I Inherited Trillions, Now What?

Desmond Blackwell was now a legal shareholder of 2% of Blackwell Investments. To the untrained eye, it was an insignificant percentage — not even the 5% required to trigger disclosure with the SEC. But Nathaniel Rockerfeller was no ordinary observer. His eyes, though calm on the surface, were trembling with a silent intensity. A casual glance might have missed the slight tremor in his hand, but it was there, betraying the gravity of the moment.

This wasn't just 2%.

This was leverage.

This was war.

Desmond, the man who had been a thorn in their side without owning a single share, was now inside the gates. This changed everything. With 2% legally recognized, the bureaucratic defenses Nathaniel had relied on were now compromised. No more stalling. No more delaying tactics. This was momentum — and Desmond had just acquired a loaded weapon.

Nathaniel understood the game. He lived for it. And now, the board had shifted.

With this, Desmond had made his own plans eighty percent easier to execute. No longer did he have to rely on indirect pressure or whispers in boardroom corridors. He could now file motions. Request audits. Demand transparency. The 2% gave him not just legitimacy but power. Combined with what People referred to as His "failures" — the calculated, seemingly failed moves in the past could now be seen as a design to set up this moment — everything now clicked.

Nathaniel smiled, a rare, genuine one, as he stared ahead at Desmond, who returned the gesture with a calm, knowing grin. It was a smile exchanged not between enemies, but between titans who understood each other.

"Ha ha, Desmond," Nathaniel chuckled, his voice betraying how pleased he truly was. "This is something else."

Desmond tilted his head slightly. "I figured you would like that."

Nathaniel's grin widened. "No, no... I don't like it." He leaned back, the satisfaction dripping from his words. "I love it."

A Few Hours Later – Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

The top floor of the Ritz-Carlton was quiet but tense. Inside Alexander Blackwell's private suite, converted into a temporary war room, papers littered the desk, graphs illuminated the screens, and the air was thick with strategy and danger. Alexander sat in the center, dressed in an impeccably tailored black suit, his eyes sharp as a dagger, absorbing data like a machine. Evelyn Harper, his executive assistant, moved briskly through files, while Sebastian, the loyal butler, stood nearby, dressed formally but clearly involved.

This was no ordinary gathering.

They were planning to shake the global economy.

"If we inject through the Shell proxies," Evelyn said, eyes glued to her tablet, "we can use Blackwell Shell Resources in Amsterdam, Oslo, and Lagos to flood the Brent market. We'll need production artificially increased by at least 38% across the front contracts."

Alexander nodded. "That gives us leverage to trigger the algorithmic selloffs. Evelyn, how fast can we get our Qatari contractors on the ground ready for the backdoor field expansions?"

"Two days, maximum," she said. "We've already pre-positioned crews under the maintenance contracts. The Saudis will officially deny involvement, but we've got their blessing."

Sebastian adjusted his cufflink. "The real issue is the NYMEX surveillance systems. If we're seen flooding too fast, they'll trigger emergency compliance."

Alexander leaned forward, his tone dark and decisive. "We use phantom trades in Singapore and Dubai. It'll look like panic selling from secondary suppliers. I want oil futures crashing to $18 a barrel within 36 hours. The moment we hit $21, Evelyn, begin shorting energy ETFs in Hong Kong and Toronto. Use shell firms."

"Understood," Evelyn said, fingers already moving. "We'll leverage all $1 trillion through the synthetic swap market, structured through Cayman feeder funds. Each tranche will be fragmented into 10 billion dollar segments to avoid institutional flags."

Sebastian's face tightened. "And what if someone catches wind?"

Alexander stood slowly, his presence dominating the room. "If anyone catches wind, we execute Operation Black Flare. Shut it down. Dissolve the proxies. Clean the trace."

Evelyn glanced up, her voice a rare whisper. "We lose the trillion."

Silence.

Even for them, a trillion was not pocket change.

"Then we don't fail," Alexander said coldly. "We've engineered recessions for less. We're not gambling — we're guiding the storm."

Maps of strategic oil terminals across Iraq, Venezuela, Nigeria, and Libya lit up the walls.

"Target Venezuela and Libya first," Alexander continued. "Use local unrest as cover. Pay off the militias if needed. The Saudis will announce a price war within 48 hours. That'll legitimize the crash."

Evelyn looked up from her notes. "We need to hit the derivatives market through London as well. Take down oil-dependent sovereign wealth funds. Norway, Nigeria, and Kazakhstan will bleed if we do it right."

Sebastian raised an eyebrow. "Isn't that a little too aggressive?"

"Aggression wins empires," Alexander said. "Fear wins silence."

As the city lights of Riyadh sparkled below, the room pulsed with dark brilliance. Each player in that room had blood on their hands — metaphorically or otherwise — and they knew they were orchestrating an event that could destabilize entire economies.

The mahogany doors of the strategy room creaked open, breaking the flow of conversation like a gunshot in a church. Every eye turned toward the entrance. Standing there, backlit by the soft chandelier light of the hallway, was Elisabeth Usher.

"You need to see this," she said simply, her voice even and laced with quiet gravity.

The room fell silent. Evelyn's lips, once dancing around market manipulation, went still. Sebastian straightened where he leaned by the window. Alexander's fingers froze over the glass of water he hadn't touched.

They followed her out, one by one.

The living room was bathed in the pale glow of the massive OLED television, already switched to a news channel. The red banner screamed BREAKING NEWS, and a familiar face filled the screen.

"Is that not—" Evelyn began, eyes narrowing.

"Young Master Desmond," Sebastian finished, his voice heavier than usual.

