I Inherited Trillions, Now What?-Chapter 80: Alexander Day Three

The sterile glare of hospital lights hummed overhead, casting shadows over the girl’s fragile form. She couldn’t have been older than sixteen—her knuckles bone-white as she clawed at the sheets, her face contorted into a mask of agony. Sweat-drenched hair clung to her temples, tears carving glistening trails through the flush of her cheeks. A heart wrenching sob tore from her throat, raw and primal, as the nurses’ voices sounding around her.

"Push, push, push!" The command came again, sharp and fraying, from a nurse whose gloved hands trembled just slightly

At the center of it all her frail body wracked with exhaustion. She should have been beautiful—soft features, bright eyes full of dreams—but pain had stolen everything from her. Sweat clung to her ashen skin, her face streaked with tears and snot, her lips trembling with silent prayers that no one seemed to hear.

The machines wailed in unison, a dissonant choir to her suffering. Her small frame arched off the bed, tendons straining like cords in her neck, before she collapsed back with a cry that dissolved into hyperventilation.

She was slipping.

Her fingers clutched weakly at the sheets, knuckles paling, breath ragged. Her cries had turned hoarse, barely more than whimpers now. She looked up, eyes unfocused, desperate, pleading.

"Please," she gasped, her voice breaking. "I can’t..."

But the world didn’t stop. The voices around her didn’t quiet. The pain didn’t ease.

And in that moment, as the weight of it all bore down on her, she knew—this wasn’t just a battle for a life yet to take its first breath. It was a battle for her own.

"One more," the doctor urged, softer now. "One more." Seeing the crown of the head poking out the girl was about to safely deliver her child

A woman, seemingly middle-aged, stood like a ghost in the corner, her platinum hair—once shining like a halo—now dull under the harsh hospital lights. Her fingers clenched a crumpled rosary, the beads clicking softly, like brittle bones breaking. Every scream from the bed carved into her, deeper and deeper, until it felt like she was the one being torn apart.

"Oh, my poor baby..."

The words barely made it past her lips, breaking apart like shattered glass. Her free hand pressed against her stomach, as if trying to absorb her daughter’s pain, to carry even a fraction of it herself. A mother’s curse—feeling every ounce of her child’s suffering but being powerless to stop it.

Across the room, a man stood rigid, his presence like a statue carved from ice. If one looked closely—beyond the contorted features, the sweat-slicked skin, the pain twisting the girl’s face—his resemblance to her was undeniable. but while her face was twisted in agony, his was unreadable. Cold. Detached, almost.

But his hands told a different story.

They were wrapped around the iron railing, gripping so tightly his knuckles had turned bone-white. The metal groaned under the pressure, threatening to bend, but still, he held on. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. Yet the sweat at his temples betrayed him.

Then came a scream—high, raw, and gut-wrenching. It filled the room, sharp enough to slice through bone.

His throat bobbed. Just once. A silent swallow.

His little girl.

The one he had built his hopes and dreams around.

And now, her cries sounded like something dying.

The Person in the room a man who stood at the center of the room, his presence cold and unmoving. He, too, was middle-aged, with jet-black hair and dark, unreadable eyes. His face mirrored the first man’s—impassive, sharp, void of emotion—but unlike him, he felt nothing for the girl writhing in agony on the bed. Her screams, her pain, meant nothing.

No, his concern lay elsewhere.

He was here for the child.

The next generation of his bloodline. Not his direct heir, but still a continuation of the legacy he had built. A legacy that mattered far more to him than the suffering of the girl bringing it into the world.

The final figure in the room was another teenager—a boy, no older than sixteen. He stood frozen in place, his whole-body tense, as if the weight of the moment was pressing down on him, suffocating him. His eyes, a striking reflection of the man at the center, flickered with something raw—unease, fear.

This was the first time Alexander had ever felt so completely out of control—a feeling he both dreaded and despised. It clawed at him, foreign and unwelcome, tightening around his chest like a vice. He was someone promised and groomed to command power, someone who knew he would shape the world around him to his will.

But here, in this room, with the cries of agony echoing in his ears, there was nothing he could do.

