I Inherited Trillions, Now What?-Chapter 127: Counterattack? II

Susan stood before the chairman’s office door, her heart hammering against her ribs. The weight of what lay ahead pressed heavily on her shoulders. Taking a deep breath, she steadied herself, then reached for the handle and pushed the door open.

The office was massive, a testament to wealth, power, and prestige. Its walls gleamed in pristine white, the sleek, futuristic design exuding an air of cutting-edge medical sophistication. The floors were polished, a seamless expanse of white marble reflecting the soft glow of recessed lighting. A towering bookshelf, filled with medical journals and accolades, stretched across one side of the room, while the opposite wall boasted a massive, state-of-the-art screen. Everything in the space screamed precision, sterility, and modernity—fitting for the man who ruled over this hospital.

Behind an imposing, immaculate desk sat the man known to the world as "The Chairman." He wasn’t just a hospital administrator; he was an accomplished, world-renowned surgeon in his own right, a man who had seamlessly transitioned from the operating room to the corporate battlefield, becoming a formidable businessman whose influence stretched far and wide in the medical field. Feared, respected, and revered, his very presence commanded authority.

But to Susan, he was simply "Dad."

"Dad, I’m here," she said, her voice steady, unwavering.

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Unlike the hushed reverence others had for him, she addressed him with a familiarity that would have left the hospital staff stunned—if only they knew the truth. It was almost laughable how oblivious they all were. It was a case of the obvious hiding in plain sight, like Superman fooling the world with a pair of glasses. Their shared surname, Beaumont—far from common—should have been a dead giveaway. Their facial features, though softened on Susan and hardened on him, were unmistakably alike. Yet, no one had pieced it together. Perhaps it was because they rarely interacted in the hospital, their paths carefully avoiding each other, their professional lives meticulously separate.

Still, some clues had been there. The moment she joined the hospital, its exclusive, elitist nature had shifted. Policies had changed, turning it into a force for good. Free treatments for underprivileged patients had increased. Medical research funding had expanded. And while no one had explicitly linked these shifts to her presence, those who paid close attention might have noticed a pattern—every major reform she championed had been swiftly implemented by none other than the Chairman himself.

But there was no time for nostalgia or reflections. Her father wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries. He didn’t acknowledge her greeting, didn’t even look up from his desk. Instead, he reached for a remote control and pressed a button.

The enormous screen on the wall flickered to life.

Susan turned, her stomach tightening as she recognized the scene unfolding before her.

It was footage from the protest—just minutes ago. The chaotic energy, the angry voices, the raw fury of the crowd. The camera zoomed in on a man standing at the forefront, his expression hardened with righteous indignation as he spoke into the news microphone.

"My name is Michael," his voice boomed through the speakers. "Today, we looked into the eyes of one of the most evil men in the world. A man who has drained the lifeblood of this nation, who has caused countless families unimaginable suffering, a man who has built his empire on the backs of the struggling, the starving. And today, we made that man run."

The screen cut to a video clip of Alexander Blackwell, his powerful frame striding away from the chaos, his steps unfaltering as he boarded the waiting chopper. The aircraft lifted off, its rotors slicing through the tension in the air as the crowd jeered below.

The camera cut back to Michael, his fervor undiminished.

"We have millions starving, yet what is he doing?" he demanded, his voice laced with outrage. "Flying around in luxury, flaunting his wealth with his obscene, gold-plated jet and his heavily armed escort! Do you think he cares about us? About this country? No! He hides behind his trillions while we suffer! And look at this—"

The footage changed to a still image—an overhead shot taken just as Alexander shielded Susan with his body. Her face was obscured, hidden beneath the fabric of his suit jacket. The media had captured the moment perfectly—Alexander Blackwell, the ruthless businessman, guarding a mysterious woman as they escaped together.

Michael continued, his voice rising with conviction. "While we suffer, he takes his escorts out on trips in a plane worth billions. We will not be silenced! We will not back down! People, I urge you—join us at Somerset Pier! Blackwell thinks he is untouchable, that he can hide on his precious private island, surrounded by his walls of wealth. But we will show him otherwise! We will take back our country! We will not stop until justice is served!"

