I Inherited Trillions, Now What?

While the plans to take the election were unfolding inside an unassuming room in a private airport—6,600 miles away from New York—a man was stepping out of a sleek black car in front of a towering glass-and-steel skyscraper. The night air was crisp, and the city's skyline shimmered with lights, but the moment he caught sight of the crowd ahead, his face hardened.

"Oh, God. Not again."

Harvey Lancaster sighed, shaking his head. He had hoped for a quiet entrance, a rare moment of peace before stepping into the chaos that had become his life. But the flashing cameras, the frantic reporters, and the sea of voices told him otherwise. The press had been waiting. Probably for him. Definitely for him.

He picked up his pace, trying to make it inside before they noticed, but it was futile. The swarm descended upon him in an instant, their voices merging into a deafening cacophony of accusations and demands for answers.

"Mr. Lancaster, will you be representing Alexander Blackwell this time?"

"Harvey, our sources claim you were the one who advised Blackwell to flee the country. Can you confirm or deny this?"

"Isn't Blackwell's decision to flee an admission of guilt? If he had nothing to hide, why run?"

"When is he coming back, Mr. Lancaster? And which country did he escape to?"

"There are reports that he's seeking asylum in the Middle East. Can you comment on that? What are his plans there?"

"Alexander Blackwell is being called the 'Hitler of this generation.' Do you still stand by him? Don't you have morals, Mr. Lancaster?"

The barrage was relentless. Harvey barely had time to breathe before the next question was hurled at him. The flashes from the cameras were blinding, a strobe of white-hot lights exploding in his face from every direction. His vision blurred. The noise, the sheer force of it, rattled even him—a man well accustomed to the ruthless, never-ending scrutiny of the press.

But this—this was different. This was a feeding frenzy, and he was the prey.

"Let me get through! Excuse me! Move!" he shouted, his voice barely cutting through the madness as he pushed forward, shielding his face as best he could.

They wouldn't stop. Hands reached for him, microphones shoved into his space, cameras flashing mere inches from his eyes. Even he—who had spent years navigating the press with a calculated grace—was struggling to push through today. They were hounding him like he was an A-list celebrity, a man on trial, a criminal on the run.

Finally, after an exhausting struggle, he shoved through the entrance doors and slammed them shut behind him. He locked them instantly, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths as he turned to see the reporters still pressed against the glass, snapping pictures and shouting muffled questions through the barrier.

For a moment, he just stood there, adjusting his tie, exhaling sharply. "Jesus Christ..." he muttered, running a hand through his hair, which had been thoroughly disheveled by the chaos outside. His suit was rumpled, his composure shaken—something that rarely happened to Harvey Lancaster.

Straightening his jacket and smoothing down his sleeves, he turned away from the glass, stepping deeper into the lobby. The towering walls of Harrison, York & Lancaster loomed over him, pristine and imposing, a fortress of legal power and influence. His eyes flickered to the massive brass plaque mounted by the entrance:

Harrison, York & Lancaster

A smirk tugged at his lips, despite the weariness pressing down on him. Seeing his name there, etched in gold—Lancaster—still brought a certain satisfaction. It had taken everything to get here. He had clawed his way up the ladder, made sacrifices he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to justify, but in the end, it had been worth it.

Hadn't it?

A flicker of doubt. A whisper in the back of his mind. Was it worth it?

He forced the thought away. Now wasn't the time.

His attention snapped forward as he noticed movement near the elevators. A familiar face—Claire. His former assistant, now the firm's CFO, thanks to his own pull and influence. She was struggling with a large stack of files, her balance shifting precariously.

"Claire, hey—hey!" Harvey called, striding forward just in time to catch the files before they toppled. "Where are you going with all this?"

She exhaled, clearly relieved. "Harvey! Thank God you're here."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm here. What's going on? Why was I called in so urgently?"

But Claire barely heard him. She grabbed his wrist, already pulling him toward the hallway. "Miss York is waiting for us. Bring those files!"

Harvey barely had time to react before she was dragging him forward, his protests falling on deaf ears.

"Wait—wait! Claire, slow down! What the hell is going on?"

But she didn't answer. The only thing Harvey could feel, deep in his chest, was an unsettling sense of déjà vu.

Harvey stepped into the office of Jessica York, his former boss and now co-named partner, his mentor, the woman who had shaped his career in more ways than one. His vision was partially obscured by the stack of heavy files in his arms, but even through the paper barricade, he could feel the weight of something heavier—something intangible but suffocating in the air.

