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The billionaire’s virgin surrogate - Chapter 4



Chapter 4

Damien’s POV

Damian sat in silence, the weight of his father's ultimatum pressing against his chest like iron shackles. The penthouse was dark except for the reflection from the nearby city lights entering through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows. Everything seemed perfect, but Damian knows better.

He stood at the bar, pouring himself another glass of whiskey. His reflection stared back at him from the window, his cold eyes enough to freeze the night. No heir. No inheritance. His father's words had not left him since the meeting. They echoed louder than the noise from the city traffic. Gregory didn't care and is not requesting marriage. He didn't care about love. All he wanted was a child to uphold the name and the legacy. Damian's hand tightened around the cup, veins popping out.

A child wasn't an heir; a child was innocent. A child was supposed to be born from love, from softness, from things his world has never given him. He had a flashback of his mother's voice, faint, soft, and full of love. She had tried to protect him when he was young, to shield him from Gregory's cold hand. But Gregory always won. Always.

He had learned early that emotions had no place in the Blackwood name. Damian set the half-full glass down on the counter. Love was a weakness. Marriage was a cage. He would never submit to either. His father thought he could manipulate him, but Damian is a grown man now, and he would rather burn down all the boardrooms in New York before letting Gregory chain him like that.

But beneath the fury comes a thought. What if Gregory is right? The company wasn't just huge figures and buildings; it was power, control. And it carried his name, his legacy. Without it? He would be just another man in New York with money. Disposable, replaceable.

The night dragged on slowly. Damian removed his suit jacket and unbuttoned his shirt, tossing the jacket on the sofa. He poured himself yet again another cup of whiskey, trying to numb the feelings making a turmoil in his mind. He was halfway lifting the cup to his lips when the soft chime of the elevator broke the silence.

Who could that be? He wasn't expecting anyone. And nobody came to his penthouse uninvited. Nobody.

The glass doors slid open, revealing Vanessa. Vanessa stepped out, in a changed outfit from the one she had on earlier but still clinging to her curves, her lips painted the same blood red as a couple of hours ago when she left. Her eyes glittered with determination. With hunger.

“Miss me already?” she asked, her voice sultry and dangerous. Damian's jaw tightened. The glass in his hand didn't reach his lips. She had come back. And she wasn't here to play. He knew that.

Vanessa's heels clicked on the marble floor as she entered, head held high and confidence oozing out of her like she owned the place. She didn't wait for an invitation; she carried herself with the boldness of a woman who has absolutely nothing to lose, her hips swaying effortlessly with practiced precision, her perfume filling the air, sweet but sharp, an evidence of her presence.

Damian set his glass on the table, watching her every step like a predator does its prey. He wasn't surprised she had come back. Vanessa was like fire, always hungry, always consuming, never satisfied.

She dropped her coat over the arm of his sofa, standing there in silk that clung to her curves. “No reply?” she asked. “Rough night?” she inquired again.

Damian's eyes narrowed. "You should have gone home.”

Vanessa smirked, unbothered. “Maybe I don't like being dismissed so easily.” She walked closer, her fingers trailing the edge of the bar, brushing past the glass Damian had abandoned on the table. "Or maybe I don't like hearing that I'm not good enough for you.”

His jaw flexed. “I told you the truth. You're not pure enough to carry my heir. Don't twist it into something else.”

She laughed softly, low and mocking. “Pure enough? Come on, Damian, this is New York, not some ancient times. You think you'll find a saint that'll bear your child? Well, good luck with that.”

Her words were sharp, but Damian didn't flinch. “This isn't about luck. It's about control. And you, Vanessa, are chaos in heels.”

Her lips curled into a sly smile. “Chaos keeps life interesting; life's boring without it.”

She moved closer until she was right in front of him. Damian didn't move back, nor did he flinch. He never gave her that satisfaction. But when she reached up, brushing her fingers against his lips, he held her wrist, firm and unyielding.

“Don't mistake me for something I'm not,” Damian said quietly, his voice edged. “This, whatever that is between us, it's convenience, fun. Don't look for permanence where there's none.”

Vanessa's eyes stung, though she masked it quickly with a sultry smile. She leaned forward, close enough for her lips to graze Damian's ear. “You can say whatever you want, Damian, but you keep letting me back in, never resisting. You need me, whether you'll admit it or not, I know.”

Damian released her wrist and stepped back, turning away as if she wasn't behind him and she never existed. He grabbed his glass and poured himself another drink, ignoring the way her eyes followed his movements and bore into him.

He didn't need her, not her body, not her chaos. The only thing he cared about is his father's ultimatum, and the gnawing emptiness inside him made Vanessa a distraction he hadn't yet admitted.

