I Inherited Trillions, Now What?

The students had barely recovered from the shock of Alexander Blackwell's arrival when the deep, resonating wail of sirens filled the air. Heads snapped back toward the window, and gasps rippled through the crowd as a convoy of sleek, armored SUVs rolled through the school gates. These were no ordinary vehicles—custom-built Rolls-Royce Cullinans, their glossy black surfaces reflecting the afternoon sun, moved with an air of absolute authority. One of them bore flashing sirens, its presence unmistakably signaling importance.

Then, the doors opened.

A man stepped out, his towering figure unmistakable. His suit, a bespoke Ermenegildo Zegna, fit him like it was woven onto his skin. His presence was formidable—an air of cold calculation and control exuding from his every step. His sharp blue eyes surveyed the school grounds like a man accustomed to owning whatever his gaze fell upon. The uniformed men that surrounded him moved with precision, their insignia revealing them to be Spetsnaz—Russia's elite special forces.

A hushed whisper spread through the students.

"Ivan Romanov."

Clara turned her head toward the voice. A boy, voice barely above a breath, had spoken the name with something between awe and unease.

"The gem king?" another asked in disbelief.

"Yes. You know Ekaterina in Montgomery Hall? That's her father."

"Yeah no shit sherlock we all know that"

Clara's gaze darted back to the entrance. Ivan Romanov moved toward the headmaster's building with deliberate steps, his bodyguards flanking him like shadows. Unlike Alexander Blackwell, whose power was shrouded in mystery, Ivan Romanov's influence was worn like a crown—one forged in the depths of diamond mines and auction houses that dictated global wealth.

His arrival alone was monumental, but the spectacle wasn't over.

As if the universe itself had a flair for the dramatic, the deep, throaty roar of an engine filled the air. Heads spun again toward the gates just in time to witness a lone supercar pulling into the driveway.

It was a Gordon Murray Automotive T.33. A masterpiece of engineering, its golden body gleamed under the sunlight, curves smooth and predatory. The contrast was striking—no guards, no armored entourage, just a single man behind the wheel.

The moment he stepped out, the energy in the courtyard shifted.

David Morgan.

If Ivan Romanov was power wrapped in ice, David Morgan was the fire that burned through everything. Dressed in an impeccably tailored black suit, his jet-black hair slightly tousled, he carried himself with an effortless confidence. His smirk was the kind that made people either want to be him—or be with him.

Screams erupted from the girls.

"Isn't that David Morgan?!"

"Oh my God, he's so dreamy!"

David barely acknowledged the commotion. He simply adjusted his cufflinks, flashing a Rolex worth more than most of their tuition fees, before striding toward the headmaster's building. If Alexander Blackwell commanded respect and Ivan Romanov instilled fear, David Morgan—he ignited desire.

And yet, before the students could even process this second arrival, another sound cut through the excitement.

The rhythmic hum of helicopters.

Not one. Not two. Three.

Unlike Blackwell's military-grade aircraft, these were sheer luxury—Airbus ACH160s, each one painted a sleek navy with gold accents, exuding the type of wealth that wasn't just powerful but untouchable. The students watched in stunned silence as they landed with seamless precision on the school's private helipad.

From the middle chopper, the door opened, and out stepped an old man.

His gait was slow, almost frail, yet there was an unshakable authority in his presence. His skin, deep and rich like polished mahogany, was lined with the wisdom of decades. He looked like a man who had seen the rise and fall of empires, and yet, he stood at the top of them all.

The whispers began again.

"Noah Tinubu's father…"

"It has to be. That's Adewale Tinubu."

"The oil magnate? Him too?"

"Oil magnet? I thought he was a politician"

Clara's eyes widened. She had heard the name before, of course—everyone had. A man so powerful that his continents entire economies trembled at his decisions. And as if his wealth alone wasn't enough of a statement, three stunningly dressed secretaries—each young, elegant, and impossibly poised—followed behind him, heels clicking against the pavement as they escorted him toward the headmaster's office.

The students remained frozen, their eyes darting between the now-empty entrance and the building that housed the most powerful men they had ever seen gathered in one place.