For the first time, he didn’t feel like the heir to a vast fortune.

He felt like what he truly was in this moment—a helpless teenager.

And he hated it.

Every scream that tore from the girl’s throat shattered something inside him.

A heart already fractured, already fragile.

She had been the one to bring it back to life.

And she had also been the one who destroyed it.

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"Yes, almost… almost!"

The sharp voice of the doctor cut through the thick air. A woman, commanding, in full control, leading the nurses who moved with swift precision.

The moment was coming.

After what felt like an eternity, the sound of a baby’s cry echoed through the room, a raw, life-affirming sound that cut through the tension. Everyone breathed a collective sigh of relief.

But the lady who had been praying, her face pale and worn with exhaustion, barely noticed the joy. She looked up, her voice trembling.

"What of Susan? What of my daughter?"

The female doctor, peeling off her gloves as the nurses attended to the newborn, gave a soft, reassuring smile.

"She’s fine, ma’am. Just tired."

The woman—Patricia—didn’t wait. She bolted to the bed, collapsing at her daughter’s side. Susan lay deathly pale, her chest barely rising, sweat-soaked hair plastered to her forehead. Patricia pressed a trembling kiss to her temple, murmuring, "My brave girl, my brave girl…"

The man with the blond hair followed, his steps just as swift, though his face was a mask of composed concern.

As they approached, the doctor who had just addressed the lady turned to the blond-haired man.

"Congrats on your granddaughter, Chairman."

Before he could respond, another voice cut through the air—a voice that seemed to drip with his disgust at hearing the gender.

"A girl?"

The blond-haired man snapped his head around, his eyes blazing with a fire that matched the venom in the voice. He didn’t even need to look to know who it was.

"Yes, a daughter. Any problem with that?" he said, his words dripping with hatred and anger.

The man with black hair—unmoved, unyielding—looked him straight in the eyes.

"The scans and everything showed it was a boy. How could it come out a girl?"

The tension between them was thick, palpable, like the air before a storm. Neither man backed down, both standing their ground.

As both men stood locked in a standoff, the air heavy with tension, the woman beside her daughter could no longer bear it.

"Can you both shut it? Shut it, please!"

Her voice cracked as she screamed, her patience finally worn thin. She didn’t care that one of the men was her husband—nothing mattered to her now but the girl lying in that bed, fragile and exhausted. The bickering, the pride, the anger—they all seemed so distant now, so meaningless.

Her eyes, tired but fierce, were fixed on her daughter, who was still pale and recovering, the weight of everything that had happened settling over her like a heavy blanket.

"Enough," she said, her voice softer now but still firm. "All that matters is her. Not your damn pride, not your stupid arguments. My daughter is what matters."

Susan, her body weak and trembling on the bed, managed to whisper just one word—a plea that cut through the sterile white room, echoing in the silence.

"My daughter... I want to hold my daughter."

Her voice was faint, fragile, but it held a power that none could ignore. Her eyes, glazed with exhaustion, never left the space where the baby had been cleaned and cared for. The doctors and nurses, who had been quietly observing the room’s tense atmosphere, now had a purpose.

The head doctor nodded, stepping forward.

"Yes, give the baby to her mother. Let them initiate skin-to-skin contact."

A nurse began to move toward the bed, the baby cradled in her arms. But just as she approached, a cold, firm voice sliced through the air, stopping her in her tracks.

"No."

Everyone turned. The voice came from the teenage boy—the one who had remained silent, who had watched quietly, his face an unreadable mask. But now, he was looking at them, his eyes sharp with something they hadn’t expected.

"Bring her to me instead."

The nurse hesitated, caught off guard by his words. The boy’s gaze didn’t falter.

"Didn’t you hear me? Bring her here."

The tension in the room grew thicker as the nurse, startled and uncertain, carefully placed the baby into his arms. The boy, with surprising tenderness for someone so young, adjusted the baby, cradling her carefully. He looked into the small face, his own breaking heart starting to mend with each soft breath she took.

The room was silent, every eye fixed on the teenager as he held the child with a kind of quiet reverence. After a moment, he broke the silence, his voice steady, yet full of resolve.

