I Inherited Trillions, Now What?-Chapter 125: Landing II

As the plane touched down, a heavy silence settled inside the cabin, thick and unbroken. The only sound was the hum of the aircraft, a steady, droning vibration beneath their feet. Then the pilot’s voice crackled over the intercom, smooth and professional:

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have safely landed. It was a pleasure having you onboard. We hope you had a comfortable flight. Please remain seated until the aircraft comes to a complete stop. Thank you, and take care."

For a moment, no one moved. The weight of the journey seemed to press against the air itself, hanging there like an invisible force. Then, finally, Susan Beaumont stood up, her movements fluid, controlled, as though she had been waiting for precisely this moment to reclaim her space. She straightened her outfit with a composed air, smoothing down the fabric with the practiced efficiency of someone accustomed to high standards.

"Thank you for the ride. I’m going now," she said curtly, her voice carrying a clipped finality. Her hand flicked up to check her watch, and a frown flickered across her face before she turned to Alexander, her gaze sharp. "Thanks to someone, I’m already late."

Her words were a jab, a sharp quip meant to land, but there was something else woven into her tone—something lighter, something almost playful, a remnant of their earlier back-and-forth. A battle of wits that neither had quite conceded.

Alexander, still seated, merely watched her. His expression was unreadable, his dark eyes steady, unwavering. He didn’t react, didn’t counter, just studied her in silence, his gaze an anchor amidst the shifting energy around them.

Susan took a slow breath, exhaling deliberately. "Good day to you then, Mr. Blackwell," she said, her voice taking on a cool, indifferent tone, a mirrored reflection of his own usual aloofness.

He finally spoke. "Let me get Liam to take you where you need to go."

She waved him off dismissively, already turning. "Don’t bother. I can find my own way back, very much so. Goodbye, Alex."

Alexander’s gaze lingered on her, watching her retreat. He could have pressed, could have insisted, but he didn’t. Instead, he simply responded in that same measured tone of his, calm and deliberate. "Goodbye for now, Susan. It was nice having you around."

For the briefest second—so brief it could have been imagined—she hesitated. Not for long, just a fraction of a heartbeat, but it was there. Then, as quickly as it came, it was gone. Without another word, she picked up her bag and strode toward the exit.

As she reached the door, she paused again, her back still to him, her posture unreadable. It was the kind of pause that spoke of a thought left unspoken, of a moment suspended in indecision. But she didn’t turn. The door opened, and she stepped out into the awaiting world.

Alexander’s eyes stayed fixed on the open door long after she had disappeared from view. Something about the silence she left in her wake felt different—weighted, unsettling. The air around him felt thicker, charged with an almost imperceptible shift. It was a sensation he had learned to trust over the years, that instinctual pull that whispered of something about to go terribly wrong.

Still, he remained motionless, his fingers resting lightly on the armrest of his seat, his expression unreadable. It was only when Evelyn and a group of guards rushed toward him with hurried steps that he pulled himself back to the present. His brows knitted slightly. He didn’t like seeing his team move with such urgency unless something serious was happening.

"What happened?" he started to ask, his voice as steady as ever, but before he could finish, Susan’s voice rang out—urgent, worried, almost panicked.

"Alex!"

The way she said his name sent a sharp jolt through him, coiling tension into the muscles of his back and shoulders. The way she said it wasn’t casual, wasn’t just concern. It was alarm. And that was enough.

He was out of his seat in an instant, moving with swift, purposeful strides. His steps, usually measured and deliberate, were quicker than usual, almost urgent. The shift in his demeanor did not go unnoticed by those around him. Evelyn and four guards followed closely behind, their own expressions taut with unspoken tension.

Stepping out of the plane, Alexander’s sharp gaze immediately swept the area. His senses were already heightened, attuned to any potential threat. The air was thick with heat, the scent of jet fuel mingling with the crisp evening wind. But it wasn’t the weather or the mechanics of the airstrip that held his focus. It was the sheer, undeniable presence of something more.

Then he saw it.

A dense crowd—hundreds of people—stood just beyond the perimeter, separated from the private airstrip by a wall of wired fencing. They were not silent. No, they were shouting, chanting, their voices a storm of anger and energy. The air hummed with the sheer force of it, a rolling, relentless wave of sound that carried with it the weight of their demands. And in the midst of it all, flashing cameras from the press illuminated the chaos, their rapid, blinding bursts of light capturing every movement, every reaction.

