I Inherited Trillions, Now What?

Nathaniel Rockefeller was not the only one making his way there.

Susan Beaumont, still dressed in her scrubs from a grueling nine-hour surgery, pushed forward with a sense of growing dread. The exhaustion that weighed down her body just moments ago was now overpowered by a new, consuming emotion—fear. The dark circles under her eyes, the tightness in her chest, the questions racing through her mind—it all paled in comparison to the single, undeniable truth hammering in her heart: Alexander was in danger.

'How? When? Why?' The questions tumbled through her mind like an unstoppable current. The media had been relentless in their attacks on Alexander, but this—this was something far more serious.

'There's no way it's true.'

She repeated that thought like a mantra, clinging to it, needing it to be real. There had to be more to this, more that she didn't yet understand. But one thing was certain—Alexander knew she would come. He had to know.

As her taxi pulled to a halt, she finally saw it.

The place she had visited countless times before, a sanctuary of wealth and power, was unrecognizable. The once quiet, exclusive area had been swallowed whole by a tidal wave of humanity. Thousands of people packed the streets, their voices a deafening roar of speculation, anger, and anticipation. The sea of flashing cameras, the shouting reporters, the endless waves of bodies pushing forward—it was chaos.

Her breath hitched. Her stomach clenched.

"Ma! Ma!"

The rough voice of the taxi driver snapped her out of her trance. Turning, she saw his impatient face glaring at her through the open driver's window.

"We're here already! I can't go any further!" he barked, his voice edged with frustration.

Susan barely registered his words. "Oh... okay," she mumbled distractedly, her mind already focused elsewhere. She pushed the car door open and stepped out, moving quickly toward the crowd, ignoring the shouts behind her.

"Hey! Ma'am! You haven't paid!" the driver hollered after her, but she was already weaving through the throng of people, her mind consumed by a single, desperate need—to get to Alexander.

What was she going to do when she got to him? How was she supposed to stop this? Could she even get through?

It didn't matter. She had to try.

She barely made it a few steps before a strong hand clamped down on her arm, yanking her back so hard that she nearly fell.

"Ahh!" she gasped, her breath catching as she stumbled.

Spinning around, her eyes landed on the man who had grabbed her. He was tall, imposing, dressed in a sharp black suit, his face unreadable behind a pair of dark sunglasses. Everything about him screamed 'bodyguard.'

Her pulse spiked. "Who are you?!" she demanded, her voice laced with panic.

The man ignored her question, pressing a finger to the discreet earpiece he was wearing. "I have her, sir. Bringing her in now," he said in a clipped, professional tone.

Susan's heart leapt.

Excitement burst through her like a shot of adrenaline. "You work for Lex?" she asked breathlessly. "Where is he? Is he okay? Take me to him—right now!"

The bodyguard simply nodded. "Follow me, ma'am."

But before Susan could take another step, a new voice rang out behind her, loud and furious.

"You thief! Get back here! Where's my money?!"

The taxi driver had caught up, his face red with anger as he stormed toward her. His rage was clear—until his eyes fell on the towering bodyguard standing between them.

The man in black barely moved. He didn't need to. The sharp angles of his jaw, the thick bulk of his shoulders, the cold indifference of his posture—it was enough to send a chill through the driver's spine.

"Stand back." The bodyguard's voice was quiet, but the warning was unmistakable.

The taxi driver hesitated, suddenly far less confident. "I—I just came for my money," he stammered, his earlier bravado wilting under the man's steely gaze.

"Stand. Back."

This time, the words came with a subtle shift in posture, a silent promise that any further disobedience would be met with consequences. The driver instinctively took a step back.

Susan, watching the exchange, suddenly realized what had happened. "Oh—right! I forgot to pay!" she said, guilt flickering across her face. She quickly patted her pockets, only to be met with cold emptiness. Panic crept in as she remembered—she had left the hospital in such a rush that she had nothing with her. No wallet. No phone. No cash.

Her gaze darted back to the bodyguard. "Can you—can you please cover it? I don't have anything on me."

Without hesitation, the man reached into his jacket, pulling out a few crisp bills. He handed them to the driver without so much as a second glance.

