"Now that that's done," Nathaniel Rockefeller muttered, his voice laced with a dry satisfaction as he watched the Blackwell girl step out of the apartnt, escorted by two of the guards he'd summoned. Their instructions were clear: take her to Barbara, keep her safe, and above all—keep her under watch.
He hadn't intended to grant her request. In fact, his initial instinct had been a firm rejection. Caroline Blackwell was emotional, too curious, and too naive to be of any use to him. But then, as he considered her again, a thought had word its way into his mind like smoke curling through the cracks: she was useful.
Having the next generation Blackwell indebted to him? Under his influence?
That was a move worthy of Rockefeller blood.
And so, after ensuring every variable was contained—after calling the Longbottoms, informing Them of the visitor, smoothing every wrinkle—he agreed.
Now, with that piece moved into place, Nathaniel turned back toward the cause of this entire ss.
Desmond Blackwell lounged on a velvet chair near the center of the room, sprawled as though he owned the place—or had simply forgotten anyone else was present. One leg hung lazily over the armrest, and his fingers drumd a light rhythm on the leather, casual, unbothered, like a man waiting for his martini in a jazz club.
His grin was wide and amused, as if the entire situation—the chaos, the secrets, the high stakes—was no more than a mildly entertaining play.
"So," Desmond said, voice dripping with sarcasm, "you're really going to let her et the distressed victim lady, huh?"
His lips curled upward, mock concern shadowing his expression.
"What if seeing the daughter of her abuser triggers so deep, dark repressed trauma or sothing?"
He chuckled, leaning his head back with laughter that felt too light for the room. The assistant standing nearby stiffened, her jaw clenching.
"If you knew it was a bad idea," she snapped through gritted teeth, "why did you orchestrate the whole damn thing?"
Desmond looked over lazily, then lifted his shoulders in a shrug that spoke volus of how little he cared.
"Well, when I first saw the girl, I thought she might be interesting to have around. You know—soone new to play with. But she kept asking questions… poking at things. Got annoying."
He flicked a wrist dismissively.
"So, I figured I'd pass her along to you lot. Didn't expect your boss over there to actually follow through."
The assistant's hands clenched into fists. "You—"
But before the inevitable clash could erupt, Nathaniel cut across the tension like a knife through silk.
His voice was low. Controlled.
"At this rate…" he began, slowly walking toward the window, "in two weeks, Blackwell Investnts will be a fully recognized Saudi Arabian corporation."
Silence. The kind that crept into the bones.
Desmond's smile faltered. The assistant fell still.
Nathaniel didn't stop.
"Alexander will be untouchable. He'll vanish behind international partnerships, shell companies, diplomatic walls. He'll escape everything—just like he always does."
A brief pause.
"He'll continue to lead. Build. Expand."
His voice didn't raise, but it grew heavier with every word.
"And we—" he gestured vaguely around the room, "we'll have lost. I'll have lost."
He turned then, facing them fully.
"Losing that strategic hold over the Saudi, losing the chance to cripple a future titan before he reclaims his throne… that would be a loss history would rember. A loss my family would feel."
For a second, Nathaniel let the weight of his words settle in the air.
And then—he saw it.
Desmond was still smiling.
A grin. Defiant. Disrespectful. Childish.
Nathaniel's own lips curved upward slowly, mirroring the grin, but colder. Sharper.
"But…" he said, letting the word echo like the drop of a dagger in a cathedral.
He walked back to his seat, never breaking eye contact with Desmond.
"I would still be the heir to the Rockefeller family."
He sat, leaned forward, and lowered his voice until it was nearly a whisper, yet it rang like a sentence passed in court.
"I would still command power across oceans. Still have seats at every table that matters. My na, my legacy—it will recover. They'll mock for a mont, maybe… say I missed. But soon, I'll be fine. I'll rebuild. I always do."
A beat.
"And you, Desmond?"
Now his voice hardened.
"You'll still be the man with no empire. No inheritance. No legacy. Just a forgotten Blackwell with a bright smile and nothing to smile for."
Desmond's grin cracked, just a little.
Nathaniel leaned closer.
"You'll remain exactly as you are now—drifting. Loud. Useless. Always second-best to Alexander. Always watching, always joking, always pretending you don't care… when the truth is, you care more than anyone."
The silence after that was suffocating.
Nathaniel let it sit.
