The Billionaire's Racing Legacy

Ethan's POV

I didn’t do love. I barely did names.

The blonde — Trixie? Tiffany? Fuck if I cared — was still moaning my name like a prayer when I slammed into her one last time, hard and ruthless.

Her nails raked down my back as her pussy clenched around my cock. I gripped her hips, pounding deeper, chasing that raw, empty release.

No feelings. Just heat, sweat, and the wet slap of skin.

When I came, it was brutal. I buried myself to the very end and spilled inside her with a low growl, not giving a damn about the condom I’d half-assed earlier.

The second I was done, I pulled out, climbed off the bed, and zipped up my trousers.

“You know the way out,” I said coldly, tossing a thick wad of cash onto her naked lap.

She blinked up at me, chest still heaving. “Really? That’s it?”

I shrugged, already pulling on my tailored black shirt, the fabric stretching over my shoulders and chest. “What else were you expecting? Breakfast in bed with a pillow talk?”

“I’m not some cheap whore, Ethan—”

“See yourself out,” I cut her off, voice like ice. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

I didn’t wait for her tears or protests. I grabbed my phone and walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows of my penthouse suite, staring out over the glittering racing capital city.

The door clicked shut behind me about a minute later and silence crashed in. Heavy. Suffocating.

My phone buzzed and I looked down at the ID. Father.

I answered with a sharp, “What?”

“Enough games, Ethan,” Victor Blackwood barked. “You’re thirty-three. The board is restless. Investors want stability. You need a legitimate heir, or I’m handing the entire motorsport empire, the Formula 1, MotoGP, circuits, everything to your half-brother Adrian.”

My jaw clenched so tight it ached. Adrian. That snake had been circling for years.

“You have six months,” my father continued. “Produce an heir or you’re cut off. Completely.”

“I don’t do marriage,” I growled.

“Then you lose the empire you love racing for. Your choice.”

The line went dead before I could say a word.

I hurled the phone onto the couch and dragged a hand through my hair. Marriage to some socialite? Hell no. But an heir…

A child. No wife. No strings.

That, I could do...

By morning, I had made my decision.

My lawyer, Peter Walsh, arrived at the penthouse while I was still on my second black coffee. I tossed the contract folder across the marble table.

“Contract marriage. No real emotions. No long-term bullshit,” I said flatly. “She marries me on paper, carries my child, delivers, then we divorce quietly with her payout. Make it private. I want a boy if possible.”

Peter raised a brow at me. “You make it sound like commissioning a new race bike.”

“Bigger stakes,” I muttered. “This is for the Blackwood empire. Draft it. Find me a woman who’s desperate enough for money but strong enough to handle it. Beautiful enough for the cameras. Healthy with no drama.”

“I know an agency,” Peter said, nodding. “Discreet one at that, they've got top candidates.”

“Good. Set the meeting,” I replied at once.

As he left, I leaned back, staring at the empty chair across from me. This wasn’t about love. It was about securing what was mine, the tracks, the speed, the empire I bled for on every lap.

No woman would ever trap me the way my mother had destroyed my father.

I’d do this on my terms.

Claire's POV

I was sitting in the cramped hospital waiting room with my hands clenched so tight my nails bit into my palms.

The doctor’s words still echoed. “The surgery will cost nearly two million dollars, Ms. Sinclair. Without it… your father’s chances are very low.”

Two million.

I had nothing. Just a part-time waitressing job, crushing debt, and a faded hoodie that smelled like cheap detergent.

Tears burned my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. Crying wouldn’t save my father, it wouldn't change my situation, wouldn't change anything.

My phone buzzed suddenly and I peered down at it to find a message from my roommate:

“Crazy opportunity, girl. Pay’s in millions $$$. Don't be worried, it’s legal and clean as fuck. They’re looking for a contract wife/surrogate type shit. You interested?”

My heart slammed against my ribs.

A contract marriage. Carry a rich man’s child. Get paid enough to save my father.

It was selling my body. My future. My womb.

But for Dad… the one person that stood by me all the years, the one person that supported me all along.

The one person I could count to sacrifice anything to make me happy.

I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood. Then typed back with shaking fingers:

“Send me the details.”

I would do whatever it took.

Even if it meant signing my life over to the devil himself.