I Inherited Trillions, Now What?

Chapter 134: Protest Ending: Blackwells Downfall

March 22nd, 2024.

A day that would be remembered in American history. A day that would rewrite the future of the country—and possibly, the world. It was the day the Blackwells, the financial titans, faced a reckoning. The day the richest man in the world fell.

Two occurrences. Two incidents. That was all it took to send the empire of Alexander Blackwell teetering toward the edge of collapse.

While the protest leader was deep in discussion, strategizing his next move with his closest allies, elsewhere, on Blackwell Island, a different kind of reckoning was unfolding.

The gunshot fired into the air to disperse the protesters had done more than scatter a crowd. It had ignited something dangerous—an inferno of public outrage. And now, those involved stood before the man they served, a man who expected perfection, precision, and absolute control. But control had been lost today.

The atmosphere inside the Blackwell estate was suffocating. In one of the island's lesser-used living rooms, Alexander Blackwell sat on an opulent yet understated leather sofa. The soft glow from the fireplace flickered across his face, but his expression remained unreadable—calm, collected, and dangerously quiet. His butler, Sebastian, stood just behind him, a silent specter of loyalty.

Before Alexander, three individuals stood, their postures betraying their emotions. Some had their hands clasped behind their backs, others shifted their weight uneasily, their stances the very definition of guilt-ridden discomfort. The hardened war commander, Liam, was rigid but unreadable, his years of battle-hardened discipline keeping him from fidgeting. Evelyn, the high-stakes legal secretary, maintained a composed facade, but her fingers twitched ever so slightly—a tell that did not go unnoticed. And then there was Barbara. Once a shining socialite, now reduced to a trembling figure, her elegant hands clenched tightly together, her entire body trembling as though she were being slowly buried alive.

The only sound in the room was the distant hum of a television screen. It displayed a live broadcast of Michael Zeller, the young protest leader, his voice fervent, his presence commanding. He stood amidst a sea of people, their faces alight with anger, determination, and something even more powerful—hope.

Michael's voice rang through the room like a war cry.

"They abandoned us!" he declared, his voice raw with emotion. "The police—the very people meant to protect and serve us—turned their backs on justice today! But that's not the worst of it. No, my friends. Today, Alexander Blackwell, the richest man in the world, the man who hides behind his fortress of wealth and privilege, ordered his guards to fire upon peaceful protesters. Peaceful people like you and me! People demanding change! And yet—what did they do? They answered our voices with a bullet!"

A roar of outrage rose from the crowd, but Michael wasn't done.

"But do not let this discourage you!" His voice swelled with conviction, his eyes ablaze with purpose. "Because this—this moment right here—is when we push back! This is the time for us to rise! We wanted the attention of the elite? Well, we have it! They see us now! They fear us now! And I promise you, by the time we're done, they will never be able to ignore us again! This isn't just about today. This is about tomorrow, about the future we demand, about the world we refuse to let them control any longer! So I ask you, will we back down? Or will we fight?!"

The crowd erupted, voices merging into an electrified chant that echoed through the streets.

Alexander had heard enough.

With a flick of his fingers, he signaled Sebastian, who immediately switched off the screen. The room fell into silence once more. A deep, smothering silence, thick with unspoken words and held breaths.

Alexander leaned back, his black eyes moving slowly over the three people before him. He let the silence stretch, let it weigh down on them like an invisible force, crushing any remaining shreds of confidence they might have had.

And then, in a voice as cold and smooth as polished steel, he spoke.

"So?"

One word. One question.

And the living room descended into chaos.

It started with the tearing sobs of Barbara, who could no longer hold it in. She bellowed out, her cries echoing through the lavish yet suffocating room.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry, sir! It's all my fault! I didn't know what was happening—I swear! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" She rambled, her words barely comprehensible through her sobs.

Then came Liam. His voice was resolute, firm, yet carrying the weight of regret. "No, I'm the one to blame. I was the one who fired the gun. I should be held accountable. I should take full responsibility."

Everlyn, who had been standing tensely, finally interjected, her voice sharper than before. "No, it's not your fault. If you hadn't fired that shot, the protesters would have broken through. Who knows what they would have done—to you, to the facilities, to me? You saved us, Liam. It's not your fault at all."

Barbara's cries only grew louder at Everlyn's words. "No! It was me! I caused all this! I just wanted to bring the cars to show Mr. Blackwell—I didn't expect any of this to happen! I'm sorry!"