The screen abruptly went black.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Susan exhaled slowly. The weight of her father’s gaze pressed down on her before his voice shattered the quiet.

"So you’re an escort now, eh?"

His tone was mocking, but there was an underlying edge of something much sharper—disgust, disappointment, fury.

"I booked you a flight because you said you wanted to see your daughter—my granddaughter. I would never have done that had I known you intended to waste it on that bastard," he spat.

His voice rose, filling the massive office with thunderous rage. "Do you have any idea what you’ve done? What you’ve risked? You were there—at a protest against him—wrapped in his arms, no less! And don’t even try to deny it." His eyes flickered to her arms. "You’re still holding his damn jacket."

Susan startled, looking down. She hadn’t even realized—her fingers were clenched around the expensive fabric, gripping it like a lifeline.

She forced herself to respond, her voice tight but defiant. "It wasn’t like that. I went for Caroline, not him. Circumstances forced me into that situation. I had no idea a protest was even happening!"

Her father scoffed. "Spare me your excuses. Do you have any idea what today meant? How hard I worked to get Dr. Bell here for you? And yet, you—"

His voice grew louder, angrier, but Susan barely registered it. A sharp pain shot through her chest as she opened her mouth to argue back—

Then she coughed.

The force of it doubled her over, her vision swimming. A deep, painful hacking fit seized her, her body trembling under the violent spasms. She pressed a hand to her lips, her stomach twisting as something wet touched her palm.

Blood.

The fury vanished from her father’s face in an instant. His eyes widened.

"Honey," his voice softened, panic replacing his anger. "What’s wrong? Are you okay?"

He moved swiftly, closing the space between them, his hands bracing her back as she struggled to regain control. But the coughing persisted. His grip tightened, his medical instincts kicking in.

"Let’s go. Now," he commanded. "Dr. Bell is waiting inside."

He tried to lead her, but Susan weakly shrugged him off, determined to walk on her own. She stumbled towards the adjoining room, fighting against the dizziness clouding her mind.

Behind her, her father stood frozen, watching her go. His gaze fell to the suit jacket that had slipped from her grasp. His jaw clenched as he bent down, snatched it up, and, with a look of unrestrained fury, hurled it into the trash.

Inside the private medical suite, Susan steadied herself. The sterile, white-walled room was eerily quiet. An older man, standing by a medical monitor, turned to face her, his experienced gaze scanning her condition instantly.

She gave him a small, tired smile. "Dr. Bell," she breathed. "Thank you for coming."

He waved a dismissive hand. "Nonsense. Your family are dear friends of mine. If not for my work, I would’ve been here sooner."

She nodded, but the weight of exhaustion pressed on her.

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"I’ve reviewed your scans," he said, his voice kind but firm. "But I need to confirm something myself." He gestured to the ICU bed. "Lie down, please."

Susan obeyed.

As he adjusted the monitors, his voice softened. "Since when did you know?"

She swallowed hard. Then, quietly, she answered:

"Over two months now."

Meanwhile, on Blackwell Island, three individuals sat watching the news, their expressions dark and unreadable. Among them was another father and daughter—Sebastian and Evelyn. The broadcast was filled with scathing criticisms of their employer, yet while Sebastian’s face remained tense with unspoken thoughts, Evelyn’s expression was carved from stone, unreadable and calculating.

Across from them, Alexander Blackwell stood in silence, his sharp gaze locked onto the screen, absorbing every word, every accusation hurled against him. The weight of a thousand battles reflected in his unreadable expression—a man who had weathered storms far greater than public outrage.

Breaking the silence, Evelyn finally spoke, her voice cool and devoid of emotion.

"Sir, when should we counterattack?"

The previous chapter has been fixed—you can go ahead and read it now!

I want to apologize for not posting yesterday—I was very sick and exhausted. I’m feeling a little better today, so I hope you enjoy this chapter. It might not be my best, but I didn’t want another day to pass without posting.

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