I Inherited Trillions, Now What?

Standing before the heavy door of a private airstrip in the dead of night, Alexander Blackwell was a man who had just abandoned the soil of his birth. His name, now a wildfire in the media, burned brighter than ever—but for all the wrong reasons. His exodus from the country was all the confirmation the world needed to declare him guilty. His name, once dragged through the mud, had now been buried beneath it. They crucified him in the court of public opinion. The nation whispered his downfall in hushed, terrified tones. But Alexander?

He did not waver.

Not even a flicker of emotion crossed his face. To him, this was neither a defeat nor a setback. It was merely another step in a plan that had been in motion long before anyone had even begun to suspect him. He was not a man running. He was a man positioning himself for the inevitable endgame.

Before stepping through the door, he turned slightly to the woman standing behind him, his voice calm, measured, as if he were discussing something as trivial as the weather.

"Everlyn. I trust your father has told you everything."

The woman beside him, Everlyn Hawthorn, took a slow breath, steeling herself. "Yes, sir."

Her voice was steady, but her hands were not. She had been briefed—more than briefed—by her father, she was someone who had orchestrated some of the most ruthless strategies in corporate and political warfare. Yet even knowing what she did it paled in comparison, even understanding the sheer audacity of Alexander's plan, she found herself struggling to truly grasp the scale of it.

Because what she had heard? What she now fully understood?

It was beyond ambition. It was something else entirely.

Her hands trembled slightly at her sides.

The moment his father had died, Alexander had begun. Every move, every provocation, every calculated risk—it had all been deliberate. The auction where he taunted Nathaniel Rockefeller, the Nvidia takeover, the methodical manipulation that led to Rockefeller buying shares from him—all of it had been threads in a web he alone could see. He had baited Nathaniel into attacking him, into making the first move.

And for what?

To justify his retaliation? To escalate a mere corporate battle into full-blown war?

If only it were just that. If only he was content with taking their position as the number one family in America. But she knew better.

That was merely a stepping stone.

What Alexander desired could be distilled into two simple words—words that, at first glance, seemed almost laughable in their simplicity.

You might assume he craved power, wealth, influence—perhaps even domination over nations or the fear of men. But no. Those were mere trinkets, distractions for the small-minded. What he sought wasn't gold, wasn't land, wasn't fleeting authority.

Alexander Blackwell was after something far more abstract—something that, when spoken aloud, might sound ridiculous. And yet, to those who truly understood, it was more terrifying than any tyrant's ambition.

Monopoly. Control.

Everlyn swallowed hard, her mind racing. Because when she thought of the word monopoly, she knew he didn't mean it in the way the rest of the world did. He wasn't talking about just business. No, that would have been predictable. That would have been rational.

Alexander Blackwell was after something much greater. Something far darker.

He didn't want to own companies. He wanted to own the economy itself.

He didn't want influence in politics. He wanted to dictate the very landscape of governance.

He didn't want to be a part of the elite. He wanted to become the singular axis upon which the world turned.

He wasn't interested in leading.

He wanted to define reality itself.

And control? That was even worse.

Everlyn had thought she understood control. She had been raised by men who thrived in manipulation, who had shaped industries with the flick of a wrist, who had engineered businesses into dancing to his will. But even they had limits. Even they saw the world as something to be influenced, not owned.

But Alexander?

He wanted absolute dominion.

Control over economies. Control over narratives. Control over history itself.

The very concept of human free will would become an illusion—a myth whispered by those who refused to accept the new order. Freedom? A lie. Choice? A mirage. Democracy? A carefully curated performance, designed only to reinforce his rule.

She could already see it—the way information would be rewritten at his whim, the way he would engineer crises just to shape the world's perception of him as its only savior. And the scariest part? The part that made her heart hammer against her ribs?

He could do it.

It wasn't madness. It wasn't some delusion of grandeur. It was a possibility—a terrifying, razor-sharp possibility that sent shivers down her spine.

And for the first time, she understood something her father had once told her, something he had said with a knowing smile, his eyes glinting with something close to admiration:

"You'll never meet another man like Alexander Blackwell. And perhaps… that is for the best."

Now, standing behind him, that same eerie smile crept onto her own face.

Because the horror of it all?

It didn't just terrify her. It thrilled her.

She was her father's daughter after all.

Her pulse quickened. Could he actually pull it off?

She wanted to doubt it. And yet.

She needed to see it.

She needed to witness how far he would go.

She needed to be part of it.

WAR IS PEACE ?

FREEDOM IS SLAVERY?

IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH?

ALEXANDER BLACKWELL IS?.

Alexander Blackwell is not a king, nor does he crave a throne. He does not raise armies or wave flags, and yet, he is more dangerous than any warlord who ever lived. Kings rule for a time. Empires rise and fall. But control—true control—is eternal.

To rule a nation is to fight for power, to war with those who wish to take it. But to own the world? To bend it, mold it, shape its desires, thoughts, and fears? That requires something greater than force. It demands whispers instead of orders, shadows instead of spotlights.

Power is not in the hands of those who wear crowns. It belongs to those who decide what crowns mean. To those who dictate what people fear, what they love, what they hate. It belongs to those who shape truth, until the truth is whatever they say it is.

