I Inherited Trillions, Now What?

Magnus walked into the penthouse office, his legs unsteady, his hands clammy with sweat. The weight of the moment bore down on him like a vice, his every step a struggle against the overwhelming sense of dread that gripped him.

For all his wealth, for all his years of experience navigating the treacherous waters of high society, for all the thousands of employees who lived under the shadow of his influence, here—inside this office—he felt small. Insignificant.

Because he was standing before Nathaniel Rockefeller.

Nathaniel Rockefeller. A name that sent shivers down the spines of even the most powerful. A man whose influence stretched far beyond the financial world, beyond politics, beyond the reach of common understanding. His power was the kind that remained unseen but ever-present, the kind that dictated the rise and fall of giants.

Magnus had seen that power firsthand. He had played a role—however small—in the calculated destruction of Alexander Blackwell, another titan, another man Magnus had once thought untouchable. But now, as he stood in Rockefeller's office, witnessing firsthand the master of the game, he realized just how vast the gap between them truly was.

Nathaniel was seated at his desk, pen in hand, methodically signing documents as if Magnus wasn't even there. The only sound in the room was the quiet scratch of ink against paper, the ticking of an antique clock, and Magnus's own erratic breathing.

Then, finally, the voice came. Calm. Controlled.

"Magnus, enter."

The words were simple, yet they carried the weight of absolute authority. Magnus stepped forward, his hands clasped together to stop them from trembling.

"How is your daughter?" Nathaniel asked without looking up.

Magnus stiffened, his mind flashing to Barbara Longbottom—the most talked-about woman in the nation, perhaps even the world. Her face was plastered across every platform, every screen, every front page. Not as the brilliant luxury curator she had once been, but as a victim. A woman who had been used, broken, manipulated by Alexander Blackwell—or at least, that was the story now.

'She was used for my ambition.'

The thought came unbidden, creeping into his mind like a parasite. His darling little girl, dissected and scrutinized by a world that claimed to care but only sought to use her for their own purposes. Supporters weaponized her pain for their own agendas, while detractors tore her apart, dredging up old photos, videos, rumors—anything to justify their twisted narratives.

But whose fault was it?

'Not mine,' Magnus thought. 'No, it wasn't me.'

His eyes flickered to Nathaniel, a man Barbara's age, yet infinitely more powerful. A man who had orchestrated everything. Nathaniel had sent his secretary, subtly pushing Magnus into the deal with Blackwell, making it clear that refusing was not an option. The consequences would have been dire—ruinous.

'It wasn't my fault,' Magnus thought again. 'I had no choice.'

The more he repeated it, the more real it became.

'Yes, it was Nathaniel. He forced my hand. It was his plan all along. I couldn't do anything to stop it.'

The frantic denial consumed him, twisting his thoughts, absolving him of all guilt. The wise, scholarly businessman—the image he had so carefully cultivated over the years—was at complete odds with the sniveling, cowardly wreck his mind had become. He clung to his newfound truth, desperate to wash his hands of responsibility.

'They forced me. They caused it all.'

Magnus swallowed, forcing the lump down his throat. That was why he was here. Because both he and his daughter had been used.

Barbara had changed.

At the hospital, after he had shouted at her, after he had forced her to go along with the plan, she had withdrawn. She no longer spoke to him. She no longer confided in him.

She no longer trusted him.

The thought sent a pang of something through his chest, but he quickly pushed it away. It wasn't his fault.

Clearing his throat, he finally spoke. "Mr. Rockefeller, about my daughter…"

Nathaniel didn't look up.

"She's behaving… strangely," Magnus continued, shifting nervously. "She's withdrawn. She doesn't talk to me, she barely acknowledges me. She won't even tell me what happened that night. I—" He hesitated before adding, "I don't even know if they actually had anything…"

Nathaniel finally lifted his gaze, those piercing eyes locking onto Magnus's. "And how is that a problem?"

Magnus faltered. "Well, sir, with her not listening to me… won't she say everything we did?"

"Everything we did?" Nathaniel repeated, tilting his head slightly, as if the words were foreign to him.

Magnus swallowed hard. Why was he acting like he didn't understand? "Yes, won't she tell the truth?" he asked, his voice almost pleading.

Nathaniel leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. Then, in a voice like steel, he declared:

"The truth?"

The sheer weight of those words sent a shudder down Magnus's spine.

"The truth is what I make it to be."

Magnus's breath hitched.

Nathaniel's voice remained steady, absolute. "And that truth is that she was abused. That Alexander Blackwell is the one responsible. Simple as that."

Magnus's knees felt weak.

"Now," Nathaniel continued, his tone final, unyielding, "you should be a good father and go take care of your daughter. She will need you during these trying times."

The unspoken command hung heavy in the air. Magnus understood what it meant.

He had no power here.

His daughter's truth—his truth—was whatever Nathaniel Rockefeller decided it was.

Magnus nodded rapidly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Yes, sir."