Then, voice soft, deliberate, he finished:
"This life—this shallow, wasted, wandering existence you call freedom—it will rot you from the inside. Because one day, Desmond, the jokes won't be funny anymore. The chaos won't distract you. And you'll realize the world moved on… without you."
Desmond didn't speak.
After a long mont of silence, Desmond began to laugh.
It wasn't a chuckle. It wasn't a snicker. It was a full-bodied, rich, unrestrained laugh that echoed off the marble walls of the penthouse. It was the kind of laugh that didn't ask for permission. The assistant flinched slightly, unsure whether he was mocking them or had finally lost it. Nathaniel, however, only offered a dry, unimpressed look, his arms folded as he leaned back slightly into the velvet of the chair.
"Wow," Desmond said between laughs, brushing a tear from the corner of his eye, "You don't hold back, do you, Nathaniel?"
His smile was still stretched across his face, but his eyes—there was sothing off about them. Not mad, not wild, just… broken. Or maybe remade. Twisted into sothing that had grown too accustod to always standing in second place.
"Alexander," he scoffed, the na rolling off his tongue like poison, "You know, my father was just like . Or should I say, I beca like him."
He paced slowly, his voice dipping into sothing reflective, eerie even. "My old man, Richmond Blackwell. The second son. Always in the shadow of Cassius—Alexander's father. You think this ss started with us? No. It's generational. I watched it. The quiet war of brothers. My father was always 'not enough.' Always the one being compared. I was just a kid, but I rember it so clearly. My mother…"
He gave a dry smile, the bitterness thick in his tone. "She would say, 'Go play with your cousin. Learn sothing from Alexander.' Every birthday, every holiday, it was Cassius this, Alexander that. My uncle had the empire. My cousin had the crown. And I? I had expectations built on ashes."
The assistant stood frozen, eyes wide with dawning horror as Desmond's carefully stitched mask began to peel, layer by layer.
"I saw it eat my father from the inside," Desmond continued, walking slowly toward the glass windows, the city glittering beneath him like a kingdom he couldn't touch. "The feeling that no matter how hard you tried, soone else was always going to be the preferred one. It broke him. Hell, maybe he let it. And then I… I started doing the sa. Drinking. Chasing highs that didn't matter. Living fast, burning out. Nothing mattered."
He turned around sharply, his eyes locking onto Nathaniel. "But am I really my father? Should I back down from people I know are lesser than just because he was born to soone higher than i was born?"
There was silence. The assistant looked shaken, her lips slightly parted, a tremble in her brow. Nathaniel's face, in contrast, was stone—still, unreadable, as if carved in quiet disdain or distant curiosity.
Desmond slowly walked over to a nearby cabinet and pulled out a thin leather folder. "So when you t , Nathaniel," he said, his voice calm now, almost too calm, "I had just co back from seeing my father. He didn't even have the strength to argue anymore. After everything that happened earlier this year, the trail, the losses… he was more than happy to let it all go. Maybe he finally saw that I wasn't the broken reflection he feared I'd beco."
He tossed the folder on the table with a soft thud. The assistant stepped forward imdiately, snatching it up. Her eyes scanned the first page, then the second—then widened in utter disbelief.
Nathaniel, now curious despite himself, reached for the file and took it from her hands. As he began to read, Desmond's voice hovered in the air like a closing trap.
"And to fill that void," Desmond said, a subtle grin returning to his lips, "I think I have the perfect title for it."
Nathaniel's eyes moved rapidly across the docunt. The emblem of Blackwell Investnts glared at him from the header. A legal statent. A signature. A seal.
"Maybe we should start," Desmond said, his voice now laced with satisfaction and venom, "with CEO of Blackwell Investnts."
Nathaniel's jaw tightened. The words on the docunt confird what Desmond had just declared: Richmond Blackwell has officially transferred all his shares in Blackwell Investnts to his son, Desmond Blackwell.
A heavy silence fell in the room again. Not the silence of peace, but the silence before a storm.
Desmond walked back to his chair and flopped into it carelessly, his body language smug, satisfied.
Nathaniel didn't move. His eyes stayed on the docunt, unreadable.
The assistant turned her gaze between the two n—one, composed but on the verge of an invisible rage, and the other, a mad prince laughing in his newfound throne.
Blackwell Investnts had just shifted on its axis. And the ga? It had only just begun.
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