"Let’s go to the NCU."

While the adults stood frozen, their gazes fixed on the teenage boy, the mother of Susan was the only one whose eyes never left her daughter. The woman’s concern was palpable, every muscle in her body tense as she watched her daughter struggle, as if fighting against every ounce of exhaustion just to see what was happening.

Susan, weak and trembling on the bed, heard the boy’s words. They had cut through her haze, and something in her stirred. With great effort, she tried to sit up, her body trembling as she pushed herself, fighting against the pain.

Her mother screamed in alarm.

"What are you doing, Susan?! Lie back down! You need to rest!"

But Susan, hearing only the distant hum of her mother’s concerns, ignored them. Her focus was on the boy—the father of her child. She locked eyes with him, and with a voice that barely rose above a whisper, she said his name.

"Alexander…"

The boy looked up at her, his name on her lips like a prayer. His heart clenched at the sight of her—vulnerable, fragile, weak. Her green eyes, which he had once seen so full of life, now looked dim, clouded with pain. The sight of her like this, so helpless, broke something inside him.

For a moment, he hesitated, but then he turned away. He couldn’t afford to stay. He had no words for her—no reassurance to give.

"Let’s go."

He didn’t look back, his voice steady as he addressed the nurses and doctors. With the baby still cradled gently in his arms, he led the way, walking out of the room without another word. The soft shuffle of footsteps followed him, the medical team trailing behind, the room left in a stunned silence.

The silence that had settled in the room shattered with Susan’s anguished scream—a raw, gut-wrenching sound that pierced the still air. It was a scream born from the depths of her pain, a cry that echoed through every heart in the room, each one heavy with its own version of sorrow.

"Alexander! Alex! Alex, come back!"

Her voice, breaking with desperation, filled the sterile white room, reverberating off the walls. Her parents moved toward her, trying to comfort her, their own faces twisted with worry, but their efforts seemed futile. Nothing could quiet the storm raging within her.

Her father stood motionless, helpless. He didn’t know how to soothe her. He didn’t know what to do.

"Susan, stop. Don’t… just rest," her mother pleaded, her voice filled with an aching tenderness.

But Susan could barely hear her, her eyes locked on her father. She could feel the desperation pooling in her chest, her breath shallow as she spoke frantically, almost incoherently.

"Daddy, please… stop him. Alex, please…"

Her hands clung to his arm, her grip tight, as though her very survival depended on it.

"Please, I want to hold my daughter."

Her voice broke, the words ragged, as if the very act of speaking them drained her of what little strength she had left.

Her father, standing there, his heart crumbling at the sight of his daughter in such agony, felt the weight of her plea. It tore at him. For the second time tonight, he had to watch his little girl—his baby—break. His hands clenched into fists, but he knew what needed to be done.

With a determined look in his eyes, he took the first step toward leaving the room, toward finding the boy who had caused this torment. But just as he moved, a cold voice stopped him dead in his tracks.

"I wouldn’t do that if I were you."

Frank turned, his face a mask of confusion and anger as he recognized the speaker. Cassius. The dark-haired man stood there, his presence looming, and Frank felt a surge of frustration rise within him.

"Cassius. You…"

Before Frank could finish his words, Cassius cut him off with a glance that was as sharp as a blade.

"Remember what you people signed."

The words hung in the air, ringing in Frank’s ears, heavy and final. They were a reminder of the pact, the deal that had been made, the lines that had been crossed. Frank felt deflated, as though the breath had been knocked out of him. He was powerless here.

Cassius didn’t linger. He turned to leave the room, his footsteps echoing in the silence that followed.

The room was still, except for the cries of Susan. Her sobs were the only sound, each one carrying the weight of a broken heart, a shattered life that felt as though it had been stripped away in that single, unbearable moment.

Alexander stood in the sterile, quiet room, his eyes locked on the small figure lying peacefully in the glass crib. The baby—his daughter—lay asleep, her tiny chest rising and falling with each breath. It was the first time he’d allowed himself to simply look at her without the overwhelming flood of emotions that had threatened to swallow him in the chaos of the delivery room. He was distant, detached almost, but there was something about the way she slept that calmed him—something that he couldn’t quite place.