Liam clenched his jaw, his voice hardening. "No, it's mine. I am the head of security. I should have done better. I shouldn't have trusted a kid's words over my own instincts. This is on me."

And then, all at once, the three of them were talking over each other—shouting, confessing, pointing fingers at themselves, their voices overlapping into an uncontrollable mess of guilt and tension.

A voice cut through it all like a blade.

"Enough."

The room fell into a chilling silence as all three of them snapped their heads toward the source of the voice.

Sebastian.

The butler's usual stoic demeanor was gone, replaced with seething anger. His gaze, filled with nothing but pure disgust, swept over them like a storm. "What is wrong with you all? Where do you think you are? Whom do you think you serve?" His voice was razor-sharp, his tone venomous.

Barbara flinched. Liam's posture stiffened. Even Everlyn, always composed, felt a chill crawl up her spine.

Sebastian's voice grew colder. "You are all Blackwell employees. Not sniveling, pathetic excuses for professionals. Not cowards who fall apart under pressure. Do you think groveling and crying will fix this? Do you think self-pity will erase what has already been done? This—" he gestured around, "—is a disgrace. I will not stand here and watch the foundation of this empire crumble because you cannot compose yourselves. Do better. And let this be the last time I ever see such a disgraceful display."

The weight of his words pressed down on them like a boulder.

Barbara, despite the tears still wet on her cheeks, forced her back straight. Liam's expression hardened further. Everlyn, jaw clenched, looked ahead with cold resolution. Even if her heart still hammered in her chest, she refused to let it show.

Alexander, who had been watching the entire debacle with disinterest, finally spoke. His deep, measured voice cut through the air.

"Thank you, Sebastian."

Sebastian merely gave a small nod, his expression still unreadable.

Alexander stood, adjusting his suit as his cold black eyes settled on them once more. "As I was saying… This was an unfortunate situation—one that should never have occurred. But even more disgraceful than the event itself was the poor execution of its aftermath."

He took a step forward, his presence commanding, suffocating. "We have given them ammunition. More fuel for the fire. But," he continued, "the cars are secure. No lives were lost. The core of our operations remains intact. That is all that matters now. As for who is to blame…"

His eyes first turned to Barbara.

She visibly tensed, her breath hitching as the weight of his gaze settled on her.

"You should have followed instructions," Alexander said, his tone indifferent, detached. "And never again should you assume you have the authority to act outside of them. You were not hired to think. You were hired to obey. And I expect that this will never happen again."

Barbara swallowed thickly, her lips barely parting as she whispered, "Yes, sir. I'm sorry."

Alexander moved on, his piercing gaze now locking onto Liam.

Liam straightened immediately, bracing himself.

"You miscalculated," Alexander said simply. "You let a stranger's words cloud your judgment. That was a mistake. However, your duty was to secure the perimeter—and you did that. You fulfilled your primary objective. That, in itself, is why I will not hold you accountable." He took a step closer, voice lowering. "After this meeting, follow me. I have something for you to do."

Liam gave a crisp nod, his voice firm. "Yes, sir."

A flicker of relief passed through Everlyn's features as she looked toward Liam—but it vanished the moment Alexander's attention turned to her.

"Rather, all of this falls on you, Everlyn."

A jolt of shock shot through her. "Pardon?" she asked, her voice faltering slightly.

Alexander did not hesitate. "Who is in charge of Barbara?"

Everlyn swallowed, her throat dry. "Well… it's me, but—"

"Who was responsible for ensuring Barbara followed protocol?"

"I did! I made sure—"

"Then you failed."

Everlyn's breath hitched.

"If Barbara made a mistake, it was because you failed to guide her properly. If she faltered, it was because you didn't ensure she was prepared. Your oversight and lack of preparation caused all this—you should have trained her better, monitored her closely, and made sure she never had the chance to fail."

Everlyn felt the words slice into her like a dagger. But there was no room to argue. No room to defend herself. He was right. And she hated that he was right.

Her voice was barely above a whisper. "Yes, sir."

Alexander nodded once, as if that was all that needed to be said. "Good. That will be all. Sebastian, Liam—let's go."

With that, he turned and strode toward the exit, his presence leaving a suffocating void in his wake.

Liam followed swiftly, his head held high. Sebastian walked behind them, his sharp gaze lingering on Everlyn for a fraction of a second before he, too, disappeared.

Everlyn stood there, frozen.

The sound of footsteps faded. The heavy silence returned.

A soft voice broke through it.

"Sorry."

Everlyn's head turned slightly.

Barbara stood beside her, eyes downcast, voice small, as if she barely had the strength to speak the word.