The room was dimly lit, the glow from the city skyline filtering in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting elongated shadows across the space. Outside, the sky mirrored the mood of the office—bleak, overcast, and brooding, the occasional streak of lightning splitting the darkness. Inside, the centerpiece of the desk was neither a case file nor a contract, but a half-empty bottle of bourbon. A single glass, partially filled, sat beside it, the deep amber liquid catching the faint glimmers of light.

Jessica finally looked up as the door opened wider.

"Thank you, Claire," she said, her voice low, steady, but tinged with exhaustion. Then her eyes landed on Harvey, and she managed a smile that had no real joy behind it. "Oh, and you too, Harvey. You're finally here. That's good."

Harvey, now able to see her clearly, frowned slightly. This wasn't the Jessica York he knew. The woman before him wasn't the same sharp, commanding force who had once ruled the courtroom and boardroom alike with an iron will. No, the woman sitting before him looked worn—like she had been carrying the weight of something enormous, something that had slowly been pressing down on her shoulders until it had begun to break her.

"Just leave the files on the desk," she instructed, reaching for the bottle again. But then, as if reconsidering, she set it down on the floor instead.

Harvey complied, placing the stack onto the desk with a slight thud before straightening his suit. He turned to her, his expression unreadable. "What's happening, Jessica? And why did you call me here so late at night?"

Jessica leaned back in her chair, exhaling slowly. She gave that same empty smile again. "First of all, just take a seat."

Harvey hesitated but eventually pulled out a chair across from her. Claire remained standing until Jessica flicked her gaze toward her. "You too, Claire. You're the CFO now. Stop standing around like you're still a secretary."

Claire flushed slightly but sat down beside Harvey without a word. Harvey barely noticed. His attention was locked onto Jessica, analyzing every shift in her expression, every flicker of emotion in her weary eyes. She looked like a woman at war with herself.

Jessica began to speak, her voice steady but holding a dangerous undercurrent. "About why I called you here… Well, we—"

Harvey lifted a hand, cutting her off.

He already knew.

He wasn't a fool—far from it. He had seen the news, heard the press, felt the brewing storm long before stepping foot in this office tonight. He had also seen the way Jessica looked, the exhaustion in her posture, the heaviness in her voice. It all pointed to one thing.

"If this is about Alexander Blackwell," he said, his voice low but firm, "I'm not touching his case."

Jessica frowned. "Why?"

Harvey's jaw tightened. "I already helped him once. I got his sleazebag financial guy out of a tax evasion. I've done my fair share. I won't get involved again."

Jessica opened her mouth, but Harvey wasn't finished.

"I laid down my values the first time," he continued, his voice rising slightly, anger seeping through. "I even did it a second time. But not this time. This time, I'm done."

He stood up abruptly, straightening his suit jacket with sharp, jerky movements. "And now? I'm a named partner, Jessica. Just like you. You can't blackmail me. You can't bribe me. I don't owe you or anyone anything anymore. Goodbye, Jessica."

He turned on his heel, ready to leave. Claire shifted beside him, her worried eyes darting between them, lips slightly parted like she wanted to beg him to stay, to reconsider. But Harvey had made up his mind.

Then Jessica's voice cut through the room like a blade, sharp, deliberate, and grave.

"What about your life?"

Harvey froze mid-step. His breath hitched for half a second before he turned around slowly. His face was now completely devoid of emotion, but his eyes held something deeper—a calculating glint as if he were reassessing the battlefield.

"What do you mean?" he asked, his voice calm, but there was an underlying edge to it.

Jessica exhaled through her nose, then, as if drawing from memory, she lifted her hand, holding it mid-air.

"You once told me that life… was like this," she said, her hand resting at an even level. Then, slowly, she raised it higher. "And you wanted this."

Harvey's eyes narrowed. He didn't need her to explain. He knew exactly what she meant.

There had been a time—a long time—when he had been obsessed with reaching the peak. He had clawed his way up, fought for every inch of his success, made deals with devils because that was how the game was played. He had sacrificed, compromised, bled for his ambition because he had wanted more. More than anyone else. More than even Jessica.

Jessica studied him, and for the first time that night, something sparked in her eyes—something more dangerous than despair. "Well," she continued, voice slow, measured. "If you walk out that door right now, your life…"

She lowered her hand. Way down.

Harvey didn't move. He stood there, perfectly still, staring at her outstretched hand, at what it represented. His face remained unreadable, but inside, something twisted. Something bitter. Something he didn't want to name.

Jessica leaned back in her chair, watching him closely. "You walk out of here, Harvey? That life you've built? That life you've killed for? It won't be this." She gestured up to where his dreams had once been. "It won't even be this." She held her hand at the mid-level again. "It'll be this."

Her hand was now near the bottom.

Harvey didn't blink.

A long silence stretched between them, thick, suffocating, like a noose tightening around his throat.