The school grounds had barely settled from the earth-shaking arrivals of Alexander Blackwell, Ivan Romanov, David Morgan, and Adewale Tinubu when the atmosphere thickened once more. It was as if the world itself had decided to funnel every ounce of power and wealth into this one moment, into this one place.

Then, they came.

A deep, rhythmic whir sliced through the air, heralding the approach of two choppers. But these were not ordinary aircraft. Unlike the military-grade power of Blackwell's transport or the luxury of Tinubu's Airbus ACH160s, these were symbols of dynasty, of old money that whispered power rather than shouting it.

The helicopters bore the crest of the Rothschild family.

As they descended with calculated precision, the air filled with awe and apprehension. The doors opened simultaneously, revealing two figures stepping out in perfect synchronicity.

Paula Rothschild was the first. Clad in a pristine ivory suit, her platinum-blonde hair framed a face that seemed sculpted by the gods themselves. Every movement was effortless grace, the kind of elegance that only centuries of aristocracy could breed.

Beside her stood Bestle Rothschild, his presence equally commanding. His tailored navy ensemble was sharp enough to cut through steel, his every step exuding quiet dominance. Unlike the others before them, they did not require an entourage of guards. Their name alone was protection enough. The Rothschilds did not fear the world—the world feared them.

Their heels clicked against the pavement as they strode forward, a force of nature wrapped in silk and wealth. The students murmured, whispers racing through the crowd like wildfire.

But before those whispers could even settle, another presence loomed.

A fleet of black Hongqi N701s, the official state vehicle of the highest Chinese elite, glided through the gates in eerie unison. Their deep obsidian exteriors reflected the sun with a cold, metallic sheen, each car perfectly identical to the next, as though they had been sculpted from the same slab of steel.

And then, the doors opened.

From the center vehicle emerged Wei Zhiyuan.

There was no hesitation, no unnecessary movement. A man of absolute discipline and authority, he exuded the quiet ferocity of a dragon resting atop a mountain of gold. His bespoke Zhongshan suit, crisp and unblemished, carried the insignia of his rank—the second most powerful man in the Chinese government.

Behind him, guards poured out like liquid shadow, their movements precise, their faces unreadable. They were not just guards. They were the elite of the elite, men whose loyalty was sealed in blood and unwavering obedience.

The students barely dared to breathe.

Yet, amidst the display of armored convoys and aircrafts, something entirely unexpected happened.

A single car rolled through the gates.

Not a convoy, not an escorted vehicle, but a single car. It moved unhurriedly, almost defiant in its simplicity.

The students frowned, confusion evident on their faces. No one simply 'drove in' here—not when the air was thick with the presence of some of the world's most powerful figures. And yet, here it was.

The door opened, and she stepped out.

She was beautiful—strikingly so. Blonde hair cascaded in soft waves, framing a face that carried an almost ethereal quality. She wore a fitted black dress, elegant yet understated, her presence effortlessly commanding without the need for security or extravagance.

But it was not her beauty that left the students speechless—it was the fact that she had arrived in that car.

No guards. No escorts.

Yet, she had driven straight into school grounds with an ease that suggested the rules did not apply to her. That alone spoke volumes, especially given the fact that she entered the same hall those people had entered.

The whispers started again.

"Who is she?"

No one had an answer.

And just as they thought the spectacle had reached its peak, the air shifted once more.

The silence was shattered by the synchronized hum of engines—four white SUVs, moving in perfect formation, their windows blacked out, their sheer presence radiating something ancient and powerful.

The moment they came to a halt, the Italian students among the crowd reacted in a way no one expected.

Gasps. Then, prayers.

Some clutched their rosaries, others murmured hurried whispers under their breath, eyes wide with something between reverence and fear.

The doors opened, and he stepped out.

Draped in flowing red robes, his presence was like a storm given human form. His piercing gaze swept over the school with the weight of centuries behind it. Guards in ceremonial uniforms surrounded him, nuns flanking his every side, their expressions solemn and unreadable.

The Italian students dropped to their knees, whispering one name with hushed reverence.

"Orsini."

The Red Pope.

The rest of the students could only watch, overwhelmed and utterly lost in the gravity of what they had just witnessed.

Power had arrived.

I wanted to skip this but i felt this was a nice way of showing you people the parents hope you liked it .