I Inherited Trillions, Now What?

Nathaniel Rockerfeller stormed out of the office like a man possessed, the thick mahogany doors slamming shut behind him with a thunderous BANG that echoed down the marbled corridor. His jaw was clenched so tightly it looked as if his teeth might crack under the pressure. His fists were balled at his sides, nails digging into his palms, each step he took pounding against the polished floors like thunder. His designer shoes clicked aggressively with every furious stride, echoing through the vast halls of the Rockerfeller estate like gunshots.

"Sir—Mr. Rockerfeller! Sir, wait!" his assistant called out breathlessly from behind him.

But Nathaniel didn't stop. Didn't flinch. Didn't even glance back.

He was a storm given form, walking faster and faster, his long strides devouring hallway after hallway as his mind spun out of control. His eyes—usually sharp and calculative—were now wild, unfocused, burning with fury. He wasn't walking to any meeting, wasn't heading toward anyone. He was escaping. Running from the words still echoing in his ears. The slap still burning on his face. His pride crushed beneath the boot of his father.

He passed priceless artwork—centuries-old tapestries, gilded mirrors from France, oil paintings worth more than a city block—but he didn't see any of it. He didn't care. He wanted only one thing: to be in the only room in the entire estate where he ever felt even a scrap of peace. A place where the eyes of legacy didn't follow him. Where his father's voice didn't reach.

Maids scattered out of his way. Some bowed slightly, out of habit, while others simply stepped aside as though this was routine. Because it was. This wasn't the first time the heir had stormed into the manor with rage bleeding out of his skin. This wasn't even the worst they'd seen. A few maids exchanged knowing glances, and an older one nudged the girl beside her and muttered grimly, "Go get the rest. And get the brooms."

And then the sounds started.

CRASH!THUNK.SHATTER!

Glass exploded. Wood splintered. Porcelain cracked like bones.

"I hate him! I HATE HIM!" came the scream—raw, broken—from deep inside the estate.

"AHHHHHHHH!" Nathaniel roared like a wounded animal, the sound reverberating from behind the heavy doors of his private chambers.

Inside, the room looked like a war zone.

An antique globe lay cracked open, the continents shattered like his composure. A sculpture of Prometheus—solid marble—was in pieces on the floor, its once-defiant figure now decapitated. Shards of glass glittered across the hardwood floor, fragments of century-old vases and collector's glassware. Chairs were overturned. Curtains ripped. His rage had turned the room into the reflection of his mind—chaotic, broken, bleeding.

In the center of it all stood Nathaniel. Breathing hard. Shirt rumpled, face flushed with fury. His chest rose and fell like a piston, each breath sounding like it might explode into another scream. His fists trembled at his sides, and blood trickled from a cut on his knuckle where he'd punched a mirrored cabinet.

His assistant, panting, finally caught up—then stopped at the door.

She didn't speak. Not at first. She knew this part.

She had seen it before. This place… this room… always did this to him. The manor might belong to the Rockerfeller family, but this chamber was Nathaniel's sanctuary—and his cage. She hated coming here, hated seeing the boy behind the title fall apart like this.

Nathaniel stumbled back and sat on the edge of his massive bed, the gold-embroidered sheets crumpling beneath him. He looked like he'd aged a decade in the last five minutes. His body hunched over, as if the weight of the world had collapsed onto his shoulders.

Tentatively, she stepped closer.

"…Nat," she whispered. A rare thing—calling him that.

No response. His eyes were locked on the shattered remains of a chandelier lying on the floor like a dead swan.

She lowered herself onto the ottoman beside him, watching his chest rise and fall like a boxer between rounds.

"…What happened?" she asked softly.

Nathaniel slowly turned his head toward her, and for a moment, she caught it—the flicker of vulnerability. He wasn't Nathaniel Rockerfeller in that moment. He was just a broken man.

"…It's Alexander Blackwell," he spat the name like poison.

Her brows furrowed. "Him again?"

Nathaniel didn't answer her question. Instead, he scoffed, looking past her, like the ghost of his younger self was standing in the corner.

"It's always him…" he murmured. His voice was trembling now, caught somewhere between rage and heartbreak. "Ever since I was a kid, it was always, 'The Blackwell boy this, the Blackwell boy that.'"

He leaned forward, his voice cracking with emotion.

"At the meeting today, all he could talk about was how sharp Alexander looked, how well he spoke, how his ideas were shaping markets. 'The Blackwell boy went to the World Summit with his father and made him millions,' he said. Millions. Like I didn't already know that story. Like he hadn't told it a thousand times."