The driver snatched the money, still eyeing the bodyguard warily. "Thanks," he muttered before turning and making a quick retreat, disappearing into the crowd.

Susan exhaled, turning back to the bodyguard. "Okay. Now, take me to Alexander."

Without another word, he led her forward.

Susan's pulse hammered in her ears as she followed the bodyguard, her feet moving on instinct while her mind remained trapped in the chaos of unanswered questions. The crowd erupted into another deafening wave of shouts, the noise rising to a fever pitch as flashing red and blue lights cut through the night. The police had arrived.

Meanwhile, inside a sleek black SUV parked a short distance from the chaos, Nathaniel Rockefeller sat in silence. His sharp gaze moved over the sea of people, his face unreadable. His secretary sat stiffly in the front seat, awaiting instructions. As Nathaniel scanned the scene, his eyes caught a familiar figure being led away by a security detail. A woman, still clad in surgical scrubs, her face pale with exhaustion but burning with determination. His brows furrowed as recognition tugged at the back of his mind.

Where have I seen her before?

The question was still forming when a voice pulled him from his thoughts.

"Sir, Commissioner Aldridge is outside."

Nathaniel turned his head as the car door opened. Standing before him was Jonathan Aldridge, the police commissioner. Despite his composed exterior, Aldridge hesitated before stepping inside, visibly uneasy. Nathaniel Rockefeller was a name that carried weight, power—a man people feared, and for good reason. Now, trapped in the confined space of the car, Aldridge felt the full intensity of that fear.

Nathaniel didn't acknowledge his discomfort. Instead, his voice came out calm, measured.

"How is it going?"

Aldridge swallowed before answering, trying to keep his tone professional. "We've surrounded the estate. Surveillance has been in place since the fire. No movement detected since. We have helicopters circling the island, and at my command, we'll move in, arrest him, and bring him back to the station."

Nathaniel's expression remained impassive. Then, in a voice as cold as steel, he said, "No."

Aldridge blinked, confused. "Pardon, sir?"

"I don't want him flown in like some high-profile fugitive. Drag him across the ocean," Nathaniel said, his voice laced with quiet cruelty. "Make him feel the weight of what's happening. Let the public see. Walk him through the crowd."

Aldridge felt a chill run through him as he realized exactly what Nathaniel intended. This wasn't just about arresting Alexander Blackwell. This was about humiliation—about stripping him of his dignity and power before the world's eyes.

Aldridge exhaled sharply before responding, "Understood, sir." He grabbed his walkie-talkie and pressed the button. "All units, proceed with the arrest. Do not transport the target by helicopter. Bring him back via boat. Once docked, he will be escorted through the crowd."

A crackle of static, then: "Roger that, sir."

Nathaniel leaned back, satisfied. He could already picture it—Alexander, dragged before the very people who once revered him, his empire crumbling, his reputation shattered.

The radio buzzed with activity as they listened to the operation unfold. The distant sound of heavy boots against marble floors, doors being kicked open, men shouting commands as they swept through the estate. The tension in the SUV was palpable. Aldridge gripped the walkie-talkie tighter, his nerves on edge, waiting for the confirmation.

Then—

"Everyone, stop!"

The sudden order froze them all.

Aldridge immediately pressed the radio again. "Sergeant, report! Have you apprehended Alexander Blackwell? Were his men resisting? What's going on?"

Silence, just for a moment. Then the sergeant's voice came back, breathless, laced with something between shock and disbelief.

"Sir… we can't arrest Alexander Blackwell."

Aldridge's pulse spiked. His patience snapped. "What the hell do you mean you can't arrest him?" he barked. "Are you telling me my men are incapable of handling one man? Do you want me to personally—"

"No, sir," the sergeant interrupted, his voice urgent. "That's not it. We… we can't arrest him or anyone else because—"

A long pause. Then the words fell like a bomb in the car.

"Because there is no one here to arrest."

Aldridge felt his stomach drop.

Nathaniel's fingers clenched into a fist, his jaw tightening. He turned slowly toward Aldridge, his dark gaze drilling into him. "What do you mean, no one is there?"

