I Inherited Trillions, Now What?-Chapter 175: Recap

This wasn't a case of evidence. This wasn't a battle of facts. This was a calculated war—one that should've been decided, orchestrated behind the scenes with power, money, and control.

And yet… here they were.

Because of him.

Not Laura Usher.

Alexander Blackwell.

They hadn't even laid eyes on him once. He hadn't stepped into the courtroom a single time. But his presence loomed like a sword over the proceedings. His absence was his statement. And his lawyer—Harvey Lancaster—was everything they feared and more.

For the first time in years, Whittaker had been forced to pivot, to adapt, to scramble. Harvey was no ordinary attorney. He was an apex operator—fluent in strategy, ruthless in execution. He had matched Whittaker move for move, counter for counter. And more than once, he'd forced them to burn their prepared angles just to stay afloat.

This wasn't a trial anymore. It was a chessboard with fire under it.

Whittaker stepped forward now, bowed slightly from the waist, his voice quiet but weighted.

"I deeply apologize, Young Master Rockefeller. I underestimated their level of resistance. I should have been better prepared. The contradictions they raised… I failed to neutralize them. I accept full responsibility."

He didn't rise.

Neither did his legal team, who followed his lead—bowing, acknowledging not only the failure… but the cost.

Nathaniel let the moment sit. He stared at them—grown professionals, all once kings in their own spheres, now stooped before him. Then he waved a hand.

"It's not your fault. The lawyers on their side… they've proven more capable than expected."

There was no mockery in his voice—only exhaustion. Cold disappointment. He had seen enough legal wars to know brilliance when it showed up.

"He hired well," Nathaniel added, glancing toward the floor as if seeing through it to the courtroom below. "Alexander knew exactly what kind of fight this would be."

And that was the bitter truth.

Alexander Blackwell, ghost that he was in this trial, had come prepared in every sense. He hadn't sent a message. He was the message.

Whittaker slowly straightened, his expression hardening with that grim realization.

Nathaniel stepped forward now, voice quieter, laced with something darker.

"It's not your fault," he repeated. "Even in here, things have been... unsatisfactory."

Everyone in the room knew exactly what he meant.

Deals that were meant to secure the ruling. Back channels that should have been effective. Promises made to men in robes and those behind closed doors.

All failed.

But it wasn't because the judge was incorruptible.

No.

It was something much simpler… and far more dangerous.

Alexander had gotten to them first.

Using the leverage of Saudi backing, Alexander had taken a gamble no one expected. Oil—black gold, the lifeblood of global commerce—had become his silent weapon. And he wielded it with terrifying precision.

He hadn't just secured Saudi support in principle—he had aligned with its influence at the very root of global infrastructure. By placing their oil interests squarely behind him, he had done something unthinkable: he put pressure on the elite families—not with threats or blackmail—but by endangering the very foundations of their empires.

Construction. Aviation. Shipping. Steel. Plastics. Transport logistics. Every industry with even a toe in international waters trembled at the thought of oil scarcity or a reshuffling of distribution. And Alexander had carefully nudged the Saudis to start redirecting those flows.

Suddenly, those same elite families who had once salivated at the idea of cracking open Blackwell Investments like a golden vault… fell eerily quiet. Greed turned to calculation. They couldn't afford to anger the boy who had just placed a dagger beneath their own industries' throats. So, they did what all powerful cowards do when faced with a smarter adversary: they stayed their hands. Neutral. Watching. Waiting. Hesitant.

It had been genius on Alexander's part—strategic, elegant, devastating. He didn't need to destroy them. He only needed to make them uncertain.

And that uncertainty rippled far beyond the courtroom.

In fact, the shockwaves were so severe that the Rockefeller family had pushed up their annual meeting by two full weeks—a decision not taken lightly. For the older generations, this wasn't just a legal hiccup. It was confirmation. Decades of scheming, resource control, and political positioning—especially against Saudi influence—had been undone in a single, brilliant sweep.

