I Inherited Trillions, Now What?-Chapter 165: Blackwell Investments II

"Sir… are you sure about this?"

The question, though softly spoken, echoed with uncertainty and tension inside the luxury black sedan as it glided down the slick New York streets. It was past midnight. The city's neon glow painted streaks of blue and gold across the windows, but the interior of the vehicle remained cloaked in a hush of pressure and poise.

The voice belonged to a woman who, barely twenty-four hours ago, had been walking the marbled halls of a mansion in Texas. Not just any mansion—no, this was the mansion. The home and den of a man whom insiders, titans of industry, and global power brokers often whispered about in reverence and fear. He wasn't the President. He wasn't the head of the military. He wasn't a tech baron or a Silicon Valley darling. Names like the Secretary of Defense, the Federal Reserve Chair, and the CEO of Vanguard often floated in conversations about influence. But when it came to real power—the kind that bent nations, dictated markets, and rewrote the destinies of industries—there was only one name.

Gideon Rockerfeller.Thirteenth head of the Rockerfeller family. The man behind closed doors, behind black cards, behind blackmail. A kingmaker and, when needed, a kingbreaker. Gideon was not merely rich—he was power itself. His reach spanned continents. His hands were in everything: oil, arms, finance, media, medicine. Presidents bowed for his approval. Dictators feared his silence. His enemies either disappeared… or were forced to dine with him. The family's holdings weren't just vast—they were interwoven into the very fabric of modern civilization.

To be invited into his home was not just a privilege—it was a warning, a signal, an unspoken threat, and a blessing all at once.

And yet, seated beside her in the car, gazing ahead like a man chasing prophecy, was the one man who could eventually surpass even Gideon in sheer influence. Her employer. The heir. The strategist.

Nathaniel Rockerfeller.

The man she addressed with hesitance wasn't just her boss—he was her obsession, her burden, her storm. His name alone carried a weight that froze conversations. And while the world called Gideon the shadow king of the modern age, those close enough knew Nathaniel wasn't in his father's shadow. He was his evolution.

Still, despite all her knowledge of him—his intelligence, his ruthlessness, his remarkable composure—the anxiety churning in her stomach refused to quiet.

Ever since his outburst in Texas—an explosive mix of revelation, fury, and cold clarity—she had found herself hurled into a cyclone of meetings, deals, travel arrangements, secret phone calls, burner devices, and encrypted messages. She wasn't just his secretary anymore. She was his executor, his voice behind the curtains, his personal envoy. Her hands were deep in the orchestration of something enormous.

More than half the media buzz in the last few hours had her influence lurking beneath it—briefings altered, narratives planted, whispers stoked. Social media flamed with rumors, economic forecasters began to panic quietly, and several financial think tanks had already started running silent crisis simulations.

But now… now came the moment of ignition. The moment everything would begin.

And it terrified her.

Because she knew what was coming. She knew who was involved. And she knew exactly how high the stakes were. This wasn't a negotiation. This was war—executed with money, data, betrayal, and precision.

Nathaniel Rockerfeller was planning a hostile takeover.

Not just of any company. But of one of the largest, most iconic, and powerful corporations on Earth. A company so entrenched in Finance and global infrastructure that its boardroom decisions affected international law and public policy.

It wasn't the target that shook her. It was how it would be done—and who would help them do it. Ruthless financiers. Rogue titans. Disillusioned ex-diplomats. A few old, very dangerous names whispered only in closed circles.

Tonight, they were heading to meet the first player in this dangerous game. Someone even more instrumental than Nathaniel himself. Someone who would tip the scale, either toward success… or destruction.

The driver's voice snapped her from her thoughts.

"We're here, sir," he announced from the front seat.

Nathaniel turned to her then. His gaze, intense and unreadable, met hers.

She wanted reassurance. A word. A gesture. Something. Anything to calm the silent panic twisting through her veins.

But Nathaniel gave none.

He simply said, "Let's go."

Two words. Cold. Calculated. Committed.

Then he stepped out of the vehicle, not looking back.

She sat frozen for a beat longer, her hands clutching her tablet, her nerves screaming. Her eyes closed instinctively, taking a breath deeper than she'd taken in days.

And when they opened again… all trace of worry had vanished.

Her expression was flawless. Cold. Composed. Unbending. The kind of face that could walk into a boardroom full of murderers and billionaires and ask them to sign.

Eyes sharp. Spine straight. Mind like steel.

She was no longer the worried assistant.

