I Inherited Trillions, Now What?

A few minutes after all the parents had arrived and the guards had been moved away, the entire school grounds had turned into a sea of gossip.

Students—normally composed, disciplined, and neatly seated—were now on their feet, clustered in groups, murmuring in excitement. Conversations overlapped, their hushed tones barely containing the energy buzzing through the air.

"Did you see that lineup? Just those seven alone are like a moving country—that's insane!"

"Dude, not just a country—a superpower!"

"Did you guys see David Morgan? Oh my God, he is so dreamy! Why can't the guys in our class be like that?"

"Well, did you also see that lady who came alone? If only you guys could be like them too, eh eh!"

"Did you guys see that Gordon Murray Automotive T.33? My dad tried getting that golden model last year—they said it wasn't available, that they had all been recalled. Guess they lied."

"No, they didn't lie. Your father just couldn't get them to overturn their decision. Blame his lack of influence, not the company."

"I heard that lady is Mr. Blackwell's wife. They look so good together."

"Good? Are you joking? She looked like the sun had taken human form, while Mr. Blackwell looked like cold personified. How do they even match?"

"My own is those guards. Did you see the white-armored ones? They looked like stormtroopers. Where can we get one?"

"Those are the guards of His Holiness, the Red Pope. It's blasphemy to even speak of them carelessly. Shut your mouth."

The chatter continued, each conversation laced with awe and speculation. But then—

"Wait… what's that?"

The question cut through the noise, drawing everyone's attention at once. Heads turned, eyes locked onto the scene unfolding outside.

They rushed to the glass windows, pressing against them to get a better look. A new convoy of cars was arriving, moving with the same imposing formation as when Ivan Romanov had arrived—sleek black vehicles, perfectly synchronized, security detail flanking them like shadows.

"Who do you think it is?"

"I'm not sure… all the major families already have a representative inside. Who else could it be?"

From their vantage point, they couldn't see much—guards had blocked the main view. But then, a man stepped out of one of the central vehicles. He wasn't young—his posture and the way he moved suggested he was in his late sixties. Yet, his presence alone sent a ripple of tension through the air.

The students strained to get a better look, but his face remained obscured by the guards surrounding him.

"Well? Who is it?" someone asked, impatience creeping into their voice.

The student who had first noticed the convoy kept staring, eyes darting, searching for an opening in the wall of security. He barely breathed, waiting for the moment when the man's face would be revealed.

As the figure neared the entrance, the school secretary emerged, approaching the guards. They exchanged a few words—at least, that's what the students assumed. Then, after a brief pause, the guards stepped aside, allowing the man to move forward.

And in that instant, the first student finally caught a clear view of his face.

His breath hitched. His eyes widened.

"That's… that's—"

But the words stuck in his throat.

The entire room seemed to hold its breath, waiting.

Inside the Headmaster building The voice came out

"That wouldn't be necessary."

The voice cut through the tension like a knife. It was familiar—so familiar that everyone in the room recognized it, though for some, it carried more weight than others.

David Morgan felt his breath hitch, his eyes widening as he instinctively turned slightly. His voice, usually steady, came out in a hushed murmur.

"Dad?"

Alexander Blackwell, standing nearby, had also recognized the voice the moment it rang out. He didn't need to turn to know who had spoken.

At the very back of the room, standing tall and unwavering, was none other than Patrick Morgan, the formidable head of the Morgan family.

Dressed in an impeccably tailored black suit, he radiated power with an effortless authority that few could match. A polished walking stick rested lightly against his arm—not a necessity, but a statement. His full head of greying hair, neatly combed back, only added to his commanding presence, making him look dignified rather than aged. Deep lines carved into his face spoke of wisdom and experience, but it was the sharp scowl he wore that sent a silent message—he was not a man to be trifled with.

The weight of his presence settled over the room, the air thick with an unspoken understanding. But Patrick Morgan did not let them bask in his arrival for long.

"I am here now," he said, his voice firm, deliberate. "I suppose that invalidates the rule, doesn't it?"

With that, he took a step forward, the room parting in silent deference.

David barely had time to process his father's presence before he spoke, "Dad, about what—"

Before he could finish, Patrick raised a hand—an effortless, commanding gesture that silenced his son instantly. His eyes, cold and calculating, settled on Amelie.

The acting headmistress met his gaze with an easy, almost amused smile. It was a stark contrast to the gravity of the situation—sweet, pleasant, as if she hadn't just expelled his daughter mere minutes ago.

"Oh, well, that's good then," she said lightly. "As per the instructions, the student Daphne Morgan is no longer expelled."

Without another word, she stepped aside, pulling open the door with a graceful motion.

Her smile widened slightly.

"Let's enter, then."

As the parents stepped into the room, their eyes immediately found their children seated before them. The air was thick with unspoken emotions, each child reacting in their own way.

Gretha, upon seeing her parents, suddenly felt a cold sweat break out on her forehead. She straightened in her seat, trying to compose herself. Beside her, Noah, ever the carefree one, grinned widely at the sight of his father, though his enthusiasm wasn't entirely mirrored.

