I Inherited Trillions, Now What?-Chapter 166: Surprise guest and question

Inside Desmond Blackwell's luxurious high-rise apartment, tension hung in the air like a storm waiting to break.

Nathaniel Rockerfeller could hardly believe what he was seeing.

He had always known Desmond to be unpredictable—volatile, even. A man who lived for chaos and thrived in the margins of propriety. Someone Nathaniel would never, under normal circumstances, associate with. But Desmond wasn't just anyone. His worth, his access, and his connections made him difficult to ignore.

Still, this—this—was beyond what even Nathaniel had anticipated.

Across from him, his assistant sat frozen, her composure visibly shaken. Her lips parted slightly as if to speak, but the words faltered and died before they could take form.

"That's…" she whispered, her voice trailing into a stunned hush, disbelief etched across her face.

Nathaniel's gaze shifted.

His bodyguard, who had previously tensed at Desmond's call across the room, had now returned to his post, but not without a sharp look that suggested he was still on high alert. Something about this moment felt charged—dangerous even—but layered in velvet.

Nathaniel's eyes moved next to Desmond himself, who leaned back with the ease of a man watching his favorite movie unfold. That damn grin was still plastered across his face—mischievous, boyish, and utterly pleased with himself.

Nathaniel could feel the balance of the meeting slipping away from him, but he wasn't a man who surrendered control so easily.

With calm deliberation, he stood from his seat.

The movement was simple, fluid, but deliberate. As he passed his assistant, he saw her eyes flick toward him—wide, questioning, as if asking, What do we do now?

He offered her nothing in return.

All his attention was on the figure now standing just inside the room.

And as Nathaniel approached, Desmond's grin widened even more, practically glowing with triumph. It was as if he were watching a game unfold exactly as he'd hoped.

Nathaniel didn't pause, didn't hesitate.

He came to a stop directly in front of the unexpected guest. Towering above her, he looked down—but not with intimidation. There was curiosity in his eyes, and a flicker of something more dangerous buried deep beneath his otherwise controlled expression.

His voice, when it came, bore none of the surprise he felt. Instead, it was calm. Measured. Masterfully neutral.

"Good day, Miss Blackwell."

A pause.

Then the faintest curve of a smirk touched his lips.

"So," he continued, his tone now laced with subtle amusement, "what is it you want?"

Standing before him, unshaken, was none other than Caroline Blackwell.

The only daughter—and sole heir—of Alexander Blackwell.

The Blackwell heiress herself.

Despite the considerable height difference between them, Caroline stood with a regal stillness that made her seem statuesque. There was an air of nobility about her that came not from arrogance, but from knowing exactly who she was and the power that came with it.

She wore a deep emerald green coat that framed her figure with quiet luxury, its gold accents gleaming faintly beneath the soft lighting of the apartment. Her raven-black hair was pulled into a low, sleek twist, exposing a long neck and delicate collarbones, yet everything about her spoke of command—not fragility.

Her gaze met Nathaniel's without flinching—cool, intelligent, and impossibly poised.

There was no fear in her. No hesitation.

Only intent

Caroline Blackwell had been raised in the cathedral of legacy.

From the moment she was born, her path had been carved with precision—each step laid out like marble tiles in an ancestral hall. As the only child of Alexander Blackwell and the sole grandchild of the formidable patriarch before him, she had inherited more than just wealth. She had inherited purpose. Structure. Power with poise. That was the Blackwell way.

She had known her place in the world from the time she could walk. By nine, she was giving presentations on global markets to her tutors. By twelve, she spoke three languages. By fifteen, her private tutor described her as "a girl who will someday walk through the world like she owns it." And why not? Her father—Alexander Blackwell—did own it. Or so it seemed.

He had been her guiding compass. A man who never raised his voice but could silence a room with one look. The very embodiment of discipline and prestige. Her North Star.

But over the past few weeks, that star had started to fall—trailing fire and ash behind it.

