Derek and Stiles returned to the mansion in heavy silence, the weight of the doctor’s words still hanging between them. They had agreed—without saying it aloud—that Lydia could never know the truth. If she learned they were using Stiles’s eggs instead of her own, she would explode, forbid it, maybe even try to throw Stiles out. Her pride wouldn’t allow a child carrying “that slum girl’s blood” to inherit the Hale name.

So when Lydia asked over dinner, painted and primped from her salon day, “Well? What did the doctor say?” Derek simply met her eyes and lied smoothly.

“Everything is fine. We’ll proceed with the original plan—your egg, my sperm, Stiles as surrogate. Results just need a little time.”

Lydia smirked, satisfied, and returned to her phone. Stiles kept her gaze on her plate, cheeks flushed, heart pounding.

The IVF process began swiftly. Hormone injections for Stiles to stimulate her perfect ovaries, daily visits to the clinic, Derek’s samples collected again. Stiles’s body responded beautifully—multiple healthy eggs retrieved, fertilized in the lab with Derek’s strong sperm. The best embryos were selected, and one quiet morning, two were carefully transferred into Stiles’s welcoming uterus.

Then came the agonizing two-week wait. Stiles felt every twinge, every cramp, as possible signs. Derek watched her like a hawk, bringing her favorite teas, making sure she rested, his large hand sometimes resting protectively on her flat belly.

Finally, the day of the blood test and ultrasound arrived. Lydia, predictably, had a “charity luncheon” and sent them off with a dismissive wave.

In Dr. Mathews’s office, Stiles lay on the exam table again, shirt lifted, gel cool on her skin. Derek stood beside her, holding her hand tightly.

The doctor moved the wand gently, eyes on the screen. Minutes passed. His brow furrowed.

“I’m sorry,” he said at last, voice soft. “There’s no gestational sac. The hCG levels are negligible. The implantation failed.”

Derek’s grip on Stiles’s hand tightened until it almost hurt. Stiles’s eyes filled instantly.

Dr. Mathews removed his gloves, expression sympathetic but clinical. “These things happen, even with perfect embryos. But given the urgency for an heir… there is one method with significantly higher success rates in cases like this.” He paused. “Natural insemination. Direct intercourse between the genetic father and the carrier. It bypasses many variables—timing, embryo quality, uterine environment. Success rates approach those of normal conception.”

The room froze.

Stiles’s breath hitched. Derek shot to his feet, pulling Stiles up with him, her hand still clutched in his. “Absolutely not,” he said, voice low and furious. “That’s out of the question.”

He didn’t wait for more. Guiding Stiles out with a protective arm around her shoulders, he strode from the office without another word.

In the car, Derek’s anger erupted. He gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles whitened, driving too fast through the city streets.

“That bastard,” he snarled. “What is wrong with him? Suggesting something so—so disgusting. As if I would ever—” His voice cracked. “As if I could ever take advantage of you like that. You’re like my daughter, Stiles. My daughter.”

Stiles sat silently beside him, tears sliding down her cheeks, staring at her lap.

When they reached the mansion, Derek disappeared into his study. That night, the clink of crystal and the sharp scent of whiskey drifted through the halls. He drank until the bottle was empty, then opened another.

For days, he withdrew. Barely spoke at meals. Avoided everyone. His broad shoulders seemed to carry the weight of the world; his handsome face was haggard, eyes shadowed with devastation. The empire, the legacy—everything he’d built—would die with him. No heir. No continuation. Just emptiness.

Stiles couldn’t bear it.

One late night, she found him on the secluded balcony off the library, city lights glittering far below. He sat in the shadows, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, tie discarded, a half-empty glass in one hand, cigarette burning forgotten between his fingers. His eyes were red-rimmed, cheeks wet.

“Dad…” Stiles whispered, stepping out into the cool air.

She wore only a tiny silk night slip—pale lavender, straps thin, hem barely skimming the tops of her thick thighs. Her full breasts strained against the fabric, nipples peaked from the chill. Her plump ass swayed as she crossed to him, barefoot on the cold stone.

Derek looked up, voice hoarse. “Go to bed, Stiles-ya. You shouldn’t be out here.”

She ignored him, kneeling in front of his chair, placing her soft hands on his knees. “Dad… I can’t watch you like this anymore. It’s killing me.”

He shook his head, taking a drag from the cigarette, exhaling shakily. “There’s no baby, Stiles. It’s over. I’ve failed.”

“No,” she said firmly, tears welling in her beautiful eyes. “There’s still a way.”

His head snapped up. “No. We are not discussing that again.”

“But Dad… let’s have the baby.” Her voice trembled, but her gaze was steady. “You and me. The natural way.”

Derek’s glass slipped from his fingers, shattering on the stone. “Stiles… no. It’s wrong. I can’t. You’re—you’re Eli’s wife. You’re young enough to be my daughter. I won’t ruin you.”

Tears spilled down her cheeks now. “It’s okay, Dad,” she whispered. “No one will ever know. It’ll be our secret. I need to do this for you. I want to. Please… let me give you this. Let me give you the heir you deserve.”

For a long moment, he just stared at her—kneeling there in the moonlight, so beautiful, so selfless, her silk slip clinging to every lush curve, her pink lips trembling.

Then something inside him broke.

A choked sound escaped his throat. He reached for her, pulling her up and into his arms in one desperate motion. Stiles straddled his lap, arms wrapping around his neck as he hugged her so tightly she could barely breathe. His face buried in her neck, broad chest heaving with silent sobs.

“Thank you,” he rasped against her skin, voice raw and broken. “Thank you, Stiles… my sweet girl. I don’t deserve you.”

She held him just as fiercely, tears soaking his shirt, her soft body pressed fully against his hard one.

“I’m yours, Dad,” she whispered into his hair. “Whatever you need… I’m yours.”

They stayed like that for a long time, clinging to each other on the dark balcony, the line they’d been toeing for weeks finally, irrevocably crossed.