“Stay if you want to,” he muttered absentmindedly, drowning his whiskey. “But do not have high hopes, and don't confuse this for what it's not.”

The next morning, Vanessa lay on Damian's bed, sheets tangled around her legs, watching him as he stood by the window, with his back to her. He looked like a king surveying his kingdom, untouchable.

And yet, she thought bitterly, “He refused to crown me his queen.” She bit her lower lip, determination hardening in her chest. She wasn't going to let any faceless ‘ideal’ woman steal her position in his life. She has fought too hard, climbed too far to end up being overthrown.

Her fingers trailed absentmindedly across the empty space where he was supposed to lay.

“You'll change your mind," she whispered, a dangerous promise hidden in her tone. Her eyes flickered, sharp and calculating. She wasn't leaving. Not tonight, not ever. Until Damian Blackwood was hers.

Damian finally turned, his icy gaze directed at her. “Vanessa,” he said flatly.

She smiled, waiting for his surrender. But his next words hit her like a slap, throwing her off balance. “You’ll never be the mother of my heir."





Chapter 5

Gregory’s POV


The ballroom glittered with decorations and chandeliers that dropped with crystal and wealth. It was the kind of event where champagne flowed like water and the smile of everyone present hid an agenda. Gregory stood at the edge of the ballroom, cane in hand, eyes scanning the polished and bright faces around.

He'd spent a lifetime building an empire, navigating men who smiled with knives hidden behind them. Tonight was no different, beautiful women and men covering up with philanthropy but wrapped in silk and suits of deceit.

Gregory's thoughts spiraled around his conversation with Damian. An heir. A secured bloodline.

His son thought he could defy him, thought he could ignore his legacy for the sake of stubborn pride. Gregory's jaw tightened at the thought of Damian's icy resistance. The boy has everything but sense, which makes Gregory wonder where he got his senselessness from. He doesn't understand that love is weakness and only lineage survives, and one doesn't need love to keep the lineage.

As he moved through the crowd, nodding at investors and rivals alike, his eyes caught someone unexpected, and he was instantly blown away by her simplicity and beauty.

She wasn't dressed like the others, dripping in diamonds or parading their wealth. She wore a simple gown, elegant but modest, her hair packed up in a neat ponytail. She stood at the volunteer table, arranging auction items with careful precision. No one paid her much attention, but Gregory did.

Her movements were slow, graceful. And her smile, genuine. “Now, that is rare,” he thought, his lips pressing into a thin line. Something about her interested him.

He studied her posture, her calmness, the way she carried herself with dignity even though she clearly didn't belong among the wealthy elites. And for the first time, Gregory felt satisfied seeing someone different from the elites in the same space.

Yes, he thought. She isn't like the others.

Gregory adjusted his cufflinks, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He saw the flicker of unease on her face when their eyes met. She wasn't used to being stared at, wasn't used to being observed, wasn't used to being considered. That alone made her interesting.

She wasn't chasing wealth. She wasn't draped in vanity. She carried herself with humility, and yet he could see the visible traits of strength in the way she straightened her shoulders after faltering beneath his stare.

Gregory tapped his cane lightly with the ring on his finger. Yes, he thought with certainty. This one has the right kind of purity. The right kind of aura and character. “She could be the one.”

Gregory turned away with the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. And he felt a flicker of something he hadn't felt in a long time: approval.

Gregory lingered near the marble staircase, watching the crowd swirl around him. His presence, even in retirement, carried weight. People approached him with bright smiles, shook his hand, exchanged pleasantries, then drifted off to chase others with deeper pockets.

But he wasn't even paying much attention to them; his attention was elsewhere.

The beautiful young woman he had noticed earlier was now a few feet away from him, balancing a tray of glasses with practiced ease. She offered one to a guest close by, bowed her head politely, then continued her quiet path. There was no performance, no pretense. Just humility and dignity.

On impulse, Gregory stepped forward for a glass.

“Thank you,” he said as she offered him a glass of wine. Her eyes flicked up to him, polite but steady.

“You're welcome, sir.” Her voice was soft but firm, carrying a sweetness that's different from the desperate ones he was used to. She gave him a small nod, then moved on with her duty, as though she had no idea who he was, or didn't care.

Gregory watched her disappear into the crowd, a crease forming between his brows. The women in the hall were all polished and painted like ornaments. But this one? She was different. She was unshaken, unbothered, and unpretentious.

He lifted the glass slowly, taking a sip. For the first time in years, he felt certain of something. The girl carried the kind of humility that money couldn't afford. Money couldn't buy this.