Alexander Blackwell understands this. And that is why he will win.

As if sensing her thoughts, Alexander spoke again, his voice as composed as ever.

"When we spoke after your return, you pointed out something missing from my plan," he said, his gaze locked on the door before him.

Everlyn took a breath, steadying herself. "Yes, sir. I said you would need political power."

Alexander hummed, a soft sound of agreement. Then, with the ease of a man stepping into his rightful throne, he pushed the door open.

"Well then," he said, stepping forward. "Let's go take it."

Hearing that single word made her smile even bigger. Most people would have let it slip past them, ignorant of its significance. But not her. She understood.

There was something about how Alexander Blackwell used language—how he wielded words not as simple tools of communication but as sharpened instruments of intent.

Take.

It was such a small word, yet it carried the weight of empires. It was a word that demanded, seized, conquered. The feeble and the foolish used words like "earn," "gain," "receive," or even "achieve." They spoke of waiting, of working towards something, of hoping the world would grant them their desires. But Alexander? He did not ask. He did not wait. He did not compromise. He took.

To take was to strip something from the hands of another, to impose one's will upon the fabric of reality itself. It was active, violent, unrelenting. A man who took never begged, never negotiated beyond necessity. He decided what was his and ensured the world bent to his decree.

For a man who desired not just a country, not just an empire, but the world itself, nothing else was fitting.

They entered the room. It was small, almost insultingly so, an unassuming space with three simple chairs arranged around a modest wooden table. No grandeur, no extravagance, nothing to indicate that the fate of a nation was about to be discussed within these four plain walls.

It was, in its own way, a perfect setting. Power did not need decoration.

The two men already seated there were figures of undeniable recognition, titans of industry and politics, each known for their own brand of ruthless ambition. One was a man who had built an empire from code and silicon, a visionary whose reach extended into space, into minds, into unseen algorithms that ruled lives. The other was a man who had once held the highest office in the land, a force of nature who had bent an entire political party to his will with little more than bravado and an understanding of the hunger that lived in the hearts of the masses.

Neither of them commanded the room now.

That role belonged to Alexander Blackwell.

The moment he stepped inside, it was his. He did not need to declare it; he simply was. It was in the way his presence filled the space, the way even the air itself seemed to wait for his permission to move. The men at the table instinctively straightened, their attention drawn to him like metal to a magnet. It was a quiet, suffocating authority that went beyond reputation or wealth. It was something more fundamental, something woven into the essence of his being.

He moved to the chair in the center and sat. Not cautiously. Not politely. He took his seat the way a king takes his throne—without question, without hesitation, without the need for permission.

His voice, when it came, was neither raised nor hurried. And yet, it carried the weight of an iron edict.

"Gentlemen, let us discuss the next election."

Everlyn watched it unfold as if it were a performance she had seen a hundred times before and yet still found herself entranced by.

Alexander had not just started the meeting—he had already won it.

She had been in more business discussions than she could count, had sat in rooms where fortunes were decided, where industries were shaped. She had seen the subtle plays for control, the careful maneuvering, the calculated shifts of power as men sought to dominate one another without making it obvious.

This was something else entirely.

There was no maneuvering here. No negotiation. Alexander had walked in and taken everything before a single word had been exchanged.

The way he had spoken, the way he had introduced the topic—it was all deliberate. He had set the pace, dictated the framework, ensured that every thought that followed would be in response to him.

And they had let him.

Of course, they had. Because that was the nature of power.

Everlyn's heartbeat quickened. Her mind raced, running through all the possibilities, all the consequences. She could feel it now, what her father had felt when he had first spoken to her about Alexander's plans. The excitement, the fear, the undeniable pull of something beyond the ordinary.

She had spent her life surrounded by powerful men, raised by some, trained by many. And yet, none of them had ever made her feel like this. Like she was standing at the precipice of something vast and terrible.

Because Alexander Blackwell was not just building an empire.

He was rewriting the very nature of control.

He did not simply want to rule over business, over markets, over industries. That was the dream of small men who thought themselves great. He wanted more.

Monopoly and control.

Not just economic monopoly. Not just political control. Not just domination over a single sector or nation.

Total monopoly. Absolute control.

He wanted the world to look to him for everything.

For leadership. For law. For truth.

He wanted to be the axis around which civilization turned.

Where others ruled, he would dictate. Where others led, he would command. Where others governed, he would be.

His was not a rule of democracy, nor of tyranny. Those were transient, fallible systems. He sought something beyond governance.

He sought inevitability.

And what of control?

Because control did not mean power in the way most men understood it. Control was not just about laws or policies or military might.

Control was about shaping the narrative. About owning the very concept of truth.

If he succeeded, free will would not exist—not because it was taken away, but because it would never even be considered.

Freedom would be redefined.

War would be peace.

Slavery would be liberty.

Ignorance would be wisdom.

And Alexander Blackwell would BE.

She looked at the men seated across from Alexander, their expressions caught somewhere between fascination and apprehension. They did not yet understand what they were dealing with. They thought they were meeting with a man who wanted power. They thought he was one of them.

They were wrong.