It started with whispers in the media. Headlines that began as murmurs of corporate investigations, financial scrutiny, and unusual offshore activity. She remembered sitting in class, phone hidden under her desk, reading article after article like they were chapters from a horror novel where the villain bore her last name.

"The Devil in a Suit: Inside Alexander Blackwell's House of Cards.""Psychopath with a Rolex: The Chilling Discipline of Blackwell's Empire.""A Trillionaire's Inheritance and the Legacy of Lies."

She couldn't breathe.

Class became noise. Her friends' voices blurred together in the background. She began skipping lessons, not handing in assignments, sitting in dorm hallways watching news clips on repeat. The articles weren't just attacking her father anymore—they had started dragging her mother into it. A woman so private the world barely knew her name, now reduced to a character in the public's vicious imagination.

"Was she complicit? Did she know all along? Who is she? A Partner of Alexanders?"

It didn't matter that they knew nothing. The proximity to Alexander Blackwell was enough to damn her.

Caroline spiraled.

Then came the day that shattered her.

She had just gotten back to her room, hair still damp from the rain, when the headline flashed on her phone:

"Financial Tycoon Alexander Blackwell Wanted on Charges of Rape and Corruption."

Her hands went numb. She dropped the phone. For several seconds, she just sat there, unable to move. Her lungs forgot how to breathe.

Rape.

Her father—her mentor, her hero—accused of raping his own employee. A woman who had worked under his roof, trusted his leadership, only to become, allegedly, his victim.

Caroline felt the ground split beneath her.

She tried calling him—straight to voicemail. His butler—no answer. His assistant—the line didn't even ring. In a desperate act of reaching, she even called her father's sister—her aunt—a woman she'd spoken to maybe four times in her life. Nothing.

Panic set in like a fever.

Finally, a call came in—her grandmother.

Her heart surged as she picked up, desperate for answers.

"Grandma?" she whispered.

"Oh honey," came the familiar voice, warm but distant. "Don't worry. Everything is fine. It's all a misunderstanding. Just… focus on your studies, love."

"No—what's going on? Did he do it? Why isn't anyone answering me?"

"Sweetheart, don't stress yourself. It's not your concern. Keep your head up, okay? Focus on your school. That's what your father would want."

The call ended before Caroline could say another word.

She stared at the screen.

How could they expect her to focus on school? Her life had just been torn apart. Her father—the beacon that had shaped her identity—was now a headline for all the wrong reasons. And her family? They were shutting her out like she didn't matter. Like she was a child again, a porcelain doll to be kept in the dark while the world around her burned.

She snapped.

Within hours, she had texted one of her closest friends at school—another heiress, another girl with access to the kind of world most people only dreamt of—and within the day, she was flying back to the States in her friend's private jet. No goodbye. No explanations.

The skies were stormy when she landed, almost as if the universe itself mirrored her state of mind.

Caroline didn't waste time.

She made her way straight to the family estate, the one place in the world that had always felt solid. Unshakeable.

But as her car rolled up the long private road leading to the Blackwell island property, what she saw made her breath hitch.

The front gate was lined with yellow police tape.

Their garage—a towering, modern structure her grandfather had designed himself—was burned out, smoke-stained, and cordoned off. Charred metal skeletons of luxury vehicles still smoldered inside. Protesters crowded outside the gate holding signs. "Justice for the Silenced." "Blackwell Is Evil." "No More Monsters in Power."

Police stood nearby, managing the chaos, some shielding their faces from the relentless camera flashes.

Caroline sat frozen.

This couldn't be real.

Her chest tightened. Her hands gripped the edge of her seat. Her world—her kingdom—was gone.

She stumbled out of the car, her legs numb. The crowd was too loud. Everything felt too bright and too dark all at once. She turned, wanting to escape, to vanish, to breathe.

And that was when she bumped into someone.

A man.

Older. Grimy suit. An opportunist with the look of someone who lived off misery.