He set the glass down, eyes narrowing with quiet satisfaction. His son would resist. Damian had made it his life's mission to wall himself off from feelings. But Gregory knew bloodlines, and he knew women. And he could tell when someone was different. And she was different, not the kind of woman he was used to.

And this Evelyn?

Yes, he had paid so much attention to her that he had heard her whisper the name to another volunteer. Evelyn had potential.

Gregory straightened his back, the faintest smirk crossing his lips. “Damian may not see it yet,” he murmured softly, “but I do.”





Chapter 6

Evelyn's POV


Evelyn had arrived at the gallery long before the doors opened, carrying a tote bag that held nothing but a notebook, a pen, and her ever-present sense of unease. The marble lobby gleamed in the morning light, polished and cold. High ceilings reflected the faint sound of footsteps, the soft hum of chandeliers settling after a long night, and the distant murmur of the city beyond the thick glass walls.

She sighed, adjusting the strap of her apron, already feeling the familiar ache in her shoulders and back. Today would be long; she knew it from the moment she stepped out of the cab. She had agreed to volunteer because Carmen insisted it was “good exposure,” but exposure didn’t pay her rent, didn’t reduce the looming debts, and definitely didn't stop the collectors from calling three times a day.

“This is all Carmen’s idea,” she muttered under her breath, scanning the pristine artwork lining the walls. Each painting was perfectly positioned, framed in gold, cared for with the precision she had never been allowed in her own life. She bent down to straighten a frame that didn’t need it, feeling absurd.

From the corner of her eye, she noticed a volunteer rushing past, nearly bumping into a sculpture. Evelyn quickly stepped aside, heart thumping. This wasn’t her world; she had learned to stay small, move carefully, never draw attention—but somehow, being invisible here felt heavier, like the weight of the polished floors pressed against her chest.

She forced herself to focus, picking up a tray of wine glasses from the prep table. “This should be fun,” she whispered to herself, trying to summon a smile.

Carrying the tray through the room, she moved slowly, aware of every step on the gleaming floors. People brushed past her, unconcerned and careless. Guests laughed, their voices low and confident. Diamonds sparkled in natural light, watches gleamed in the glare of chandeliers. She offered polite nods, soft “thank yous” and “you’re welcome”s, while the room continued to move around her.

One man, elderly but sharply dressed, caught her attention. He wasn’t laughing or speaking; he merely observed. When she approached, she handed him a glass. “Here you go, sir.”

“Thank you,” he said softly, his tone neutral but firm. Not friendly, not condescending, just... noticing. Evelyn’s fingers tightened slightly around the stem of the glass, and she nodded before stepping away.

The tray felt heavier than it was. Her heart pounded—not from fear, but from the unfamiliar sensation of being watched so deliberately. She couldn’t recall the last time someone had looked at her without expectation or judgment. Usually, attention brought complications. Here, it only unsettled her.

She returned to the table, refilled the tray, and tried to focus on the task, but the sense of being evaluated lingered. Every step, every careful placement of a glass felt magnified under the gaze of the sharp eyes she couldn’t shake.

Minutes passed; Evelyn moved back and forth tirelessly. Each guest who took a drink seemed to blur together, but the elderly man remained at the edge of her awareness, occasionally glancing her way. Noticing, yes, but not intruding. She hated that it made her self-conscious.

She wiped her palms on her apron, aware of the tension threading through her muscles. A group of younger men laughed loudly nearby, swinging their arms carelessly. One stumbled, nearly colliding with her. She reflexively adjusted her balance, gripping the tray tighter—and felt a hand brush her arm.

“Careful,” the elderly man said. His voice was calm, but the weight behind it made her straighten instinctively. “They’ll trip you if you’re not watchful.”

Evelyn blinked, startled, and nodded. “Thank you,” she whispered, voice smaller this time. She stepped away, but the awareness of his gaze lingered like a shadow, pressing at the back of her neck.

She tried to ignore it, focusing on the mechanics of her job—trays, glasses, plates, polite smiles—but a subtle awareness gnawed at her. This wasn’t admiration; it wasn’t curiosity; it felt more like an assessment. She didn’t know why, but the thought made her stomach twist.

By mid-afternoon, she found herself behind a stand, arranging brochures about the gallery and the event. Her hands shook slightly from fatigue, and she realized she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. She should have taken a break, but she didn’t. She couldn’t. Being still for a moment meant noticing her exhaustion, noticing the endless gap between her life and the lives she served today.

