I Inherited Trillions, Now What?-Chapter 177: Usher Vs Blackwell Finale

Then Judge Wexler looked up, eyes sharp beneath his glasses.

"Mr. Lancaster," he said, voice dry but direct. "Your statement."

The weariness in his tone made it clear—he was ready to close the book on this case.

Harvey Lancaster stood up slowly, jaw tight, still simmering from earlier—Jessica's stunt, Alexander's silence, the pressure. All of it had built up behind his eyes. But he breathed in, then out. Closed his eyes.

Not now, Harvey. Not now. Now is the time to win, he told himself.

He opened his eyes. Cold. Steady.

He stepped forward, adjusted his tie, and nodded formally.

"Your Honor," he began, with the standard bow of acknowledgment. "Ladies and gentlemen of the court."

No theatrics. No passion. Just precision.

"I will be brief."

He glanced at the packed courtroom, then at Wexler. There was a flicker of approval already in the judge's eyes.

"A private company, such as Blackwell Investments, is not—nor has it ever been—beholden to national sentiment or public opinion. It exists for the shareholders. They, and only they, determine its future. It is not the business of the court to reassign that power based on emotional arguments or political convenience. To do so would set a dangerous precedent. One that undermines the foundation of corporate law and global capitalism itself."

He didn't smile. Didn't move.

"That is all."

He stepped back. Silence. Then, very faintly, the corner of Judge Wexler's lips turned upward.

"Thank you, Mr. Lancaster," Wexler said, pleased.

He turned to the other side.

"Mr. Whittaker. Your turn."

Desmond Whittaker stood without a word, moving with the calm of a man who had done this a thousand times. He gave the same respectful nod, facing the judge.

"Your Honor. Esteemed colleagues."

His voice was composed. Clean.

"Today's ruling is not just about a corporation. It is about accountability. Transparency. Modernization. The shift toward making Blackwell Investments public is not a betrayal of its history—but an evolution. One that opens doors to growth, oversight, and security for investors worldwide."

He took a single step forward.

"It is a forward-looking move that benefits not just a few, but the many—shareholders, clients, employees. A step into the light."

Then, like Harvey, he stepped back.

"Thank you, Your Honor."

Wexler nodded again, visibly satisfied with how smoothly—and quickly—this had gone.

"Thank you, Mr. Whittaker."

He adjusted his robe, shuffled a few papers. Then, he set them down.

"Now, I will give my ruling in the matter of Usher vs. Blackwell Investments."

The air in the courtroom snapped taut like a drawn wire.

Around the world, everything stilled.

In a quiet hospital ward in Kyoto, a woman paused before entering surgery. Her father barked in English, "What are you doing? Go in!"

But she stayed still, eyes locked on the small TV screen above her bed.

"Just wait, Father," she whispered. "Let me see what happens."

In rural Texas, a young man leaned against his rusted tractor, radio crackling beside him as he listened with the focus of a man hearing a verdict that might change his family's future.

On a hillside in NewYork, a girl sat cross-legged before a headstone that read:

Darren McAllister. .

She stared at the name for a long time, then looked at the livestream on her phone.

"All for what?" she whispered.

In Riyadh, the Crown Prince sat in silent attention. His sister beside him scoffed.

"That friend of yours didn't even come see me when I was in London. Rude," she said, pouting.

But he didn't respond. His eyes were fixed to the screen.

In California, a woman sat fully clothed on her toilet, phone in hand. Her husband knocked.

"You okay in there?"

"Five more minutes," she muttered. Her eyes never left the screen.

Back in the courtroom, the tension was unbearable. People weren't just watching—they were holding on.

Journalists had pens frozen mid-air.

Executives from HSBC, JP Morgan, Goldman Sachs—fingers hovered over keyboards, waiting to send alerts to entire divisions depending on Wexler's ruling.

People from every walk of life, every corner of society, every rung of every ladder—politicians, drivers, billionaires, interns, retirees, dropouts, heiresses, monks, influencers, and accountants—were all united by one thing: Judge Wexler.

All eyes were on him.

And far beyond the courtroom, in a world that had stopped spinning for just a moment, millions more sat frozen in their homes. Phones were clutched with white knuckles, screens dimming and lighting again as thumbs hovered above them. In living rooms, in parked cars, under bedsheets, beside hospital machines and glowing fridges at midnight—they read. They read him.

They read every word, slowly, like scripture. No line was skipped. No comma ignored. It wasn't just a ruling. It was revelation. Cursing the Author to hurry up.

The air around them felt different—thicker, electric. People leaned closer to their screens as if proximity could reveal the outcome faster. Whole conversations died mid-sentence. Laughter paused. Forks never made it to mouths. No one blinked.

Because in that moment, Judge Wexler wasn't just speaking in a courtroom.

He was speaking everywhere.

And they needed to know what he would say next.

Webnovel readers scrolled with breathless precision, each line consumed like oxygen.

70 million people watched.

All eyes on one man.

Judge Wexler straightened in his seat.

He opened his mouth.

"Concerning the case between Usher vs. Blackwell, I rule multiple motions—"

And that's when the tension snapped even tighter.

Gasps, shuffling, a silence deeper than death.