And then, before Everlyn could respond, Barbara turned and walked away, leaving her alone in the vast, empty room.

Her phone vibrated. The sound echoed in the silence.

With trembling fingers, she pulled it from her pocket. The screen illuminated, revealing a single message in bold, capital letters.

LET'S TALK.

The dimly lit room buzzed with tense whispers, the air thick with anticipation. A group of figures huddled together, their expressions a mixture of determination and unease.

"Tonight, I'm going in with a team," a male voice declared, his tone steady but laced with nerves. "We'll take the back entrance. Using the key card Darren secured, I'll slip inside."

"How do you even know about that entrance? And what about the guard?" a female voice questioned skeptically. "If there wasn't one before, I'm sure there is now—especially after what we pulled off."

"I saw it online. You know, it's a pretty well-documented building," the first voice replied, a flicker of hesitation betraying his confidence. But he quickly pressed on, regaining his composure. "Even if there are guards, we should be able to handle them. At most, there'll be one or two. If we move fast, we can subdue them before they raise the alarm."

"And then what?" another voice chimed in, this one also female.

"Once I'm in, I'll locate that truck—the one they fought so hard to protect. Whatever's inside, it's valuable enough that they fired into the air for it. It should be in that garage we saw from a distance."

"And when you get it, then what?" a male voice asked, his tone wary.

A pause. The first voice hesitated, as if weighing his words. "I... I shouldn't tell you. It's better if you don't know."

"Just talk, dude. What's wrong with you?" the second female voice snapped, her frustration clear.

"Yeah, don't pull this secrecy nonsense on us. You don't hide things from us—we have your back, no matter what, man," the fourth voice, male, chimed in supportively.

"Yeah, we're in this together," the second female voice agreed firmly.

The first voice exhaled sharply, then finally admitted, "Okay, okay. When we get there… we're going to burn the truck."

Silence.

Then, a chorus of stunned reactions.

"What? Are you insane?"

"You want to do what?!"

"Wait—what?!"

The first voice didn't waver. "Yes. I'm going to burn it down. I'll bring a can of gasoline and matches. Once I find that truck, it goes up in flames."

"Are you out of your mind? That's arson—on top of breaking and entering! If you get caught, you'll spend years in prison!" the third voice, the second female, said, tension thick in her voice.

"So what? Wasn't this your idea?" the first voice challenged.

"Are you mad? This was not my idea!" the third voice shot back, outraged. "All I did was tell you about the key card, Michael! I thought we'd paint murals, leave a message, but this—this is crazy! This isn't a protest anymore. What happened to nonviolence?"

Michael's voice rose, his conviction unshaken. "The only way to win a nonviolent conflict is if your opponent has a conscience."

He let the words settle before continuing, his voice now filled with raw intensity. "They've shown us they have none. We had women in that crowd. Pregnant women. Elderly people. And they still fired at us! They could've killed us. They didn't care! We still have people in the hospital, bleeding, recovering. They have no conscience! The only thing they understand is power. And we're going to show them that we are not weak. We are not victims. We are not going to be bullied!"

The room fell into a heavy silence, the weight of his words sinking in.

Then, from the fourth voice, a quiet but firm statement. "I'm going with you."

"No. No, you're not." The third voice—Nora—spoke sharply, her voice high with fear.

"Nora, I have to," Darren, the fourth voice, said, his tone unwavering. "I was the one who got the card. I started this. I can't let Michael go alone."

"No, no, no, no!" Nora cried, her voice cracking. "See what you've done, Michael? Do you see what you're doing? You're both insane! Darren, please!"

"Nora, I'm going. You can't stop me," Darren said firmly.

"No."

"What?"

"I said no, Darren. You can't come with me," Michael interjected suddenly.

"Well, too bad. I'm not asking—I'm going," Darren shot back, locking eyes with Michael in defiance.

Michael stared at him for a long moment before speaking, his voice softer now, almost pleading. "Darren, don't do this. Look at Nora. Don't put her through this. Please. Let me be the one to go."

The room hung in unbearable silence as Darren's eyes flickered between Michael and Nora. He swallowed hard, looking at Nora's tear-streaked face. Finally, with a reluctant sigh, he muttered, "Fine. I'm not going."

"Oh, thank God!" Nora gasped, throwing herself into Darren's arms, sobbing.

But then, her voice broke again, desperate, pleading. "Even you, Michael. You don't have to go. We're already making a difference. Our social media page is blowing up. More and more people are joining us. We don't have to risk our lives!"