He didn’t hear the footsteps approaching until it was too late. But, of course, he knew who it was without having to turn around.

"So, a girl, eh?"

His father’s voice cut through the silence. Alexander didn’t move, didn’t flinch. He simply replied, his tone steady and cool.

"Yes."

The man moved closer, his footsteps slow and deliberate, as though savoring the moment of seeing his granddaughter for the first time. His gaze softened as he looked at the child, but the words that followed were laced with something else—something that Alexander wasn’t ready to entertain.

"Well, you’re still young. You can have others."

Alexander didn’t respond, not immediately. The silence between them stretched for a moment, thick with unspoken things.

His father, as if to fill the space, continued, trying to probe the situation further.

"About Susan... are you sure you would—"

But before he could finish, Alexander cut him off, his voice cold, firm.

"There’s no need to talk about that, Father."

And then, in a quieter tone, almost imperceptible, he added,

"Plus, isn’t that what you wanted?"

Cassius stood still for a moment, as if the words hit harder than he’d expected. Then, slowly, he smiled—a dark, knowing smile that carried no joy.

"What I wanted," he began, his voice lowering as he took a step closer, "was for your love to be rare—to be given only to those who truly deserve it."

His eyes flicked toward the baby, and his voice softened as he continued.

"The more people you love, the weaker you are who knows how she would turn out in a couple years."

His words hung in the air, heavy with years of regret and sorrow. The man had seen love slip away, had felt its loss in ways that Alexander couldn’t yet understand. He was still too young to know the weight of such things.

Cassius’s expression turned melancholic as he sighed, his gaze distant, almost lost. He looked at his son, a man so different from him, yet so much the same.

"After all, no one can predict the future."

Alexander’s gaze never wavered from his daughter as she slept, her tiny chest rising and falling in the glass crib. The weight of the day settled in around him like a suffocating fog. He muttered to himself, a quiet declaration, barely above a whisper, "If you want to predict the future, just create it."

His words seemed to hang in the air, as though they were meant for someone else—maybe his father, maybe the universe, or maybe just himself. But they were true. He could feel them vibrating in his chest, a silent promise to himself and to the world. He would shape the future, mold it, control it—not let it slip from his grasp as it had done today.

This day—this moment—had been the third most important day of Alexander’s life and probably the most influential day of his life. It wasn’t just the birth of his daughter that made it monumental. No, it was more than that. This day had carved something new inside him. Something dark, something that had been born out of the deepest part of his soul, forged in the fires of the helplessness he’d felt in the delivery room. The frustration, the desperation, the feeling that for once, he wasn’t in control—it had sparked something primal within him.

What emerged from that moment was not just a boy holding a child, but a boy with a newfound obsession—a need for control that burned like an insatiable fire.

As his eyes lingered on the fragile form of his daughter, he understood something he had never fully grasped before: control was everything. And now, more than ever, it would be his.

An obsession born on this day by a sixteen-year-old boy—an obsession that would soon consume everything in its path. What had started as a moment of helplessness in the delivery room ignited a hunger for control that no one could anticipate.

This was the beginning of something dark, something that would rewrite Alexander’s destiny—and everyone’s around him. An obsession so deep that the world would soon pay the price for it.

Hey everyone, Happy New Month! 🕺🕺 I know this chapter is a bit long, but I didn’t want to break it up because it flows better as one. I hope you’re starting to get a better feel for Alexander’s personality. If you’re enjoying what’s happening, stay tuned—we’ll be back to the present day soon!

And now, for the author’s note—daily thanks time 😂! Yes, he did it again, the one and only TW_MIRAGE. Thank you so much, man! Like, what?! I’m filled with pure gratitude. It’s insane. Thank you, thank you, thank you!

Also, since it’s the new month, my golden tickets have cleared 😭. If you want to support me, send me tickets and gifts. They really help me out a lot, guys. Thank you so much again! Happy new month once more!

P.S. I found my phone 😂. Find my phone for the win 😂😂!

P.S, P.S (THANK YOU SO MUCH TW_MIRAGE ☺)