

“You came,” Gregory said without looking up.

“Your message wasn’t exactly optional,” Damian replied, loosening his tie and tossing his suit onto a side table.

Gregory finally lifted his gaze. The same steel-gray eyes Damian saw in the mirror every morning pinned him in place. “You’re thirty-four.”

The words landed heavily, deliberately.

Damian gave a humorless smile. “So you’ve said, every birthday for the past five years.”

“This time is different.” Gregory leaned forward, setting the glass aside, staring straight at Damian “No heir, no inheritance. That’s final.”

“What does that mean?" Damian asked.

“It means that you won't be given anything from the Blackwood's Enterprise" Gregory answered.

Damian’s jaw clenched. He moved toward the liquor cart, poured himself a glass of drink, and let the silence stretch. The amber liquid burned down his throat, but not enough to drown the turmoil of anger rising in him.

“You would strip me of the company I built just because I refuse to have a child?” he said, voice low.

“You’ve built nothing,” Gregory snapped. “You expanded, yes. You profited. But you all those while standing on the foundation I laid. Blackwood Enterprises isn’t just about money. It’s about blood. It is a name that survives through heirs, not quarterly reports.”

“I won’t marry, Father. I won’t chain myself to something I don’t believe in.”

“Then don’t marry. I don’t care. I only need a child. An heir.” Gregory’s voice was like a blade—cold, sharp, merciless.

Damian laughed bitterly. “So what? You want me to pluck a stranger off the street?”

Gregory’s lips curved faintly, almost like a smirk. He reached into a drawer and slid a thick white envelope across the desk. The sound of paper against wood was louder than the fire crackling in the hearth.

Damian didn’t move. “What’s that?”

“Your only solution.”

Damian snatched it, tore it open. His eyes scanned quickly—contracts, medical stipulations, confidentiality clauses. At the top: The New York Surrogacy Agency.

He froze.

“You’re insane,” he muttered under his breath. “You’d have me pay a stranger to carry my child?”

“I’d have you secure your legacy,” Gregory corrected. “That’s what matters. You think power comes from headlines? From your skyscrapers? No. Power comes from bloodlines. And the Blackwood name will not die with you.”

Damian’s hand clenched the envelope until the edges crumpled. His teeth ground together as he fought the urge to throw it into the fire.

“You disgust me,” he said finally.

“Perhaps,” Gregory answered, leaning back, calm as ever. “But you’ll thank me later when you realize legacy doesn’t wait for stubborn pride.”

The silence between them was thick, suffocating. Damian turned, stormed toward the door, and slammed it shut behind him.

But as he drove back to the city, the envelope still sat on the passenger seat. He hadn’t thrown it away. He couldn’t.

Evelyn’s POV

The restaurant was almost empty when Evelyn untied her apron. Her feet ached, her fingers sore from carrying plates all day. She emptied the tip jar into her purse—twenty-five dollars and some coins. Barely enough to cover the overdue electricity bill sitting on her kitchen counter.

“Another double shift?” Carmen asked, leaning against the counter as she tied her curls into a bun.

Evelyn forced a smile. “Rent doesn’t pay itself.”

Her friend frowned. “Evie, you can’t keep doing this. You’ll work yourself into the ground.”

“I don’t have a choice,” Evelyn whispered, her voice cracking despite her smile.

Carmen hesitated, then lowered her voice. “There’s always the agency.”

Evelyn stiffened. She’d heard this speech before. “Not tonight, Carmen.”

“I’m serious,” Carmen pressed. “Nine months, Evie. Nine months and your debts are gone. You could start fresh.”

Evelyn shook her head and grabbed her coat. “I’m not desperate enough to sell my body.”

But the truth clawed at her chest. Wasn’t she?

She walked home through the cold night air, her purse was light, her thoughts heavier than ever. In her tiny apartment, she sat at the kitchen table and spread the bills across the surface. Red-stamped notices screamed at her: FINAL WARNING. PAYMENT OVERDUE.

Her chest tightened. Tears stung her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. Crying wouldn’t change anything.

Her phone buzzed. A message from Carmen. Just three words: Think about it.

Evelyn stared at the screen. She opened her browser, typed in “New York Surrogacy Agency.” The number popped up, glowing like temptation.

Her thumb hovered over “Call.”

Her heart pounded.

Damian’s POV

In his penthouse, Damian tossed the envelope onto the glass table. He poured another whiskey, staring at the papers that mocked him. He should burn them. Tear them apart.

But he didn’t.

Because his father’s words wouldn’t leave his head.

No heir, no inheritance.