Michael's expression hardened. "And when will that change come, Christiana?" he asked, turning to the second female voice. "A month from now? Two? Five? How long before people get bored and move on to the next trending cause? This is the moment. Right now. While we have the world's attention, we must strike. If we wait too long, fear will win. Have you not noticed? Since the shooting, more people have been leaving than coming. The movement is fading. Those around for the shooting are all leaving Fear is taking hold. It's now or never. Social media support is never enough for things like this. It's Now or Never"

His words rang through the room, unchallenged. No one could argue with the truth in them.

Finally, Michael exhaled and offered a small, reassuring smile. "Don't worry, everyone. I promise—I'll be fine. I'll come back. And I love you all."

The group moved toward him, arms wrapping around one another in a tight embrace, the weight of their choices pressing down on them all.

The van was silent, except for the occasional rustling of fabric as the five figures inside adjusted their positions. Dressed in black clothes with hoods pulled low, their faces were obscured by the shadows of the dim interior. Some hands trembled, gripping the seats, while others clenched into fists, forcing steadiness.

Michael exhaled, breaking the silence. "Alright. Everyone ready? Do we have everything? The gasoline, the matches?"

"Yes, we have everything," one of them replied.

Michael took a deep breath, his expression hardening. "Listen closely." He scanned the faces of his companions. "I know this might be difficult for all of you. I know the weight of what we're about to do. But remember why we are here. This isn't just about us. It's about our state. Our country. The world. All of humanity. Every person who has been trampled on, crushed under the heels of billionaires who sit in their glass towers, drinking wine that costs more than a year of our salaries."

He looked at each of them, his gaze heavy with the weight of their shared pain.

"Liam, your brother—he didn't die because he was sick. He died because hospitals don't save people without money. He begged for help, and they turned him away like his life was worthless."

"Damien, your mother—she didn't just work herself to death. She spent years breaking her back in their factories, breathing in poison, working overtime for scraps. And when she collapsed on the factory floor, they didn't even stop the machines. They just hired someone else."

"Lucas, your father—he didn't lose his land. They took it. They forced him out with debts he could never pay, sold his home to someone who could, and left him with nothing but a handful of eviction papers and a lifetime of regret."

He took a breath, his voice steady but filled with fire.

"We are here tonight because the world only listens to money, and we have none. No one is coming to save us. No one will fight for us. So we fight for ourselves. Tonight, they learn what it feels like to lose everything."

The energy in the van shifted. Hesitation melted into burning determination. "Let's do this!" they shouted in unison—except for the driver.

He remained still, silent, his presence almost unnatural in its calm. Then, just as the van brimmed with adrenaline, his deep voice cut through the moment.

"Shhh."

Instant silence.

"Someone's here," he murmured.

Fear instantly gripped them. Michael's jaw tightened. "What should we do?"

"Just wait here. I'll handle it."

With that, the driver stepped out of the van. Michael watched him leave, then turned to the others. "Don't worry, guys. He's a professional. Nothing will happen."

Even so, the tension inside the van became unbearable. Footsteps approached. Slow. Measured. Closer. Closer.

Michael and the others gripped whatever they could—knives, pipes, anything. Their hands trembled. The air was thick with the smell of gasoline and sweat. Then—

The van door was yanked open, and a body was thrown inside.

"Ow!" the person yelped.

Michael's eyes widened in shock and fury. "Darren?! What the hell are you doing here?!"

Darren groaned, rubbing his arms. "I followed you guys. I wasn't going to let you go alone. I found the keys. I deserve to be here."

Michael's expression darkened. "Are you insane?! What about Nora?!"

"I snuck out," Darren said, his voice quiet but firm. "She wouldn't understand. I have to do this."

Michael met his gaze, and for a long moment, the van remained silent. Then, from outside, the driver's voice came, thick and unreadable. "We have to do this now."

Michael frowned, hesitated, then nodded. "Alright. But stay by my side, always."

"Alright, alright, alright," Darren muttered. "Now let's go."

Inside the vast, dimly lit halls of Blackwell Island Mansion, a woman paced restlessly, her heels clicking against the marble floor. Every step was laced with hesitation, her fingers twitching as if they might betray her. Her breath came short and shallow, her chest rising and falling too quickly. She muttered under her breath, shaking her head as if arguing with herself.

Then, suddenly—a sharp slap to her own cheek. A whispered mantra followed. "Now or never."

Steeling herself, she turned on her heel, her eyes locking onto her target. A maid—young, cautious, obedient—balanced a silver tray with the practiced grace of someone who had learned never to spill a single drop.