She was the right hand of Nathaniel Rockerfeller. And right now, she had a war to help him win.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, and the pair stepped into the sleek corridor of a luxury high-rise in Manhattan. This wasn't just any building—it was the kind of place where billionaires rented penthouses to stay anonymous, hidden behind marble walls and brushed steel doors.

The floor was silent. Thick, soundproof carpeting muted every step as they walked side by side, their lone bodyguard following a few paces behind. A single guard was all they ever needed. When you were old money, you didn't flaunt protection; you embodied power. And when your name was Rockerfeller, the world knew better than to come close.

Her heels clicked softly as she walked, fingers tightly gripping a printed flyer in her hand. She pressed the elevator button earlier with a kind of precision only a seasoned executive assistant could master—floor 52, the top floor, the penthouse suite. The elevator ride had been swift and silent. Now, they stood in front of a door, unmarked, ordinary to the unknowing eye but significant to them.

"Okay," Nathaniel said with cool detachment, voice deep, unreadable.

She gave a single nod and knocked. Once. Twice.

No answer.

She knocked again, this time with a little more force. Still, nothing.

Just as she raised her hand a third time, a muffled voice echoed from inside through the hidden speaker system embedded in the wall. "I'm coming, I'm coming! Hold your horses."

She dropped her hand, her face hardening. Professional. Stone-cold. A mask she wore with perfection. Her features smoothed into an unreadable expression—no trace of irritation, just focus.

Nathaniel, beside her, remained expressionless, almost bored.

A moment passed. Then the door creaked open.

What greeted them was... a wall of flesh.

The man on the other side had one hand lazily tugging on a shirt, the other holding the door open. He was bare-chested, and his torso told a story of effortless athleticism. Toned muscles, light skin dusted with freckles and a scar near the left collarbone. His abs were visible for just a moment before he threw on a wrinkled shirt and grinned.

"Sorry about that. Come in."

His voice was warm, smooth, and confident, with just a hint of sleep still hanging on it. He stepped aside and gestured them in with a smile that felt like it had broken a thousand hearts.

Desmond Blackwell.

The living room was exactly what she expected from a man like him: a bachelor's lair. Masculine, yet chaotic. Art pieces leaned against walls instead of being hung. Vinyl records were scattered across a low glass table. There was an open pizza box on the kitchen counter, a leather jacket thrown over one of the bar stools. The scent of cologne lingered in the air like it hadn't fully settled from the night before.

She sat down stiffly, her legs crossed, back straight. She looked around with barely disguised discomfort. Everything screamed disorder, distraction. But Nathaniel—he simply sat, silent and still, his focus absolute.

She inhaled, steadied herself. This wasn't about her preferences or comfort. She had a role to play.

Desmond came back with a tray. Two glasses of water. One of orange juice.

"Sorry, I don't have anything fancier," he said, grinning as he handed it over. "I'm cutting back on the good stuff, you know what I mean?"

He chuckled, then turned to the bodyguard. "You want something, big guy? Whiskey? No? Protein shake maybe?"

He laughed at his own joke and gave the bodyguard a friendly slap on the shoulder. The guard didn't so much as flinch.

Didn't matter. Desmond plopped into the armchair across from Nathaniel and his assistant, still smiling like this was all just a casual hangout.

He winked at her.

Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

From the very moment she'd read his file, seen his records, and spoken to those who'd dealt with him, she had disliked Desmond Blackwell. Everything about him grated against her nature. Spoiled. Entitled. Shameless.

Of course, there were plenty of entitled people in their world. Even her own boss—Nathaniel—was one. But the comparison ended there. Nathaniel Rockerfeller had earned his entitlement. He was brilliant, ruthless, efficient. He carried the weight of his family name like a blade, cutting through deals and alliances with terrifying precision.

Desmond? He was a freeloader. Riding the coattails of his family legacy with nothing to show for it but charm and a last name. And yet, as much as it made her stomach twist, this man... this carefree, ridiculous man, was crucial.

After all he was Richmond Blackwell's son. Cassius Blackwell's nephew. And most importantly—he was first cousin to the man they were preparing to wage corporate war against: Alexander Blackwell.

The resemblance was impossible to ignore. Even with the different energy—Desmond radiating warmth and casual rebellion, Alexander radiating ice and quiet terror—their facial structure, jawline, and cold black eyes were almost mirror images.

She was still staring at him when Nathaniel finally spoke.

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"Desmond," his voice low, steady, "Are you ready?"

Desmond exhaled slowly, leaning further back into the chair. He stared up at the ceiling for a moment, then back at them.

"I don't know, man," he said, his tone light but honest. "This whole takeover thing... I'm not really feeling it anymore, honestly."