Their quiet monopoly over oil routes, their carefully orchestrated partnerships, even their underground connections with Russia—everything was being reshuffled, clawed back, or frantically reinforced. They were fighting to maintain the illusion that if Saudi stopped selling tomorrow, they'd still be fine. But inside… they knew. Alexander had shaken the earth beneath their polished shoes.

Nathaniel Rockefeller, however, didn't let that show.

He shook his head slowly, collecting his thoughts, before addressing the room again—his voice low but filled with conviction.

"Even still," he said, glancing from one lawyer to the next, "we've made a statement. A damn strong one. And Whittaker—" he turned his eyes to the veteran lawyer, "—you've done a remarkable job. I know this. We all know this."

A wave of relief, silent but palpable, swept through the tense room.

"Your closing statement," Nathaniel continued, voice now sharper, "just has to drive it home. I have faith. We will clinch this."

At that, the last of the suffocating weight lifted from the team. The lawyers—battle-weary and relentless—exchanged determined nods. They wouldn't waste this momentum. They would sharpen every word, perfect every inflection, and turn their final statement into iron. No ambiguity. No weakness. No mercy.

Yet, while energy reignited in the room, one man sat still. Almost too still.

Desmond Blackwell.

Despite his sharp tongue, his usual sardonic grins, and a reputation for never taking anything seriously, Desmond was silent now. He wasn't smiling. He wasn't smirking. His face was hard. Unreadable.

He watched Nathaniel speak. Watched the fire in the lawyers' eyes. Watched Whittaker's stoic nod and the way the team buzzed with renewed purpose.

And despite being the man in the news—the face of this case, the claimant, the one suing and being sued—he felt something bitter.

He felt like the loser.

Not because the case was hopeless. On the contrary, he knew they had a real shot. A strong one, even. But the weight he carried came from something else. Something no judge could rule on.

His cousin.

Alexander Blackwell.

He'd done all of this to become CEO of Blackwell Investments—to finally take what he believed was his by birthright. "I am a Blackwell too," he thought, the words cutting deep.

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He and his father had been discarded. Pushed aside like irrelevant stock. And all his life, Desmond wanted to prove they had made a mistake. To show that he could be just as great. Greater. That it was never about capability—it was about bloodlines and control.

He wanted to do it for himself. For his father. To remind them all that power didn't belong to just one branch of the tree.

But now? After this trial?

Even if Alexander lost, even if Blackwell Investments went public, Desmond knew—knew in his gut—that he would never get to sit in that CEO chair. That dream had died, quietly, painfully.

Because Alexander had taken something from him. Or rather, obliterated it.

For an entire day in court, Desmond had been the target. Not just in legal terms—but in spirit. His cousin, cold and calculating, had orchestrated a character assassination so brutal it left no doubt. Every fault, every addiction, every misstep Desmond had ever made had been magnified and dragged into the courtroom under harsh fluorescent lights.

It wasn't strategy. It was personal. It had been a public flaying of his very soul.

He remembered how Harvey—Alexander's lawyer—never raised his voice, never made it theatrical. Just calm, relentless fact after fact, flaw after flaw, like a surgeon slicing through flesh with sterile precision. And Alexander had watched it all with cold eyes. No remorse. No restraint. Ruthless.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. But it had worked.

So Desmond sat there now, surrounded by people who believed the war could still be won, and he said nothing. Because he knew the truth.

Nathaniel Rockefeller wasn't his ally. Never had been. He had his own agenda. And Desmond had played right into it, thinking they shared a goal. Maybe they had. But only one of them would ever truly benefit.

And after that brutal courtroom day, Desmond knew… it wouldn't be him.

He felt hollow now. Stripped. Used. The flame inside him, the one that had burned for revenge, was flickering.

And yet, even in his emptiness, something darker began to rise.

If he couldn't be CEO…

Then no Blackwell should be.