Nathaniel gave him one last look before returning to his paperwork, his silence an unmistakable dismissal.

Magnus didn't hesitate. He turned on his heel and hurried out of the office, his heart hammering against his ribs, his thoughts spiraling, his denial deeper than ever.

Outside the office doors, as he caught his breath, he repeated the thought again.

'It wasn't my fault.'

And this time, he almost believed it.

As Magnus hurried out, his fear palpable in every hurried step, another figure stepped into the office. This time, it was someone Nathaniel actually wanted to see. His secretary entered with her usual composed demeanor, but there was something different in her eyes—an unease that was rarely there.

Nathaniel, still seated, barely glanced up as he spoke. "Status."

She didn't answer immediately. Instead, she hesitated—a hesitation he noticed. That alone was enough to tell him that whatever she had to report, it was more than routine.

"Sir… the burnt body at the scene—it was Tom's," she said carefully, watching for any reaction.

Nathaniel didn't so much as blink.

She pressed on, her voice steady but probing. "Tom, one of your bodyguards. The one you sent with the activist to create the distraction so we could get Barbara out."

Nathaniel finally nodded, as if acknowledging a minor inconvenience. "He did his job perfectly. After all of this is settled, see that his family receives something adequate to help them cope with their loss. He was a good man."

His voice was low, measured. But she knew better. There was no true remorse behind those words. It was just another move on the board to him. The thought twisted something inside her, but she remained professional, forcing herself to stay on task.

"And there's another issue," she continued, her grip tightening slightly around the file she was holding. "The activist—Michael Zellar—the one Tom was assigned to handle? The person we had watching over him just called in. It seems Zellar just found out that his friend died due to a bullet wound after that nigth. He's panicking. Threatening to expose everything. He's saying he was set up, that he was being led by forces behind the scenes. He's demanding answers. He's saying he'll go public."

Nathaniel remained impassive, processing the information with the cold efficiency of a man who never let emotions interfere with business. Then, in that same calm, unshaken tone, he said, "He isn't of much use anymore. Using Barbara's plight has already achieved its purpose. Alexander is either going to be held or, at the very least, distracted and indisposed for the time being. That's all that matters."

He leaned back slightly, his fingers tapping the desk in a rhythmic motion, his mind already calculating several moves ahead.

"Tell whoever is handling Zellar to take care of him by whatever means necessary. He was part of the arson group, wasn't he?" Nathaniel finally said, his voice devoid of any emotion. "They can use that to tie him up."

A simple sentence. A casual remark. And just like that, Michael Zellar—a once-bright and passionate activist, a man who had believed he was fighting for justice—was sentenced. His fate sealed in a matter of seconds.

The secretary swallowed but said nothing. She had long accepted the nature of the world she worked in. But then Nathaniel did something unexpected—he sighed.

"I know what you're thinking," he said, finally looking up and meeting her gaze.

For a second, she thought about denying it. About playing dumb. But what was the point? He knew. He always knew.

"Two people are dead," she said, her voice laced with something she rarely let show—judgment.

Nathaniel tilted his head slightly, studying her. "A very tragic circumstance. But one that was out of our control."

Her lips pressed into a thin line. "Out of our control?" she repeated, the words sharp. "Out of our control? Nathaniel, you orchestrated this entire thing."

A flicker of amusement passed through his eyes, but it was gone just as quickly.

"Tom's death," he said, his voice measured, "I can take responsibility for. He was working under my instructions. But that's all they were—instructions. At any point, he could have walked away. I did not force him. And he knew the risks. And as for the second one…" Nathaniel let out a small, almost disappointed sigh. "Michael Zellar made his own choices. He decided to be part of the chaos. He involved himself willingly. His and all their actions led to this. Not me."

The secretary remained silent, but her eyes stayed locked on his, unwavering.

Nathaniel leaned forward, his presence towering even while seated. "Let me make one thing clear," he said, his voice dropping lower, more dangerous. "I will not tolerate unnecessary distractions again. What's done is done. The only direction we move now is forward. Irrelevant emotions—guilt, hesitation, regret—they have no place here. They belong to people who lack the power to shape the world. I am not one of those people. And neither are you. So do not waste your breath trying to assign blame where it does not matter. Do you understand?"

The weight of his words settled between them, heavy and suffocating. The secretary clenched her fists, but she nodded.

Nathaniel leaned back again, satisfied. "Good. Now, moving forward—what's the status on Alexander's arrest?"

She took a breath, steadying herself, then answered, "Commissioner Aldridge has already immobilized the NYPD and the task force. In a few moments, Alexander Blackwell will be arrested."

At that, a slow, satisfied smile spread across Nathaniel's lips.

"I would very much love to see that," he murmured, already picturing the scene. Alexander Blackwell, dragged out in chains, humiliated, his empire crumbling beneath him. That smug look finally wiped off his face.

It was a sight he needed to see. A moment he would savor.

"Ready the car," Nathaniel said, standing up. "I'm going there myself."