Alexander's jaw flexed. His younger cousin stood behind a podium, but this wasn't the Desmond he remembered. There was a cocky smirk. his idle charm. His face was Unburdened, but calm, eyes intense.

He adjusted the mic.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," he began, easing into the spotlight. "Now, I know what you're thinking: Who is this guy, and why does he look like the man you all want answers from?"

A few chuckles from the press room. Desmond smiled lightly.

"Yes, I know—I do resemble him. But I'm not here to confuse you. I'm here to clarify. My name is Desmond Blackwell. And I stand here today not to excuse, not to justify, but to make something undeniably clear."

He paused, face solemn now.

"I abhor what my cousin has done. I reject his actions. I reject his escape. I reject his betrayal."

The silence in the living room was thick.

Desmond continued:

"And that, ladies and gentlemen, is exactly why I'm here.

You see, my cousin Alexander wasn't always like this. He was raised on discipline, on respect, on legacy. He stood for something. But after the death of his father—my uncle, Cassius Blackwell—something inside him broke. And instead of healing, he turned his pain into destruction."

Alexander's fists clenched. His eyes never left the screen.

"He has begun tearing down the very legacy his father built, our fathers built together. And worse—he's now dragging my father's legacy into his spiral."

Desmond's voice grew heavier.

"For those who don't know, Blackwell Investments was never just a company. It was a dream—forged by two young men who came from nothing. My father and his brother. Two boys in New York, hustling through Wall Street with one vision: to build the greatest financial institution in America.

And they did.

We helped grow this nation's economy. We helped fund innovation, saved failing schools, revived communities. We weren't just numbers—we were hope.

We were the American Dream.

And now? One man wants to relocate it, dismantle it, and take it far from justice. Away from the country that made it possible. Away from accountability."

Desmond stepped forward.

"Not anymore because it's not just his legacy at stake anymore. It's our family. Our name. Our dreams. Blackwell Investments is not a toy. It's not a bunker for a fugitive. It's America's dream. Two boys—Cassius and my father—who built something from nothing. A company that grew industries, nurtured innovation, and gave millions a chance to dream bigger."

Evelyn gasped. Her hands trembled as she furiously dialed on her phone.

"We can't let that be taken. Not by one man's pain. Not by one man's ego."

He turned the page of his prepared speech.

"Alexander, in his spiral, has begun dragging our name through the mud. He's turning a symbol of strength into a shadow of scandal. And it broke my father's heart. So much that he signed over his shares—to me."

The room exploded.

Evelyn was pacing, shouting legal jargon into the phone: "Why didn't we get alerted to this transfer? What lawyer filed it?! Get me the Official registrar now!"

Elisabeth sipped her wine, her expression unreadable. Sebastian stood statue-still, fists clenched behind his back.

Alexander's eyes stayed glued to the screen.

"I watched my father deteriorate under the weight of betrayal," Desmond continued, voice tightening with emotion. "And I swore I would not let his years amount to nothing, I promised I'd uphold both their legacies. I promised I wouldn't let the company fall."

He stepped forward.

"So let me be clear. I will not stand by while Alexander attempts to relocate our company to foreign soil, dodging justice and regulation. That's not a Blackwell move. That's a coward's move."

Desmond took a breath.

"And so I'm taking action."

Desmond's eyes narrowed as he held up a sheet of paper.

"First—I'm blocking Alexander's plan to relocate the company. I've already filed complaints with the SEC and federal regulators. His attempt to shift Blackwell Investments to Saudi jurisdiction is under urgent review. We're invoking fraud and obstruction of justice laws to halt this."

"Second—we're filing an Emergency Derivative Suit. As the legal recipient of my father's shares, I have standing. I'll be arguing that Alexander's actions amount to criminal breaches of fiduciary duty and are detrimental to the company's interests."

"Third—we're triggering a federal investigation. Insider trading, embezzlement, racketeering—I'm submitting evidence to the DOJ and FBI. The company's internal dealings are too questionable to ignore."

Back in the living room, Evelyn's voice rang out in panic, her words barely audible over the phone. "Get the federal contact—NOW! This is spiraling!"

Desmond's tone grew colder, more deliberate.

"Fourth—while I only hold a fraction of the company, I have the leverage. I'm reaching out to the key investors, sovereign wealth funds, and financial institutions who are indirectly tied to Blackwell Investments markets. If Alexander won't sell, I will ensure he has no option but to surrender. I've already made arrangements to freeze his personal stake and restructure the company from the top down."

He leaned forward, his voice growing more intense.

"Fifth—if Alexander resists, we'll push for receivership. Blackwell Investments is too embedded in America's economy to be left in the hands of someone who would bring it down. If I have to, I'll step in and take control. It's that simple."

The camera zoomed in slightly, and Desmond's eyes flashed with cold resolve.

"And sixth—we're using your own tactics against you, cousin. Poison pills. White knights. But in reverse. If the board refuses to act, we dissolve the company, strip it down, and rebuild. Better. Stronger. Cleaner. Together."

The camera lingered on his face. Steady. Unblinking. Resolute.

"Alexander Blackwell is no longer fit—morally or legally—to lead. His time is up."

In the silence that followed, the entire room seemed to pulse. Evelyn slammed her phone down and stormed toward the stairs.

"Why the hell weren't we watching him?!" she shouted. "WHY?!"

Elisabeth swirled her wine lazily.

Sebastian glanced at Alexander, who remained motionless.

On the screen, Desmond's face lingered in a frozen headshot.

And then—he smiled.

Alexander leaned forward, his brows drawn like storm clouds.

Desmond's voice returned, soft, but cutting through the air like steel.

"Alexander… your time is up."

Glass cracked in Alexander's hand, blood trickling over the rim of his untouched water.