And then—

Judge Wexler, posture like a statue, scanned the courtroom before speaking. The silence was total. All breathing slowed, as if the world itself leaned forward.

"First," he said, voice low but carried by the weight of absolute authority, "the matter of Desmond Usher's ownership of shares inherited from his late father."

He paused, adjusting his glasses—not for effect, but for precision.

"Let it be understood," he continued, "that the transfer of equity from Richmond Blackwell to Desmond Blackwell was executed legally, documented thoroughly, and finalized within the full scope of fiduciary compliance. There was no coercion, no fraud, and no breach of corporate code. The shares, by law and by the will of the Former owner, are Mr. Blackwell's."

Desmond blinked slowly. His lawyer reached to give him something under the desk but Desmond didn't move.

"Desmond Blackwell," Wexler said, "is the rightful owner of those shares."

Whispers began, but Wexler didn't allow them to grow.

"However…" His voice dropped half a tone, cutting through the oxygen in the room like a blade. "The issue of control is an entirely separate matter."

The air turned cold.

"This court has reviewed not only the letter of the law, but the pulse of governance. And while Mr. Blackwell is, on record, a joint highest shareholder—his track record, internal board conflicts, regulatory red flags, and what can only be described as an unsavory professional history, disqualify him from assuming executive control over Blackwell Investments."

The weight of those words landed like a fist.

A single gasp from the audience cracked through the silence.

Desmond's lips parted, but no words came. His lawyer placed a firm hand on his arm.

"Control is not a birthright," Wexler said coldly. "It is a trust. And in this case, it has been violated too many times to ignore."

Silence again.

Then Wexler shifted his notes.

"And now," he said, "to the issue that has brought the eyes of the world upon this courtroom: the Saudi-led initiative and to take Blackwell Investments public."

Every head lifted.

Phones rose.

The Saudi ambassador leaned slightly forward. The governor of New York blinked and stopped writing. Elisabeth's smile began to form. Nathaniel, across the room, was stone-faced, unmoving—only his eyes alive.

"This court recognizes," Wexler said, "that a corporation is not a person. It is not patriotic. It is not sentimental. It serves no throne, no ideology, no nostalgia. It serves one thing and one thing only—its interest. That is the very fabric upon which the American economic machine was built."

He looked up.

"And this court, therefore, approves the motion to take Blackwell Investments to Saudi."

Boom.

Fingers flew across phone screens.

A hundred financial analysts typed with violent speed. Notifications lit up the global stock market like fireworks. Wall Street brokers in thousand-dollar suits threw off their jackets mid-call. Traders in Shanghai began updating projections. Elisabeth's smile widened—but it was tight. Controlled. Calculating. Nathaniel didn't move, but the muscles around his jaw tightened.

But then—

Judge Wexler did something unexpected.

He didn't stop speaking.

The typing slowed.

The whispers stalled.

And suddenly, the entire courtroom snapped back into suspense.

"But—" Wexler said.

The word hit like a thunderclap.

The Saudi ambassador's smile faltered. The Governor raised her head sharply. Nathaniel's fingers twitched.

Wexler's voice turned grave.

"Blackwell Investments," he said, "currently holds deep and powerful stakes in multiple American financial institutions, defense contractors, and data infrastructures. And while it may be transitioning into a foreign entity, the facts remain: it is still a U.S.-based company."

He let that hang.

"And if such a company—strategic, sensitive, and foundational—were to fall under majority control of a foreign citizen or foreign-backed sovereign entity, it would trigger automatic review under the authority of the Committee on Foreign Investment in the United States."

CFIUS.

The room tensed like a coiled snake.

"Therefore," Wexler continued, "Blackwell Investments will be subject to a national security review. As a condition of going public under partial Saudi leadership, it must divest no less than forty percent of its American-held assets and shares."

Stunned silence.

The words echoed—forty percent.

"And it will be required to comply with both federal and state tax law during this transition, with additional oversight to ensure no undue influence over domestic financial networks."

No one spoke.

No one moved.

The judge's voice rang out like a verdict from Olympus.

"This is not a punishment," he said. "It is protection. This is not about isolationism. It is about equilibrium. Capitalism has no allegiance, but America does."

The courtroom was paralyzed.

The Saudi ambassador's mouth opened, then closed. The financial reporters looked as if they'd just witnessed a meteor strike. Elisabeth blinked once. Nathaniel didn't—his eyes fixed on the floor.

And then—

With thunderous finality, Judge Wexler raised his gavel.

The world held its breath.

The Crown Prince in Riyadh leaned in. The surgeon in Kyoto stood still. The girl by Darren McAllister's grave stopped crying. The woman in California finally got off the toilet, her face stunned. And on Webnovel, readers shouted "stupid author" at the same time.

Judge Wexler's voice dropped.

"Case dismissed."

CRACK!

The gavel struck the hardwood bench like a gunshot. And in that moment—everything exploded.

Phones lit up. News anchors shouted over each other. Boardrooms erupted into chaos. Stocks began to fluctuate wildly in real-time. Twitter broke. TikTok spiraled. The market was moving, the world was spinning, and at the eye of it all stood one man—Judge Wexler.

And in that instant, the courtroom didn't feel like a courtroom anymore.

It felt like history.