Chapter 9 – Threads of Control

Damian’s POV

The penthouse windows stretched from floor to ceiling, a wide sweep of glass overlooking the New York skyline. The city glowed beneath Damian’s feet, skyscrapers standing tall and one could see colourful lights from all the windows.

Inside, Damian sat at the bar counter, a tumbler of whiskey untouched beside him. He loosened his tie, leaned back, and closed his eyes. His father’s words wouldn’t leave him.

No heir. No inheritance.

It was absurd, because he had built Blackwood Enterprises with his own sweat, his own ruthless drive and determination. The acquisitions, the billion-dollar deals, the name Blackwood stamped across the world—that was all him, not his father. He worked hard for everything, every single thing that the Blackwoods Enterprise consists of.

And yet, his father still pulled the strings.

His jaw tightened as he reached for the glass. The whiskey burned his throat, sharp and unforgiving.

He hated ultimatums. Hated chains.

But chains were all his father knew how to forge. That was the only weapon he knew how to use against Damian.

He remembered being sixteen again, sitting across from Gregory at the long mahogany dinner table. The chandelier overhead cast cold light on the polished plates. His mother’s chair had already been empty by then, her soft laughter long gone from the halls.

Gregory had cut into his steak with precision, then looked up at his son with eyes like steel.

“Emotions,” his father had said, “are for weak men. Love makes you careless, women will bleed you dry. If you want to rule, you cut those things out before they cut you.”

Young Damian had stared at his plate, fork heavy in his hand. He hadn’t answered, but something inside him had clenched that night, hard and permanent.

Now, years later, Gregory’s voice still haunted him.

Damian’s phone buzzed against the counter. He glanced down, frowning at the message that appeared.

It was another message from his father:

“Since you didn't come as requested today”, “Dinner tomorrow. Don’t be late.”

Damian’s grip on the phone tightened, the screen glowing against his cold expression.

The empire he thought he built and owned was beginning to feel less like his own, and more like a cage.

The night stretched long after Reed left. The house was back to being silent, and the whiskey’s burn was no longer enough to drown his father’s words.

Dinner tomorrow.

The message glowed on his phone screen.

He loosened his tie and removed the suit, leaving only the shirt, paced the penthouse, each step echoing against the marble. The city hummed beyond the glass walls, unconscious of the battle tearing inside him.

Gregory never invited. Gregory summoned. And tomorrow was no invitation—it was an order.

Damian stopped before the window, his appearance staring back. Cold gray eyes, a jaw set like stone, shoulders heavy with a weight he refused to admit he carried.

“No heir. No inheritance.”

The ultimatum rang in his ears until sleep became impossible.

Gregory’s POV

The following evening, Gregory’s estate glistened under the golden wash of chandeliers. The dining table stretched endlessly, lined with silverware that gleamed under the candlelight.

Gregory sat at the head, cane leaning within reach,like a quiet king awaiting his son.

When Damian finally entered, tall and imposing in his tailored suit, Gregory’s eyes narrowed with quiet satisfaction.

“You’re late,” Gregory said, voice even, though the reproach was sharp.

Damian slid into the chair opposite him, unbothered. “Traffic.” He replied flatly.

Gregory smirked. “Traffic doesn’t exist for Blackwoods. Don’t waste my time with excuses.”

Dinner was served. Silence filled the air except for the sound of silver against earthenware. Gregory let the silence stretch, knowing Damian hated the waiting game.

Finally, he leaned back, eyes locking on his son. “Thirty-four,” he said.

Damian’s jaw ticked. “You’ve reminded me enough.”

“Not enough, it seems.” Gregory set his fork down. “You have one year. One year to prove yourself. Or everything you think is yours—” he gestured around the room, the estate, the empire beyond its walls—“will vanish.”

Damian’s hand tightened on his glass. “I built that company.”

“With my foundation,” Gregory snapped. “Don’t confuse sweat with ownership. Blackwood Enterprises is more than business—it’s blood. Legacy. And without an heir, you’re nothing but a temporary custodian.”

Damian’s eyes flashed, but he didn’t answer.

Gregory’s lips curved faintly. He had struck the nerve he wanted.

He remembered holding Damian as a boy, hardened even at eight years old, refusing to cry when he scraped his knee against the rough floor. Gregory had been proud then, proud that he had raised a son strong enough to hold back tears.

But Margaret, his late wife, had disapproved. She had held the boy afterward, whispering, “Don’t let him turn you into a stone, Damian. You’re human. You have feelings.”

Gregory had watched, silent, letting her softness soothe the boy, but deep down he had scoffed. Feelings broke men. Feelings destroyed empires.

And now, decades later, Damian stood across from him, hard as stone, just as Gregory had molded him.

But stone without blood crumbles to dust. He had no need to check on his son to know Damian would resist him, to know Damian would reach for old comforts rather than bend to his will.

Gregory’s lips curved, not in anger, but in patience.

Resistance was expected, resistance was necessary.

But in the end, all men broke.

And Damian was no exception.