The sergeant on the other end struggled to explain. "It's exactly that, sir. The house is empty. Not just Alexander—everyone is gone. No guards, no staff. No signs of life anywhere."

Aldridge's face burned with frustration. "That's impossible! My team has been monitoring that house since last night! How can you say no one's there? Did they vanish into thin air? Are you playing games with me, Sergeant?"

Aldridge felt his entire body tense as sweat trickled down his temple. His hands trembled, his mind racing with disbelief. How could this be happening? His eyes darted across the security feeds, desperately searching for an answer. He had ensured the entire area was under constant surveillance—every exit covered, every movement tracked. There was no conceivable way for Alexander Blackwell to have slipped through. And yet, he was gone.

His heart pounded in his chest as he grabbed the communication device, nearly crushing it in his grip.

"Find him! I don't care what it takes—you must find out where he is!" he barked, his voice laced with barely contained panic.

The response came instantly. "Yes, sir!" The urgency in the voices on the other end confirmed that his men were already scrambling, their hurried footsteps echoing in the background.

Beside him, Nathaniel Rockefeller stood silent, but his presence was suffocating. Aldridge didn't need to look at him to feel the seething fury radiating from the Rockefeller heir.

Swallowing hard, Aldridge tried to explain. "Sir, I—"

Nathaniel's hand shot up, cutting him off. The air between them turned ice-cold. His voice, sharp and dangerous, sliced through the tension like a blade.

"Find him."

A voice crackled through the speaker. "Sir! We have intel! Alexander Blackwell is attempting to escape via his private jet. The airport has already begun preparations for departure."

Nathaniel's jaw clenched as he turned to Jonathan, the police commander, his voice low and firm. "Make sure he doesn't leave."

Jonathan, sensing the urgency, nodded sharply. "Understood." Without wasting a second, he threw the car door open and stepped out, gripping his radio.

"All units, we have a high-value target attempting to flee by private jet. Lock down the airfield. Ground all aircraft immediately. I repeat—ground all aircraft. Alexander Blackwell is to be arrested on sight. Do not let that jet take off!"

The response was swift. "Copy that, sir!"

As Jonathan's car sped off toward the airfield, Nathaniel sat motionless in the back of his blacked-out SUV, his hands curling into fists. His plans for Blackwell Investments hinged on Alexander being out of the picture. If Blackwell left the country, everything he had carefully put in motion would unravel.

"Idiots," he muttered under his breath, his teeth grinding together.

He turned to his driver, his voice steely. "Call him again. Make sure Alexander doesn't leave the country. Stall him until the police get there."

Inside another speeding car, Susan Beaumont stared out the window, watching the city blur past her. Her mind raced with questions, and the uncertainty gnawed at her. She turned to the man sitting beside her—the one who had whisked her away from the chaos.

"Where are we going?" she asked, her voice steady but laced with suspicion. "Where is Alexander?"

The man said nothing.

Her stomach tightened. She hated being left in the dark.

The atmosphere inside Alexander Blackwell's private jet was tense yet meticulously controlled. The cabin bustled with movement—his personnel from Blackwell Island navigating the tight space, ensuring everything was in order. They knew the window for escape was closing fast.

Across from Alexander, a man was mid-sentence when Alexander silenced him with a sharp wave of his hand.

"The submarine we used to leave the island has been parked, but I doubt we'll be able to—"

"It doesn't matter," Alexander interrupted smoothly, his voice calm despite the storm brewing outside. "It served its purpose. We don't need it anymore."

Sebastian, ever the loyal right-hand, nodded. "Yes, sir."

Alexander's gaze swept over the cabin, ensuring all key players were accounted for. "What about Liam?" he asked, referring to his lead bodyguard, who had sustained injuries during last night's attack. "Is he stable? Is his team in position?"

Sebastian hesitated briefly before answering. "Liam is recovering, but he still requires medical attention. When Miss Beaumont arrives, she can oversee his treatment. As for his team—they're already in place, waiting for us."

Alexander gave a slight nod, satisfied. His gaze shifted to Evelyn, who was seated near the cockpit, her fingers nervously fidgeting with her phone.

"Is she waiting for us?" he asked, his voice unreadable.