Susan, still on the tarmac, was unharmed but visibly rattled. She had instinctively raised a hand to shield her face from the relentless flashing of cameras, her other hand clutching the strap of her bag with a tight grip. Her knuckles were white, her lips pressed into a tight line, but she wasn’t panicking. No, she was calculating, assessing. But even she wasn’t immune to the pressure of the moment.

Alexander exhaled sharply, a flicker of something dangerous flashing across his features before he quickly shrugged off his suit jacket. In a fluid motion, he moved towards Susan, draping the jacket over her head to shield her from the prying lenses. His movements were controlled, deliberate, but there was an unspoken urgency beneath them, an unyielding protectiveness that surfaced when necessary.

"Jack, you and Grant take one of the choppers and get Susan out of here now," he commanded without hesitation, his tone brooking no argument.

Grant moved immediately, signaling toward one of the helicopters stationed nearby, while Liam stepped forward, his stance firm, unwavering. "Miss Beaumont, please follow us."

Susan, still unsettled, shook her head. "No, I’m staying."

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Alexander’s gaze hardened. "No, Susan. Go. Don’t forget about your appointment."

She dismissed it outright. "I can reschedule. What’s going on? Since when does this happen? Are you okay?" she asked, her voice laced with genuine concern despite the rising clamor around them.

Alexander stood there, the crowd’s shouts growing more fervent behind him. The media had whipped them into a frenzy. Protesters pushed against the wired barriers, waving signs with bold, damning slogans. Some were printed, others hastily scrawled in thick black ink, but they all carried the same message—anger, accusation, demand. Among them, a chant had taken form, rhythmic and loud:

"Blackwell, Blackwell—time to pay! No more power, not today!"

"Lies, deceit—we won’t be beat!"

Flashes exploded like gunfire in the dimming daylight. The cameras never stopped. Every turn of his head, every flicker of emotion—it was all being captured, stored, and broadcast to the world.

"Susan, go. I’m fine," he said firmly, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade. There was no room for argument.

Susan hesitated, studying his face for a long moment before she sighed, relenting. "Okay. Just… take care of yourself," she said softly. Then, turning, she walked towards Liam, still hidden beneath the cover of Alexander’s jacket.

Alexander watched as she was led to the waiting helicopter, his eyes trailing her until she was safely inside. The rotor blades whirred to life, sending gusts of wind whipping through the air, scattering loose gravel across the tarmac. The sound of the crowd didn’t wane. If anything, their voices grew louder, emboldened by the spectacle of it all.

It was only then that he felt something brush against his leg. A slight touch, almost imperceptible. Looking down, he saw a folded piece of paper near his shoe. His gaze snapped up, tracking the source. Protesters had begun hurling them through the wire fence, their faces contorted with anger, their arms flinging the makeshift projectiles with forceful determination.

Evelyn, standing close, picked one up and handed it to him. Without a word, he took it and unfolded it.

It was a fake bill. But not just any bill—his own face had been printed onto it, a thick red ’X’ slashed across his features.

His jaw tightened slightly, but his expression remained unreadable. He turned the bill over in his fingers, studying it, noting the deliberate craftsmanship. It was calculated. Intentional. A message in itself.

The shouts of the crowd didn’t waver, the pulse of their anger relentless. The air around him was thick with tension, the kind that preceded a storm. And Alexander Blackwell stood in the center of it, unmoved, unaffected—watching, waiting, calculating his next move.

Alexander’s fingers tightened around the paper. His jaw set, his gaze lifting back to the mass of protesters. His eyes settled on one figure in particular—the man with the megaphone. The leader. The instigator.

Victor, one of his bodyguards, stepped forward. "Sir, the other chopper is ready. We need to leave before this turns into a riot."

Alexander didn’t move immediately. He stood there, absorbing the chaos, the weight of what was unfolding. His expression was unreadable, but beneath it, a slow, simmering anger burned.

"Sir, we need to go," Evelyn urged this time, more insistent.

Finally, he turned. "Let’s go," he said simply.

As the aircraft lifted off, Alexander stared down at the storm below. His fingers clenched into a fist.

And then, in a voice low enough that no one else could hear, he muttered under his breath:

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"So it begins."

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