I Inherited Trillions, Now What?-Chapter 174: Court III

Her face was the portrait of calm. Spine straight, jaw set, hands folded neatly in her lap. She hadn't flinched when Wexler made his declaration. Hadn't so much as blinked when the shouting began.

But inside her mind, a hurricane howled.

This wasn't supposed to happen. Not like this.

She had bet everything on this case going the way she needed it to—slowly, predictably, with enough media cycles to manage the fallout and redirect the narrative.

She had dreamed big. And she had been promised big.

Since taking office, Laura had championed growth, infrastructure, and aggressive state-level tax reform. She'd sold herself as the face of a modern, self-sustaining New York. And Blackwell Investments— formerly headquartered in lower Manhattan, with dozens of subsidiary networks and billions in untaxed potential—had become her unspoken obsession.

Those shadowy figures who'd approached her through party channels had seen that fire in her eyes. They never gave their names. Just whispered possibilities. Pushed folders across polished tables. Laid out a roadmap.

"If Blackwell falls," they had said, "New York rises."

She'd hesitated at first—deeply. Who were they? What power did they truly have? When she asked her party chairman, he just gave her a grim look and muttered:

"It's better if you don't know."

She should've walked away.

But the money… God, the money.

The IRS audit had already shown what Blackwell had concealed. The taxes they could've paid. What New York could've earned. If she could reel that in, she'd nearly double the state's yearly collection. Just the headlines alone—"Governor Hayes Reins in Rogue Titan"—could have vaulted her into national attention.

She saw the path so clearly:

Re-election.

Then a Senate seat.

And from there… perhaps the White House.

She hadn't just dreamed it. She had started to plan for it.

And now?

Now that dream lay broken at her feet.

The news had come fast, like a sucker punch.

If Judge Wexler ruled in favor of the Saudi transfer, Blackwell would be gone. Not just its untapped tax. All of it. The tax base. The contributions. The regulatory grip. One of New York's biggest corporate entities—vanished like smoke.

And with it, her promises, her projections, her political credibility.

Behind her calm face, Laura could feel the tremor of collapse. Polling data from the past 72 hours had already shown a dip—her strongest donors growing nervous. Now, whispers of investors pulling out of the financial district had become undeniable. Foreign firms were freezing negotiations. Real estate moguls were postponing development plans.

New York, her New York, the financial capital of the world, was beginning to flicker.

And so was she.

Still she sat. Unmoving. Unyielding. A statue of resolve in a courtroom of volatility.

But then—finally—something gave.

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A slow exhale. Her shoulders tensed. Her lips moved slightly.

Not loud. Not performative. Just a whisper. A private prayer.

"Let it be Desmond... let it be Desmond... let him rule to keep them here..."

It wasn't just Governor Laura Hayes who was feeling the heat.

Across the courtroom gallery, cloaked in the sharp cut of a bespoke navy suit and the pressure of his nation's expectations, His Excellency Ambassador Nasser Al-Fulan, Saudi Arabia's top diplomat to the United States, was visibly unraveling.

His hands gripped his phone like a lifeline, jaw clenched, voice sharp and tense. His usual diplomatic poise had evaporated.

"Who the hell is this lawyer?! Why is the case being moved? Today?!" he snapped in Arabic-accented English. "You told me they'd stall! That the SEC would block it!"

On the other end, a powerful American oil executive spoke in a hushed but helpless tone. "Nasser, listen to me. There's nothing we can do now. The motion went through federal priority. If the judge rules in Blackwell's favor, we appeal. That's all we have left."

"Appeal?" Nasser echoed, seething. "Appeal?! What do you think will happen to the oil futures if that druggie wins?! What happens to the leverage?! What happens to us?!"

Silence.

"They're already talking sanctions if we don't play ball," the voice finally said. "This is spiraling."

But Nasser wasn't listening anymore. With a trembling hand, he ended the call.

"Shit," he muttered, pacing a few steps. "Shit, shit—"

And then it hit him, colder than D.C. air in February: The Crown Prince's voice, low and deadly from their last secure call in Riyadh.

"If Blackwell Investments stays in America... don't come back. Not as Ambassador. Not as a citizen."

That was no empty threat. That was exile. And for a man who had lived like royalty on American soil—in mansions draped in gold, with access to senators, presidents, and billion-dollar circles—this courtroom verdict would either secure his future… or end it.

Now, all he could do was hope—pray, even—that the court ruled in favor of Miss Usher and approved the transfer of Blackwell Investments to Saudi Arabia.

He straightened his suit, mask back on, and started walking toward his assigned seat.

Then, chaos.

"AMBASSADOR! AMBASSADOR NASSER!" a hoarse voice cried out.

Nasser barely turned before a disheveled man lunged out of the press row—a journalist, clearly on the brink. His blazer was stained, tie dangling, hair wild as straw. Eyes red. A man who hadn't slept in days. A man chasing something far bigger than a headline.

"What are you planning to do with the oil?!"

Security snapped to attention.

"You're hoarding it, aren't you?!" the man shouted. "Why increase production when you're not even selling?! Tell us the truth!"

Nasser flinched back as the man grabbed his sleeve. "What—who IS this lunatic?!" he shouted, trying to yank his arm free.

"The oil!" the journalist shrieked. "It's about the oil! That's what this whole case is! You don't want Blackwell in Saudi—you want control!"

"Get off me!" Nasser snarled, eyes wide with fury and fear. "Guards!"

But the man wouldn't stop. "Don't you see? Blackwell isn't just a company—it's a keystone! If you win, you control the supply! You control everything!"

Security poured in, tight and efficient. This was, after all, the final day of a case that had drawn in senators, billionaires—and the President of the United States himself. Protocol was ironclad.

They yanked the reporter back as he kicked and screamed, "Can't you see it?! It all points to the oil! It's right there—open your eyes!"

"GET HIM OUT!" Nasser roared, chest heaving.

As the man was dragged away, still howling his warnings, Nasser turned to the security captain, who was stammering out an apology.

"I'm so sorry, Your Excellency, this shouldn't have happened—"

Nasser snapped, fury spilling past his mask. "هل تسمي هذا أمنًا؟"

("You call this security?")

"حتى حفلات الزفاف عندنا أكثر ترتيباً من هذا!"

("Even our weddings are better guarded than this farce!")

The guards bowed and stepped aside as he stormed back into the courtroom.

But what awaited him wasn't relief.

The main gallery was buzzing, torn apart by whispers, analysts clashing live on the air, aides rushing in and out. Yet beyond the chaos, something was off.

The recess rooms—one for Miss Usher's team, the other for Desmond Blackwell's—remained shut. Still. Silent.

No voices. No movement. No strategizing.

Just... a heavy, unnatural stillness.

A storm was coming.

And the ones who should've been panicking? They were waiting in the shadows like they knew something the rest of the world didn't.

Seventeen minutes.

That was all that stood between the court… and whatever fate had just been set in motion.