Nathaniel slammed his fist on the bedpost.

"You know what the difference is?" he shouted. "His father took him! His father trained him, gave him everything! And mine? Mine beat me into this... this calculating machine and still called me weak!"

He stood suddenly, eyes wild, hands flailing as he continued to rant.

"He says I failed to destroy Alexander! Me?! I'm the one who destroyed his public reputation! I'm the one who made him a fugitive! He's wanted. He can't even walk in the U.S. without being arrested! I forced him to flee—I won."

He pointed to himself, chest heaving, voice getting louder.

"I got our companies' shares in Europe up 5%. I reduced the global oil rates sold to us by six points. I increased our grip on the European banking sector! ME! And he calls me the failure?!"

His assistant stayed silent, letting him burn it all out.

Finally, his voice lowered—barely above a whisper. "He always loved the Blackwells more than me. Even when he was trying to destroy them, he admired them. Admired him."

She stepped forward gently, grounding her voice.

"…What did he say Alexander did again?" she asked.

Nathaniel rubbed his eyes with both hands. Some of the adrenaline was wearing off, but now came the weight of what had been revealed. He inhaled deeply, forcing down the tremors in his hands.

"He's rescinding his U.S. citizenship," he said. His voice was grave, but eerily calm now—like the eye of the storm.

She blinked. "That's a surprise… but that's not unexpected, considering the crimes and all. It's logical. He's probably just avoiding extradition or—"

"Not just him," Nathaniel interrupted.

She stopped.

Nathaniel looked her dead in the eyes. Every trace of rage had faded into something colder. Something darker.

"He's trying to move Blackwell Investments... into a Saudi state corporation."

The assistant's eyes widened—just a fraction—but it was enough. She understood. Not just the shock. Not just the frustration. No, she understood exactly why Nathaniel's fury had erupted like a volcano, why glass had shattered, why priceless antiques now lay in broken, glittering ruins around them.

And though she hated this place for the monster it pulled out of her boss, she couldn't deny it. This reaction was warranted. It was valid. Necessary, even.

Because what Nathaniel had just told her was not merely about Alexander Blackwell fleeing the country or resigning his citizenship—no. That was a headline. This… this was a seismic shift.

Blackwell Investments.

That name alone explained everything.

It was the cornerstone of the Blackwell dynasty. No, more than that—it was the unshakable pillar of modern capitalism. A multi-trillion-dollar beast that had grown beyond empire, beyond legacy. A global juggernaut. The greatest financial feat accomplished by any man of this century, perhaps even the last. The assistant had studied it in school, discussed it in business seminars, watched it dissected by economists, praised by professors, envied by rivals. It was more than a company—it was myth made real.

And that myth? It belonged to Cassius Blackwell, Alexander's father.

Blackwell Investments had embedded itself into the very bones of the global economy. It wasn't just too big to fail—it was too central to fall. If it did, it would take half the world with it. A company with a valuation north of three trillion dollars, woven through the energy markets, tech, banking, infrastructure, pharmaceuticals, even sovereign wealth—its collapse would not just shake Wall Street. It would cause a global financial apocalypse.

Everyone knew this. Every elite family across three continents had skin in the game. European royals. Middle Eastern sovereign funds. Asian conglomerates. American dynasties. All of them held stakes—hidden or public—in an industry that had the shadow of Blackwell Investments. It was a pie too big, too rich, too interconnected for any one family to attack directly.

And Nathaniel Rockefeller knew this better than anyone.

It was the only reason he'd never dared to utter the words "destroy it." He could humiliate Alexander, disgrace him, taint the family name. But to harm the company itself? That was a red line he wouldn't cross. Because doing so would mean hurting everyone. Everyone who mattered. Everyone powerful.

If he had tried to tear it down, he wouldn't have lived to tell the tale. His surname, his legacy, his father's influence—none of it would save him. He would be eliminated.

And worst of all?

His father would let it happen.

So instead, he had proposed an alternative. One that was almost palatable. One that seduced the other power players in its logic and strategy: Take it. Not destroy it. Divide it. Privatize it.

Break the monolith into pieces.

No one man, no single bloodline, should hold that much power. That was the case Nathaniel made when he gathered the elite around the table. It wasn't envy, he said. It was balance. For the sake of the global order. For the sake of "stability." Let them all have a piece of the goddamn pie.

But now, it wasn't just the talk of privatization sustaining the myth of Blackwell Investments.

The company had become a ghost.

