Chapter 8
694 Words
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.
- Writer