Perfect.

She moved in swiftly, blocking the maid's path with a polite but deliberate step. "Where are you taking that?"

The maid blinked, adjusting her grip. "It's for Mr. Blackwell. His evening tea."

The woman's lips curled into a soft, understanding smile, her voice as smooth as silk. "Ah, about that—why don't I take it to him?"

The maid hesitated. A flicker of doubt passed through her eyes. "There's no need, ma'am. I can take it."

The woman leaned in slightly, lowering her voice as if sharing a secret. "Wait." A pause. "Cynthia."

The maid stiffened. How did she—?

"Please," the woman continued, her tone shifting—gentle, almost desperate. "You know how he yelled at us this morning. I just… I need to make things right. If I bring him his tea, maybe I can calm him down. Maybe tomorrow won't be so…" she sighed, shaking her head. "You understand, don't you?"

Cynthia's grip on the tray tightened. "I—"

The woman took a step closer, lowering her gaze, her voice dipping into something even softer. "Please."

A heartbeat of silence.

Then, a reluctant sigh. "Alright… but if he gets angry, say you don't know who delivered it." She carefully passed over the tray, her fingers brushing against the woman's for just a second. "And good luck—he should already be in the shower. Just go in and wait for him."

The woman accepted the tray with a grateful smile, waving as Cynthia turned away.

The moment the maid was gone, her entire expression shifted.

The warmth in her eyes vanished. Her smile faded, replaced by something cold, something calculated.

She inhaled deeply, fingers tightening around the silver handle. Her gaze fixed on Alexander Blackwell's bedroom door.

One last breath.

And then—she stepped inside.

Meanwhile, outside, the group approached what looked like a checkpoint. Dim floodlights cast long, eerie shadows as the cold night air wrapped around them. The driver strode ahead, his movements calculated, precise. Michael and Darren hung back, their steps uncertain.

Darren leaned in, whispering, his voice barely above a breath. "Who is that guy? I don't think I've ever seen him at the protests. He's crazy strong."

Michael swallowed hard. "He's… one of the new ones. Came today because of the shooting." His fingers curled into fists. "Now shut up, Darren. If all you're going to do is talk, you shouldn't have come."

Darren exhaled sharply but said nothing.

They moved in silence, the tension thick between them. Then, the driver turned abruptly and lifted his hand. "Shhh. Wait here. Give me the key."

Michael hesitated, then handed it over. The driver disappeared into the darkness.

They stood frozen, ears straining for any sign of movement. The seconds stretched into minutes, each one heavier than the last. Michael wiped his sweaty palms on his pants. Darren shifted uneasily. Lucas barely breathed.

Then—finally—he returned.

"Let's go," he said flatly.

They stepped forward, but the sight waiting for them sent a jolt of shock through their veins.

Two guards lay sprawled on the ground. Motionless. Unconscious. Their uniforms were crumpled, their weapons discarded, their chests barely rising with weak, uneven breaths.

Michael's stomach twisted. Darren took a shaky step back. "Holy shit…" His voice was barely a whisper.

The driver didn't even glance at them. "Quick."

They followed him inside, past the checkpoint, and through a secured entrance. The garage was vast, bathed in cold artificial light. Two helicopters stood gleaming—sleek, customized, menacing.

Michael's breath caught. "Shit."

Lucas stared in awe. "I've never seen anything like this…"

Michael gritted his teeth. "Focus. This isn't what we came for."

They moved to the back of the garage. A truck waited there—silent, unsuspecting, a symbol of everything they were fighting against.

Michael's pulse thundered in his ears. "Drench it in gasoline."

No one hesitated. They worked quickly, soaking the truck, the strong stench of fuel stinging their noses. The air grew thick, heavy with something far more dangerous than gasoline—the weight of their choice.

Michael reached into his pocket, fingers shaking as he pulled out a match. He struck it against the box.

A tiny flame bloomed.

The fire flickered, its soft glow reflected in Michael's wide, unblinking eyes.

"Michael…" Darren's voice trembled. It was barely more than a breath.

Michael inhaled sharply, the flame dancing dangerously between his fingers. His whole body tensed—this was it.

Then—

A deep voice rumbled from the darkness.

"You shouldn't have come here."

A gunshot tore through the night.

For the second time.

The match slipped from Michael's fingers.

Somewhere, someone screamed.

"NOOOOO!"

The sound ripped through the air like a knife—raw, desperate, filled with a horror too deep for words.

Creation is hard, cheer me up!