Evelyn startled, quickly locking her phone as if she hadn't just been caught. "I—I was just—"

"I know what you were doing," Alexander cut her off smoothly. His voice wasn't angry, merely stating a fact. "Inform her to meet Liam's team when we land. We'll join them there."

Evelyn exhaled, knowing she had no room to argue. He had always been ten steps ahead. There was no hiding anything from Alexander Blackwell.

"I'll let her know," she murmured.

The convoy of police vehicles screeched to a halt at the private airfield. Officers spilled out in coordinated formation, their weapons ready, their orders clear.

Jonathan Aldridge, heart pounding, stormed ahead, eyes locked onto the gleaming monstrosity before him—a jet worth over a billion dollars, unmistakably Blackwell's.

The aircraft was still on the tarmac, its crew hurriedly loading the last of the cargo.

"Move in! NOW!" Jonathan barked.

A swarm of officers surged forward, storming the jet's entrance. Within seconds, they flooded the cabin—only to stop dead in their tracks.

The plane was empty.

Save for one man.

A single figure sat leisurely in one of the luxurious leather seats, completely unbothered by the armed officers surrounding him. He tilted his head slightly, amusement dancing in his eyes.

Jonathan's face twisted in fury. "Where is he?!" he roared. "Search the entire airfield! He can't have gone far!"

Officers scrambled, dispersing in all directions. They scoured the hangars, the runways, every possible hiding spot. But Alexander Blackwell was nowhere to be found.

Jonathan turned his glare to the man still sitting in the jet. His patience had run out. "Arrest him."

As handcuffs clicked around his wrists, the man did something unexpected—he laughed.

The sound sent a chill down Jonathan's spine.

The man smirked, tilting his head toward Jonathan. "My boss told me to give this to you-know-who."

Jonathan snatched the small, neatly folded piece of paper from the man's hand, his fingers trembling with rage.

His grip tightened around it. He already knew—whatever was written inside would only make things worse.

"Get him out of here," he snapped, gesturing for the officers to take the man away.

As the figure was dragged out, still smirking, Jonathan slowly unfolded the note, his breath sharp and uneven.

The words were written in Alexander Blackwell's unmistakable handwriting.

And the message was simple.

"Keep it for me"

Jonathan crushed the paper in his fist, his entire body shaking with rage.

Alexander Blackwell had played them all.

And he had won.

Taking out his phone, Jonathan dialed Nathaniel Rockefeller. The call barely rang before a curt, emotionless voice answered.

"Well?"

"We got played. No one was there—except for one man who left a letter for you. From Alexander."

A weighted silence followed before Nathaniel's voice cut through. "What does the letter say?"

Jonathan stiffened instinctively, dreading the answer he had to deliver. "Sir, it just says... 'Keep it for me.'"

The line went eerily quiet. Jonathan swallowed hard, rushing to add, "But sir, don't worry. We'll get him. I've already sent my men to—"

Click.

"Hello? Hello?" he called out, only to be met with dead air. Frustration roiled inside him, and with a snarl, he threw his phone against the dashboard. "Fuck!" he roared into the cold night.

Inside another private jet—this one belonging to his daughter—Sebastian approached Alexander with urgency etched into his features.

"Sir, we need to leave. Now. The police have reached the plane. They've arrested the decoy we left behind, which means the Rockefellers know I fed them false information. We don't have much time."

Alexander, his fingers idly drumming against the armrest, opened his eyes. Calm. Unbothered. A decision forming in his mind.

Outside, Susan was disoriented. The surroundings were unfamiliar—different from where she had first met Alexander. Something was wrong.

"Is he here?" she asked, voice tight.

"Yes, ma'am," the man beside her confirmed. "But we need to go now. We don't have time."

Just as they stepped out of the car, the unmistakable sound of engines roaring to life filled the air. Her gaze snapped to the plane ahead.

Not the same one Alexander used before.

Then, before she could fully process it, the plane began moving.

"No! No, wait!" she shouted, the man beside her already reaching for his radio.

"Stop! Stop! We're here! We're here!"

But the plane did not stop.

Susan stood frozen, watching as it climbed into the sky, vanishing into the abyss above.

A lump formed in her throat. He was gone.