He recognized her instantly.

"So sad," he said, his breath hot with disdain. "The Blackwell name reduced to this. Isn't it tragic, Caroline?"

Her name on his lips made her recoil.

She stared at him, wide-eyed and hollow, unsure whether to scream or collapse.

Because the truth was—he wasn't wrong.

And that hurt more than anything else.

Caroline Blackwell froze in place, her breath catching the moment the man gently took off his sunglasses. Her heart stumbled. The resemblance hit her like a truck—he looked like her father. Younger, maybe rougher around the edges, but unmistakably a Blackwell. The same chiseled jawline, the same sharp gaze—only, where Alexander Blackwell's eyes had always held a storm, this man's held something else: mischief, warmth… something almost inviting.

"I know that look," he said with a lopsided grin. "Surreal, isn't it? I get that a lot."

She blinked rapidly, unsure whether to step back or forward.

"I'm Desmond," he said. "Your uncle. Well… technically, your father's cousin. My father and your grandfather were brothers."

Caroline's mind whirred. She had heard of him—once, maybe twice. Whispers at formal dinners. The other Blackwell. The estranged one.

"I can explain everything," he said calmly, gently. "If you'll let me."

Caroline wanted to turn away. Everything in her screamed don't trust him—a stranger, a smile too wide, too easy—but then she saw his face again. That smile. The kind of smile she'd begged her own father for, time and time again. A smile filled with comfort instead of cold calculation. And without fully realizing it, she followed.

They sat in a quiet room away from the noise of the world. Desmond explained it all—well, what he could.

"The woman… the one they said your father…" he paused, carefully selecting his words. "Barbara. She's new. Just hired a few weeks ago as some sort of luxury curator. Strange title, right?"

Caroline didn't answer. She was still stuck on that name. Barbara.

"He hasn't been okay since your grandfather died," Desmond continued. "You know that, don't you? He's been… spiraling. I think he's been having some kind of mental breakdown, Caroline. A slow one. But real."

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She stared at him, stunned. Her father? The man who stood like a monument? Who calculated every breath and expected everyone around him to do the same?

Desmond nodded at her silence. "Yeah. I know. Doesn't sound like the Alexander Blackwell we all know. But something in him cracked, and if it's true what they're saying, then maybe… maybe he was never as invincible as we thought."

The words sank in like poison—slow, painful, bitter.

She wanted answers. She wanted certainty. But she was only getting more questions.

Desmond seemed to understand that. "Look, just wait. Some people are coming. People who know more than I do. People who can help you understand."

And so she waited.

In the days that followed, she stayed in the unfamiliar place with the all-too-familiar man. And slowly, she realized—despite the resemblance, Desmond and Alexander were nothing alike.

Where her father was cold, calculated, always ten steps ahead—Desmond was sunshine. Loud laughs, worn jeans, and a casual disregard for anything resembling structure. Alexander was obsessed with the future. Desmond lived only in the now.

"They're here," he said that morning, peeking into her room with an easy smile. "Just wait here a sec. Let me talk to them first, then I'll call you."

Caroline obeyed—but not for long.

From behind the door, she saw them enter—three of them. Two men and a woman. Clean suits, composed expressions, and something about the man in the lead reminded her of her father. Not in his face, but in the way he moved. In the silence he carried.

They're here for a reason, she thought. But why them? Why not just let me see him?

The moment pulled at her gut. The questions burned inside her, loud and relentless. She didn't care about protocols or pleasantries anymore.

She stepped forward, finally facing the man she assumed was in charge. She didn't flinch under his gaze.

There was only one thing left to ask.

The one source that could shatter her heart—or set it free.

The woman who had become the center of this storm.

Her voice didn't shake. It rang with steel.

"Barbara Longbottom," Caroline said.

A beat of silence.

"I need to see her."

Her eyes held nothing but finality. No more games. No more headlines. No more mystery.

Just the truth.