Its headquarters—once an architectural marvel at the heart of the financial world—had been disbanded, emptied without warning. Entire floors once bustling with analysts, brokers, and strategists now stood hollow, their glass walls reflecting only silence. Employees, from executives to assistants, had vanished into the wind. No press release, no statement. Nothing. Just... absence.

And yet, the company hadn't died.

The only proof of its continued existence was in the shadows it cast across the global market. On the registry of major stockholders in the world's largest corporations—energy, banking, tech, infrastructure—Blackwell Investments remained a dominant, immovable presence. Anonymous board members. Proxy directors. Untraceable appointments. The only sign of life was the quiet weight of its holdings, and the calculated silence of its influence.

It was a phantom empire.

Even the campaign to destroy Alexander's public image—to paint him guilty, to exile him—was never truly about the man. It was always about the company. Keeping him distracted long enough to mount a real move against the crown jewel.

Now that he was free?

That made everything ten times more difficult.

And if he truly moved the company to Saudi Arabia, it would become nearly impossible.

The elite didn't care about public image. They understood the price of being seen too clearly. They had learned from the fall of kings and czars during the French Revolution. Visibility was vulnerability. Secrecy was safety.

But they knew the truth.

As long as Alexander held onto Blackwell Investments, he was untouchable. His exile was a façade. Financial institutions were already following him eastward. The smartest capital in the world was drifting to Saudi Arabia.

And that was the real blow.

To the elites, especially the Rockefellers, Saudi Arabia was sacred ground. It was the domain of oil. Their domain. And now Alexander was stepping onto that soil with the largest independent financial empire in modern history. It was an open declaration.

To the elites, it read one way:The Rockefellers have lost an ally. The Saudis are opening their doors to Blackwell.

Nathaniel had tried to do the very same thing showing the family had weakness and was not strong by trying to take one of the Blackwells' oldest allies—the Morgans—but if Alexander gained the royal family? That was a huge slap on his face.

But the assistant—she knew even more.

She knew the truth hidden behind the desert gold: the Saudi royal family's long-standing ambition to be more than oil, to transform into a financial titan. And she knew how the Rockefellers had spent years sabotaging every move in that direction, keeping them shackled to energy dependence, to ensure they remained reliant.

But with Alexander moving his company there?

With a $3 trillion financial juggernaut entering the region?

It would be a signal heard around the world.

Global financial institutions would pivot overnight. The narrative would change. What the Rockefellers tried to suppress for decades would unfold in weeks.

The Rockefeller dynasty wouldn't just be wounded.

It would be outplayed.

And as the assistant stood there, watching Nathaniel—slumped, defeated, still absorbing the reality—her mind raced. She couldn't just stand still. She couldn't let it end like this.

"We can stop him," she whispered.

Nathaniel didn't respond.

"We can stop the transfer," she pressed, sharper now. "There must be laws. National interest clauses. Regulatory hooks. A company like Blackwell Investments—this isn't just a business, it's a pillar of the global economy. There have to be restrictions on moving something of that size overseas."

That caught his attention.

He looked up.

Her eyes lit up, the pieces falling into place as she continued, "Even if we can't stop him entirely, we can delay him. And that delay... that could buy us just enough time—"

"To seize the company," Nathaniel finished, standing abruptly, the mattress bouncing slightly under his weight.

A jolt of energy returned to his frame.

"Yes. Yes! We just need to act fast. We stop the transfer, and we accelerate the acquisition." His mind was already racing. Strategies forming. Loopholes, lawyers, influence. Pressure points. The entire web was reawakening in his head.

A slow grin spread across his face.

"It's all there," he muttered, half to himself. "It was there all along."

He spun around, barking, "Get on the phone. We're flying back to New York. Tell Desmond to meet us as soon as we land. We have a company to take."

The assistant didn't hesitate. She turned and left, a satisfied smile pulling at her lips. She could feel it too—the momentum shifting again. The fire had returned to her boss. He was back.

As she stepped out, her phone already in hand, a group of maids entered to clean the wreckage he'd left in his earlier rage. They bowed politely, picking up shattered glass, resetting antiques, straightening cushions.

But Nathaniel didn't even see them.

He sat by the window, staring at the vast fields, the golden sunlight spilling across his face—his thoughts far ahead.

This was war. Not of guns or bombs.But of empires.

His lips curled into a smile. A cold, precise thing.He didn't need to shout to make the threat clear.

Just a whisper to the silence.

"Soon… very soon, you'll lose the thing that gives you your wings.Let's see how high you fly then, Alexander."