The moment was shattered by the piercing sound of approaching sirens. The bodyguard yanked her arm. "We need to go. Now. We can't be seen here."

Still, Susan's eyes remained locked on the empty sky.

Thousands of miles away, hours after Alexander Blackwell had escaped the United States, a woman stood alone in the dead of night. A thought flickered through her mind.

If being born is the greatest act one can ever partake in, is there any point in striving when everything pales in comparison? Aren't we all just living in disappointment?

It was a question posed to her long ago. A question she had answered.

"If birth were the greatest act, then existence would be meaningless. But it isn't. Life is a canvas, Alexander. Some leave it blank. Others scribble. But the great ones? They create masterpieces. Each choice, triumph, and failure—it all matters. Wealth, power, legacy—those are not the point. The point is to create something that lasts beyond you. To ensure that when the song of your life ends, its echo remains."

An answer she would loathe for the rest of her life.

In her thoughts, she saw it—a jet descending. The doors opening. Men rushing out, securing a man to a stretcher, carting him away.

Maids scurrying.

Guilt clawed at her chest.

Had her answer led to this? If she had never spoken those words, would things be different? People had already died.

And then, her eyes landed on him.

A boy, now a man. The one who had asked her that question all those years ago.

Alexander Blackwell.

He stepped out of the plane, gaze cold as steel.

"Are they inside?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," Evelyn responded. "I instructed them to wait for you. Your hotel room is booked—we'll be here for the foreseeable future. The prince has also requested a meeting. The U.S. government has been calling nonstop, demanding your immediate arrest and extradition."

Alexander absorbed the information without a flicker of emotion. "Tell the prince to wait. I'll meet him after I'm done here. As for the two inside, I'll speak to them now."

Before he could take another step, a presence stopped him.

His mother.

"Are you happy?" she asked, her voice cutting through the night.

Alexander met her gaze, his face unreadable. "I don't know what you're talking about, Mother."

She scoffed. "Don't play games with me. Your head bodyguard—wounded. Your cars—burned. People—dead. You—a wanted criminal, forced to flee your own country. Would your father have wanted this? Your ambition has destroyed his name! Is this what you wanted?"

Alexander's expression didn't change. "I have no knowledge of what you're talking about i was the one attacked I would have lived in peace, but my enemies brought me war."

Her fury exploded. "Really?! The sudden obsession with cars, the auction, antagonizing Nathaniel Rockefeller—I know everything! You provoked that Rockefeller boy into attacking you! You started this! Just why?!"

She was screaming now, shaking with rage.

Alexander's response was a single word.

"Justification."

No elaboration. No remorse.

Then, he turned. "Sebastian, escort my mother to her hotel room. I have a meeting to attend."

"Alex! Alex, come back here! Explain yourself! Is this what you wanted?! To ruin your family name?! ALEX!"

Her voice faded behind him as he walked away.

And for the first time in a long while, anger flickered in his otherwise frozen expression.

They don't understand.

He had given his mother the answer. Yes, he had orchestrated all of this. He had joined the auction solely to humiliate Nathaniel Rockefeller, knowing full well the Rockefeller heir would retaliate. The NVIDIA deal? Just a bonus.

He had goaded Nathaniel into attacking him.

And once he did, Alexander had gotten exactly what he wanted.

Justification.

There was a fundamental difference between attacking the Rockefellers first and being attacked by them. If he had struck first, he would have been crushed—not just by Nathaniel, but by the entire Rockefeller dynasty. And not just them—the elite families, even the Morgans, supposed enemies of the Rockefellers, would have banded together to preserve the status quo.

But now? Now, the Rockefellers had made the first move.

Now, he had reason to fight back.

And fight back, he would.

As for why he chose the Rockefellers? Simple.

They were the unspoken rulers of America.

A throne only fit for him.

The Rockefellers were wasting that title. They did not deserve it. Whether or not Nathaniel took the bait, war was inevitable.

Because there could never be two kings in one country.

For his vision to thrive, the Rockefellers had to fall.

A tale as old as time.

Usurper overthrows king.

Predator devours prey.

Survivor buries the fallen.

And in the end—only one remains.

And that one would be him

Alexander Blackwell