His words fell like a thunderclap.

The assistant's face froze before it twisted into disbelief.

"What do you mean you're not feeling it anymore?" she snapped, her voice rising in alarm. "Do you think this is some college group project you can just drop out of? After all that's been planned? After all the resources we've spent, all the—"

Her voice was sharp now, tight with fury, but she stopped mid-rant.

A hand had risen beside her.

Nathaniel's.

She straightened herself, exhaling slowly as she eased back into her seat. Her throat cleared, sharp and composed, but the tension clung to her like a second skin. Across from her, Desmond had seen it all—her bristling anger, her forced calm—and of course, he couldn't help himself.

"Wow," he said, eyes gleaming with mischief. "Your assistant's really feisty, isn't she?"

His voice carried a blend of flirtation and sarcasm, smooth as silk and just as slippery. He leaned in, resting his elbow on the armrest, chin tilted slightly in amusement.

"I can see why she's such a hot topic in the circles."

Her face twisted. A grimace. A flare of indignation. Her hands curled into fists on her lap, and for the briefest moment, she looked ready to pounce.

Nathaniel, however, didn't even flinch. He simply continued, as though Desmond hadn't spoken.

"Desmond," he said, his voice low, authoritative, final, "everything has already been set up. All the preparations have been made. It just remains to take the final step."

Desmond smiled lazily. Not smug. Not arrogant. Just... completely unbothered.

"But I don't really want it anymore, you know?" he said, waving his hand vaguely in the air as if swatting away the whole empire they'd spent years building.

He stood up, stretching as he wandered a few feet away, gesturing around his penthouse like a showman. "I've got a great view, a gym I never use, a club that has really great sound system, and zero obligations. My days are spent sleeping, training, sleeping again, hanging out with people who aren't trying to run a hostile takeover."

He turned, flashing a grin. "I've got balance. Peace. No corporate meetings. No fake smiles at charity galas. No boardroom sharks in Brioni suits trying to out-snarl each other. Honestly, all that lifestyle stuff? The business deals, the traps, the betrayals... it's not for me."

The assistant's teeth clenched. "You—"

But she was cut off before she could even lunge again.

"What do you want?" Nathaniel asked.

His voice was calm, but firm now—piercing through the conversation like a blade. The question dropped like a stone in water, sending ripples through the room.

The assistant blinked, stunned. She hadn't expected that. Even the bodyguard, who had stood like a silent statue until now, shifted his stance slightly, alert.

Desmond, on the other hand, looked delighted. His smile widened as he spread his arms theatrically.

"What more could I possibly want?" he said, stepping back with a slight spin, like a performer on stage. "I mean, look at my life!" He gestured toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, the sun pouring in like gold. "I wake up when I want. Eat what I want. Hook up with whoever I want. No expectations. No legacy chains. Just vibes."

Nathaniel didn't blink. "What. Do. You. Want?"

This time, the words came colder, harder. The smile on Desmond's face wavered—just for a second—as he finally noticed the look in Nathaniel's eyes. That look wasn't playful. It wasn't amused. It was patient, but at its edge... a warning.

Desmond sighed, shoulders rising and falling as he leaned against the back of the couch.

"Well, it's not what I want, per se," he said, drawing the moment out, eyes trailing past them toward the hallway. "It's more like... what She wants."

Then, without warning, he turned his head and shouted.

"Hey! Come here! They wanna hear what you want!"

The room froze.

The assistant's head snapped around. "What? Who—who is that?" she asked, her voice sharp, eyes darting toward the back hallway in alarm.

The bodyguard moved instantly, stepping in front of Nathaniel, his hand subtly reaching toward his side.

Nathaniel's face darkened, his gaze following Desmond's. No one had been authorized to be here. Desmond was reckless, yes—but this was borderline idiotic.

"You brought someone here?" he asked, his tone low and dangerous.

Desmond just leaned back and crossed his legs, calm as a cat in sunbeam. "Relax. I didn't bring them. They were already here." He flashed a maddening grin. "I just... didn't stop them."

Footsteps.

Light, deliberate ones.

The sound echoed down the hallway.

All three turned as the figure stepped into view—and one by one, their expressions changed.

The assistant's eyes widened first, her jaw slackening.

The bodyguard's hand paused mid-draw.

Nathaniel's breath visibly caught.

And Desmond?

Desmond watched their faces with glee. A child at Christmas.

The figure emerged from the shadows—elegant, poised, and far too familiar.

"Well," Desmond said, practically glowing. "Now it's a proper party."