The Playboy's Unplanned Heirs

Damon Reyes didn't do love. He barely did names. The lady writhing underneath him had whispered something into his ears. Was it Tiffany? Or Trixie? Heck! He coul care less. What would be need her name for anyways.

When he was done, he climbed down zipping his trousers. "You know the way out." He said coldly as he tossed a wad of cash on top her laps without sparing her a second glance.

She blinked rapidly, as if it would clarify what she'd just heard. "Really? That's it?" She asked, hurt evident in her voice.

He just shrugged as he put in his tailored shirt, the muscles in his back flexing under the expensive fabric. "Is there something else? Were you expecting me to bring you breakfast in bed?"

"I'm not a common whore Damon. I am....

"See yourself out and Don't make me repeat myself."

He didn't wait for a response. He picked up his phone a d Walked towards the massive ceiling to floor windows if his suite.

He should've felt something-satisfaction, power, even boredom. But all he felt was... emptiness.

The soft clock of the door told him the woman had left. Once again, silence embraced him. It was heavy and suffocating.

His phone buzzed. One glance at the screen had his jaw tightening.

Father.

Damon almost ignored it. Almost. But he knew better. William Reyes didn't call to chat. He called to give orders.

Grinding his teeth, Damon answered, "What?"

"Enough games, Damon," his father barked without preamble. "You're thirty-three years old. The board is getting restless. Investors need stability."

"And?" Damon drawled lazily, pretending he wasn't already annoyed. "Get yourself a dog. They're very loyal."

"Don't play stupid with me," William snapped. "You need an heir. A legitimate one. Otherwise, the Reyes fortune goes to your snake of a cousin."

Damon's fingers clenched around the phone. His cousin, Brent, would burn the empire to the ground in a year if he got his grubby hands on it.

"You have six months," his father continued mercilessly. "Either you announce a wedding... or produce an heir. Your choice."

"I don't have interest in any of these....

"Then take your interest off the company, properties or any inheritance."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me right you bastard! If you don't give me an heir, you have absolutely nothing to do with me anymore."

The line went dead.

Damon tossed the phone onto the couch and raked a hand through his dark hair. Marriage? To some shrieking socialite desperate for his last name?

Not a chance in hell.

But an heir...

A child without the strings of a wife attached?

Now that, he could work with.

He poured himself a whiskey, staring out over the city. Somewhere out there was a woman desperate enough for money, desperate enough to carry his child-and walk away afterward, no messy emotions involved.

He'd make damn sure of it.

---

By morning, Damon had already made his decision.

His lawyer, why Peter Walsh, a shark in Armani, arrived at the penthouse just as Damon was finishing his black coffee.

"No marriage, no strings," Damon said flatly, tossing a manila folder onto the table. "I want a surrogate. Discreet. Preferably someone without a messy life. Healthy. Clean record. No drama."

Peter arched a brow. "You make it sound like you're ordering a car."

"Better be a damn good one," Damon muttered under his breath. "This isn't just for show. I want my child."

"And what about the mother?" Peter asked carefully.

"Once the kid's born, she's paid and gone." His voice was as cold as the steel skyline behind him. "Draft a watertight contract. No attachments. No custody fights. I don't care if I have to sign a check big enough to buy a small country."

Peter nodded, sliding the folder back toward him. "I know someone who can help. Quiet agency. Top candidates. No questions asked."

"Good." Damon finished his coffee with a sharp snap of his wrist. "Set it up."

As Peter left, Damon leaned back in his chair, staring at the empty space across the breakfast table.

A future heir.

A continuation of the Reyes name.

No wife, no love, no one to betray him the way his mother had betrayed his father all those years ago.

He would do this on his terms.

And no one-absolutely no one-would get in his way.

---

Somewhere across town, Sasha Lane sat in a cramped hospital waiting room, her hands twisting in her lap. The harsh fluorescent lights made her cheap jeans and faded hoodie look even more threadbare.

Her father's doctor stood in front of her, pity etched across his face. "The surgery will cost around twenty million dollars, Ms. Lane. Without it... I'm sorry, but your father's chances are slim."

Twenty million.

It might as well have been two hundred million.

Sasha swallowed past the lump in her throat. She had no savings, no insurance, no rich relatives coming to save her. Aside the part-time waitressing job and mounting bills, she had nothing.

The doctor patted her shoulder awkwardly before walking away, leaving her drowning in helplessness.

Tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them away fiercely. Crying wouldn't fix anything.

She needed a miracle.

Or a devil's bargain.

As if on cue, her phone buzzed with a message from her roommate.

"Found something crazy. Pays millions. Legal. Weird tho. U gotta be a surrogate. U interested?"

Sasha stared at the message, her heart hammering.

A child? Someone else's child?

She bit her lip, trembling.

For her father... for his life...

She would sell her soul if she had to.