I Inherited Trillions, Now What?

Chapter 134: Protest Ending: Blackwells Downfall

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."