The Billionaire's Virgin Surrogate

Gregory's POV

Damian drove through the iron gates of the Blackwood's mansion without slowing, the gravel crunching beneath his tires as the guards stepped aside.

He shut off the engine and stepped out into the night air, his jaw set.

Gregory Blackwood never summoned him without reason, and never without consequence.

Inside, the mansion was quiet. Too quiet, like always. Damian’s footsteps echoed as he moved through familiar hallways, past portraits of Blackwood men staring down from gilded frames—men who had ruled, conquered, expanded. Men who had never been questioned.

Men who had never failed to produce heirs.

The study door was ajar, and a firelight flickered inside.

Gregory sat behind his massive desk, posture rigid despite his age, a glass of wine resting untouched beside a leather-bound book. His gray hair was combed back with military precision, his sharp eyes already fixed on Damian before he spoke.

“You came,” Gregory said. “Good.”

Damian closed the door behind him. “Your message wasn’t optional. Good evening, Father.”

“No,” Gregory agreed calmly. “It wasn’t. Good evening.”

Damian loosened his tie as he stepped farther into the room. The heat from the fireplace pressed against his skin, but it did nothing to calm the chill settling in his chest.

Gregory studied him in silence for a moment, his gaze assessing—measuring strength, control, and obedience.

“You’re thirty-four,” Gregory said at last. “And still without an heir.”

There it was, Damian facepalmed internally. His expression didn’t change. “We’ve had this conversation before, and we're over it.”

“Not like this.” Gregory leaned forward slightly. “Before, you had time. Now, you don’t.”

Damian’s fingers curled slowly at his sides. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” Gregory replied evenly, “that if you want Blackwood Enterprises to remain in your name, you will produce a child before your thirty-fifth birthday.”

The words landed like a blade.

Damian crossed the room to the liquor cabinet, poured himself a glass of whiskey, and waited. He refused to give his father the satisfaction of a reaction.

“And if I don’t?” he asked coldly.

Gregory didn’t hesitate. “Then the company passes to the board.”

Damian turned, glass frozen halfway to his lips.

“You’ll remain wealthy,” Gregory continued. “Comfortable. Respected. But the empire will no longer be yours. The Blackwood name will move forward without you.”

The whiskey burned as Damian swallowed it down. It wasn’t the loss of money that made his blood simmer—it was the implication. To Gregory, legacy mattered more than blood ties. More than Damian himself.

“You’d strip me of everything I’ve built,” Damian said quietly.

Gregory’s gaze was unyielding. “You didn’t build it. You inherited it. And inheritance is conditional.”

Damian laughed once, sharp and humorless. “This is about control.”

“This is about survival,” Gregory corrected. “Empires don’t endure on sentiment.”

Damian set the glass down with more force than necessary. “I’m not interested in marriage.”

Gregory waved a dismissive hand. “I didn’t say marriage.”

Damian stiffened. “Then what exactly are you suggesting?”

“A child,” Gregory replied simply. “Nothing more.”

The silence that followed was thick.

Damian’s mind raced despite his outward calm. “And how do you expect me to produce one?” he asked. “Pull a stranger off the street?”

Gregory’s lips curved slightly—not in a smile, but something colder. “There are arrangements for men in your position.”

Damian narrowed his eyes. “You’re referring to Vanessa.”

“She seemed eager enough,” Gregory said mildly. “I assumed you would’ve resolved this already.”

“She’s not fit for it,” Damian snapped. “She will never carry my child.”

Gregory’s brow lifted slightly. “So decisive.”

“She’s ambitious,” Damian continued. “And ambition corrupts.”

For the first time, Gregory studied him more closely. “You sound certain.”

“I am.”

Gregory leaned back in his chair. “Then you’ll find another solution.”

Damian’s chest tightened. “You’re talking about using a woman like an incubator.”

“I’m talking about efficiency,” Gregory replied. “You don’t need a wife, you need a womb.”

The words made Damian’s stomach twist, though he didn’t show it. But he felt like puking.

“And the woman?” Damian asked. “What happens to her?”

Gregory shrugged. “She’s compensated. Generously. Contracts ensure discretion. No attachments, and definitely no claims.”

“You’ll choose someone suitable,” Gregory added. “Healthy. Clean. Efficient.”

The word sat heavily in the air.

Damian looked away, staring into the flames. This was madness, cold, calculated. And, exactly like the man who raised him.

“And if I refuse?” Damian asked quietly.

Gregory stood. Despite his age, he commanded the room effortlessly. He stepped closer, his gaze locking onto Damian’s with chilling clarity.

“You won’t,” he said. “Because you know what’s at stake.”

For a moment, Damian saw it clearly—the trap tightening, options narrowing. The empire he had spent his life preserving balanced on a condition he despised.

“This is blackmail,” Damian muttered.

“This is legacy,” Gregory corrected. “And legacy demands sacrifice.”

Damian turned sharply toward the door. “You’re asking me to sell a child’s existence for power.”

“No,” Gregory said, voice low and unwavering. “I’m asking you to secure our bloodline. The rest is irrelevant.”

Damian didn’t respond. He left the study without another word. Outside, the night air was colder than before.

He drove away from the estate with tension coiled tightly in his chest, Gregory’s ultimatum echoing relentlessly.

No heir. No inheritance.

His phone vibrated suddenly against the console.

A notification flashed on the screen—an incoming email forwarded from the family legal office.

Subject: Confidential — Surrogacy Program Application.

Damian’s grip tightened on the steering wheel.

Against his will, he opened it. The first profile loaded.

Female.

Healthy.

Unmarried.

Damian exhaled slowly. The path had been laid, whether he liked it or not.