Her mind wandered to Carmen’s words, repeated like a mantra: You deserve better than this. Evelyn didn’t argue; she didn’t have the energy. But she felt the truth of it keenly, as keenly as she felt the sting of every glance, every brush of attention she didn’t understand.

The guests moved on—conversations hummed, glasses clinked. A young couple laughed, oblivious to the tension threading through the air. Evelyn noticed the disparity between their ease and her struggle. One wrong step here, one misstep there, and she could be crushed—not physically, but socially. She felt out of place, vulnerable. And yet, she endured, as she always did.

As the day moved on, the elderly man approached her once more. This time, he didn’t take a glass; he watched her, tilting his head slightly, studying the way she held herself, the careful balance between politeness and caution. Evelyn felt her pulse quicken, but she did not look away. She had learned long ago that fear could make one invisible; poise could make one memorable.

He straightened and nodded, a simple acknowledgment, then turned away. Evelyn let out a slow breath, almost imperceptible. But even as she resumed her work, the awareness lingered. She had been observed; she had probably been assessed.

By evening, exhaustion weighed her down as she began packing up the last of the materials. The gallery lights dimmed, and guests departed. Volunteers congregated in small groups, chattering quietly about the day. Evelyn moved to the door, bag in hand, ready to leave, when she felt that prickle again—the sense that something about her had been noticed. Not noticed in passing, not admired, not friendly.

Recognizing it terrified her, though she couldn’t say why.

She walked to the cab waiting outside, keeping her gaze low. Every step felt heavy, laden with thoughts she didn’t want to confront: her debts, her exhaustion, the fact that someone wealthy might have been paying attention.

The cab pulled away from the curb, city lights flashing by. She stared out the window, hands clutching her bag. Somewhere in the back of her mind, a thought gnawed quietly, insistently: Why did that wealthy elderly man keep looking at me?

Evelyn didn’t know why, but sometime, the man had looked at her with amusement, or maybe it wasn't amusement.





Chapter 7- Damian's Detachment 

Damian's POV 

Damian sat in the mahogany furnished conference room. Sun rays spilled through the glass windows, bouncing off the glossy table where Damian sat at the head of the table, his presence commanding respect and silence in the room. The projector made a low humming sound, casting figures, profit margins, growth charts and percentages across the screen.

The executives took turns to present, talking in voices taut with caution, knowing words they spilled could either make or destroy their career. They were men and women with Harvard diplomas, power dripping from their pens, but still they trembled under Damian's gaze.

Damian listened without blinking, his jaw visibly locked. He gave nothing away. No praise, no irritation, no questions, only an occasional nod, sharp and precise, enough to keep them confused and scared to their pants. 

The meeting went on for hours, but his mind wasn't tethered to the numbers the executives were presenting. 

His mind had drifted, unwillingly, to his father's voice.

“No heir. No inheritance”.

The words echoed in his ears. The ultimatum had been given weeks ago, but the words had stuck with him. Even when he was surrounded by power, wealth, and the empire that he literally built with his own hands, he felt the weight of the words. 

No heir. No inheritance. 

His hand flexed around the expensive Montblanc pen, knuckles pale. 

When the last executive finally rounded up his presentation and stumbled to a conclusion, Damian rose, his face expressionless. “That will be all”, he said. His voice carried no emotions, yet the room emptied as if they were all being chased by something.

The doors clicked shut, leaving him alone with the silence. 

Damian walked to the window, admiring the peace and serenity of the outside world, one he doesn't have. And the glass shimmering with ambition. His ambition. 

And yet, his empire wasn't his. This empire wasn't his. Not until he satisfied Gregory's condition. 

He hated it. He hated that even at thirty-four, with him ruling this powerful empire, his father still pulled strings on him. 

What did his father expect? That he would tie himself to some woman, chain himself to marital vows, and drag an innocent child into the merciless business world of the Blackwoods?

A child. 

That thought caught him off guard. His mind flickered back to the memories of his mother's voice, soft like the morning light. The only warmth his childhood experienced. He remembered her lullabies, her laughter, her arms wrapped around him in pure love. She had whispered once to his ears, when he was still small enough to fit in her arms. “Don't let him turn you into a stone, Damian. You're human, you have feelings. Never forget that”. 

But stone was safer, at least stone couldn't be broken. 

He turned from the window, staring into the furniture in the conference room. He loosened his tie, jaw tightened. He would not bow to Gregory's demand.

Not yet. 

The office door cracked open, Damian didn't turn at first. He was used to the sound of those steps. Measured, confident, uninvited. 

“Reed”, he said flatly. 

His best friend and lawyer sat on the sofa with a casualness few would dare in this room. Reed loosened his tie, and eyed Damian, observing his expressionless face. “You look like you're one bad headline away from setting this place on fire”.