Paul, ever indifferent, barely reacted, but the subtle way he sat up just a little straighter betrayed his awareness. Ekaterina, on the other hand, let out a quiet sigh the moment her father walked in—an exhale of inevitability.

Li was already sitting with perfect posture, his only tell being the slight adjustment of his uniform. And then there was Daphne—her expression shifting from an initial warm smile at seeing her brother to an instant frown when her gaze landed on her father.

But the most visibly affected was Caroline. The moment her mother and father walked in together, she tensed. Please, let it not be that bad, she thought, her mind racing. She had never intended to make her parents face each other like this—not again. In all the years she had known her mother, she could count on one hand how many times she had seen them in the same room.

Yet, as each child processed their parents' arrival, they all came to the same chilling realization.

Something was wrong.

Noah—so used to his father's lighthearted, almost bouncy demeanor—was taken aback by the seriousness in his face. Daphne, who had grown accustomed to her brother's reassuring presence, now saw him distant, distracted, his usual warmth absent.

It was then that they all noticed it.

Their parents looked... serious.

The men and women now seated across from them were not just their mothers and fathers. These were individuals who stood at the very pinnacle of power—titans of business, politics, and industry. They had faced corporate wars, hostile takeovers, backroom deals, and political showdowns.

Yet now, they were here.

And they all understood something with absolute clarity.

This meeting—this entire orchestrated gathering—was never about their children. Not really.

From the ominous summons that had forced them all to come, to the unexpected attempted expulsion of Daphne Morgan, and finally, to the sudden arrival of Patrick Morgan himself—this was never about school discipline.

No.

This was something else entirely.

The woman standing before them—the one who had called this meeting—had done so for a reason far beyond a simple academic infraction.

She had used their children as bait.

Not just her, but the force she represented.

Because this was no longer a meeting between a headmistress and concerned parents.

This was a meeting between the Montgomery family and the most powerful families in the world.

Author's Note / Satire my thanks to Peanut_Butter_2757 thank you so so much (non canon)

Alexander Blackwell, at the tender age of two, had no concept of wealth, power, or the cold realities of the world. What he did understand, however, was fun—and on this particular day, fun meant running through an entirely empty amusement park, one his father had bought out just for the two of them.

No lines. No crowds. No screaming children fighting over overpriced ice cream cones. Just him, his father, and the echoes of laughter bouncing off vacant rides.

Cassius Blackwell, a man whose name alone could send boardrooms into silent reverence, strolled leisurely behind his son, hands in his pockets, amusement dancing in his otherwise sharp, calculating gaze. He wasn't a man known for sentimentality, but today—just for today—he let himself indulge in his son's joy.

"Dad, Dad! Let's go see Mr. Peanut_Butter_2757 and his magic massage chair!"

Ah. Yes. That.

Cassius exhaled through his nose, the kind of restrained sigh that came with knowing he had made his own bed. He had told Alexander he could do whatever he wanted today, and naturally, his son had chosen this ridiculous request.

But, a promise was a promise.

So off they went, through the abandoned park, past eerily silent carnival games where the prizes stared blankly from the shelves, past a roller coaster that had no one to scream along its twists and turns, until they arrived at him.

Mr. Peanut_Butter_2757.

He was a man of legend, or at least that's how Alexander saw him.

Seated in the world's most advanced massage chair, the man—who looked suspiciously like he had been teleported from a gaming livestream—lounged in absolute bliss. His username, Peanut_Butter_2757, was proudly embroidered on his custom hoodie, because of course it was.

Cassius took one look at him and mentally filed this moment away as one of the strangest in his life.

But Alexander?

Alexander was in awe.

The chair hummed with an almost divine energy, pulsating in synchronized waves, delivering an experience so transcendent that Mr. Peanut_Butter_2757 could only let out a deep, soul-cleansing sigh.

"Yo, lil' dude," he said, eyes half-lidded from pure relaxation. "You wanna try?"

Alexander turned to his father, eyes huge with excitement. "Can I, Dad? Please?"

Cassius, a man who had closed billion-dollar deals with less thought, found himself nodding. "Go ahead."

With the solemnity of a chosen warrior receiving Excalibur, Alexander climbed onto the throne of bliss.

The moment he sat down, the chair enveloped him in a cloud of warmth, vibration, and sheer technological wizardry. His tiny mouth parted in shock. Then—

"Oh. My. Gosh."

Cassius raised an eyebrow.

"Dad… this… is the best thing ever."

For the first time in his life, the heir to Blackwell Investments had encountered something money couldn't quite explain—the magic of Mr. Peanut_Butter_2757's massage chair.

Cassius just stood there, arms crossed, watching his two-year-old son ascend to a new plane of existence.

"…Noted," he muttered, already making a mental note to buy three of these chairs before the day ended.

And as Alexander melted into pure euphoria, Mr. Peanut_Butter_2757 leaned over and whispered:

"Kid, you've got a bright future. But trust me—never underestimate a good massage chair."

Truer words had never been spoken.

Also special shoutout to VipeXGaming who gave me another Golden ticket thank you so so much bro like truly thanks