Damian finally turned, sparing his friend a glance, his eyes narrowing. “And?” he said flatly. 

Reed smirked. “And I'd like to know whether I should start drafting the press release”. 

The silence stretched between them, Damian looked back at the skyline. 

“It's your father again, isn't it?” Reed's tone softened. “He's not going to let this slide, he never does.”

Damian's jaw tightened, his hands clenched into a fist on his sides. 

Reed leaned forward. “I know you don't like this. But listen to me, you can fight him on everything else. But this…? This is the one thing you can't win against him. He'll cut you out. And then what?”

Damian’s eyes flickered, determination visible in them. “Then I'll start over. Without him.”

“Don't lie to yourself.” Reed's voice carried an edge of frustration. “Blackwood Enterprises isn't just a company. It's you, your blood. You've bled for this empire. And you're going to hand it all over, give it all up because you can't do the one thing he's asking?”

Damian stayed silent. 

Reed's gaze softened again. “Look, I don't care how you do it. But do it, before it's too late”.

Damian's phone buzzed, slicing through the moment. 

It was a call from his father. 

Damian hesitated, before answering the call. 

“Come to the mansion".







          Chapter 8– Moving The Pieces 

Gregory's POV 


Fire crackled from the hearth, shadows dancing against the bookshelves in the study. Gregory sat in his chair, his cane resting against the arm of the chair, a glass of his favourite wine cradled in his hand. 

He was old, yes. But age had not dulled him, rather it had sharpened him, whittled away the softness until he remained cold and calculative. 

His son thought himself clever. Thought himself immune, but Gregory knew better. 

He had spent a lifetime molding Damian into a cold, emotionless person, just like a stone. Breaking him down and shaping him into someone that could withstand the world and rule it. Love was weakness, women were distractions and emotions? They had no place in legacy. 

And yet, ironically, it was a woman that would secure the future of their bloodline. 

Gregory's mind drifted to the charity event, to the girl who stood out and caught his attention, not with diamonds or expensive dresses, but with humility and respect. Evelyn. She had been nothing but a volunteer at the event, but she carried herself with dignity. 

He had seen and noticed her. She had not sought attention, but she had drawn his. 

Yes. She was the one. 

Not like Vanessa Hart, who's desperate and loud. No, Evelyn was the opposite and she carried the kind of strength Gregory respected. The kind that could anchor Damian, and steady him.  He grabbed his phone and dialed his son's number, Damian answered after it rang once.

“Come to the mansion”. He said, his voice was calm, and measured. He didn't waste words. 

On the other end of the line, silence stretched. 

" I don't have time for your games”, Damian's voice was sharp and flat. 

“This isn't a game”, Gregory replied, his gaze fell on the charity brochure still lying on his desk. A smile graced his face. " It's your future”.

He ended the call before Damian could say anything. 

The fire crackled, the only witness to his satisfaction. 

                   Hours later

The grandfather clock in Gregory’s study chimed six times, its steady toll cutting through the hush of the evening. The old man sat in his leather chair, cane resting against his leg, a book opened in front of him. Fire crackled as flames danced in the hearth, shadows dancing along the tall shelves that lined the walls. Books of history, finance, and legacy—every one of them reminders of the empires men like him had built and passed on.

But none of those books mattered more than the heir he demanded from his son.

He leaned back, resting his body on the chair’s backrest, his gray eyes fixed on the flames. Damian was thirty-four now. Old enough to rule, old enough to build an empire that stretched across continents. But Gregory had seen the cracks. He knew his son’s strength, but he also knew his weakness: that cold heart, hardened into stone, could one day fracture under the wrong kind of pressure.

That was why an heir mattered. A child would secure not only the company’s future, but also ground Damian in ways nothing else could.

He raised his head up. “Stone can’t rule forever,” he muttered to himself.

The phone on his desk vibrated. Gregory reached for it, answering with the same crisp and cold tone he had always used in boardrooms. His assistant’s voice echoed through the line, giving an update about overseas shares. Gregory listened, nodded once, then ended the call with a dismissive “Good.”

But as he set the phone down, his mind circled back to his son. Damian thought he could run Blackwood Enterprises forever without bending to anyone. He thought he could avoid bloodlines, avoid legacy. But Gregory would make sure that illusion shattered, soon.

He tapped his cane against the floor, the metallic sound sharp in the firelit room.

His son thought this was a game of wills. But Gregory knew better. This wasn't a game,it was Damian's future. 

The board was his, the pieces were his.

And Damian would play whether he liked it or not.



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