I Inherited Trillions, Now What?

"Prince."

"Prince!"

The voices of the advisors rang out sharply, slicing through the thick silence like blades. Chairs scraped hastily against marble floors as the council leapt to their feet in unison. Their sleepless eyes, dulled by waiting and uncertainty, sharpened in an instant as they saw the crown prince stepping out of the conference suite.

Their initial weariness was replaced by a fresh wave of confusion—and beneath that, a strange sense of unease. The tension they had harbored toward the cold, suited guards who had stood like statues at either side of the hallway doors melted away completely as their eyes fixed on the scene before them.

Prince Mohammed emerged, regal but… calm.

Too calm.

They expected anger. Fury. Perhaps even an explosion of insults or commands.

But instead, he turned slightly—his movement fluid, measured—and looked back at the father-and-daughter duo who now stood just behind him. The woman stepped forward with all the poise of someone who knew she owned the ground she walked on. Her black pantsuit was as sharp as the confidence in her voice.

"Instructions of what to do and when," she said, her tone clipped and precise, "will be given shortly."

The advisors blinked. Some of them even gasped. It was not the words themselves—but the fact that the woman had spoken them in front of the prince, with an authority that felt unnatural, alien… forbidden.

And yet the prince nodded.

He nodded.

"No problem," he said.

His voice was even. Unshaken. Not a trace of resistance.

The world tilted slightly in the minds of the men who had served him for years.

Then the older man, the one they recognized as Alexander Blackwell's butler—or so they thought—stepped forward and gave a warm, polished smile.

"Well then, Prince Mohammed," he said, voice smooth as velvet, "allow me to escort you."

The prince nodded once more, without a hint of hesitation.

The advisors just stood there. Frozen. The sheer civility of the moment, the surreal ease between the prince and these strangers—it paralyzed their tongues. They could only watch as the butler and the prince walked side by side, making their way toward the exit.

When they reached the grand doors leading out of the private wing, the butler—Sebastian—paused and turned back.

"Gentlemen," he said, his deep, refined voice echoing faintly in the corridor.

They instinctively snapped their attention toward him.

"If you will," he added, gesturing subtly with a gloved hand, not so much as a request but a reminder.

It was time to leave.

The advisors, in all their years of protocol and statecraft, had never been dismissed with such quiet finality.

They exchanged glances. On each of their faces was not just disbelief—but a look that went beyond mere shock. There was another word for it, something deeper, heavier.

Disorientation.

Like the ground beneath them had shifted and none of them could find their footing anymore.

Outside, the golden glow of the early evening sun bathed the hotel's facade in a dreamlike shimmer. The prince approached his armored vehicle, the convoy awaiting him with silent engines humming. He paused just before stepping in and turned to the man who had walked beside him—the butler of his now… partner.

"Thank you, Sebastian," the prince said, his voice low.

He said the name with deliberate respect. A name he had memorized long before setting foot on European soil. Prince Mohammed had done his homework. He hadn't simply come to meet Alexander Blackwell blindly. He had studied his target. He had learned of the ever-present woman often called The Devil's Hand—the whispered orchestrator behind nearly every monumental deal Alexander had pulled off. But even more intriguing had been her father.

Sebastian.

The man who had once served as secretary to Alexander's father, and who now, in a strange twist of hierarchy, chose to serve as butler to his son.

The man was a shadow. A ghost in most records. But those who knew… knew.

Sebastian gave a warm smile.

"No problem, Prince Mohammed," he replied smoothly.

Then, his smile grew a touch broader. More pronounced. A quiet gleam entered his eye as he added, "And let's hope for a lengthy and prosperous partnership."

He bowed slightly, the gesture laced with centuries of old-world grace—and a mischievous air that was hard to ignore.

Prince Mohammed hesitated for a heartbeat. The smile had shifted. There was something… off about it. Something that unsettled him just beneath the surface. A grin too clever. Too confident. Too knowing.

But he simply gave a nod and turned away, unsure of what to make of it.

He entered his car in silence.

As the door closed behind him with a soft thunk, he exhaled—long, heavy, the kind of sigh that carried generations of legacy and burden with it.

He looked up at the hotel once more through the tinted glass. The wind played at the flags above. The building stood like a monument to what had just taken place within it.

He could feel it.

Today would mark a turning point.

For him.For his family.For his nation.For the world.For history itself.

The vehicle hadn't even moved before the chattering began.

His advisors, eyes wide with restless energy, practically leaned toward him in their eagerness to speak.

One finally broke through.

"Prince… what was that in there?" the man asked, unable to suppress his bewilderment—a blend of curiosity, anxiety, and disbelief.

The words came out rushed, breathy, disrespectful in their tone despite the honorific attached. It was the voice of a man who had just witnessed something he couldn't unsee.

The other advisors, more restrained but just as shaken, turned toward him instantly, their voices rising in rebuke.

"Watch your tone!" one snapped, glaring.

"How dare you? Don't forget yourself," another barked, clearly scandalized.

"Control your mouth. This is the Crown Prince you're addressing," a third growled, his voice stern with reprimand.

Yet another leaned forward and said firmly, "Look around you. This is not the place. Let us at least return to the Al Salam Palace before we even begin to speak of this."

"Yes—driver, let's move!" another chimed in quickly, knocking on the divider.

But just as the vehicle prepared to lurch forward, the voice of the crown prince stopped everything cold.

"No," Prince Mohammed said.

His voice was calm.

Commanding.

Unshakable.

"Take us to Al Yamamah Palace."

Silence gripped the cabin like a sudden freeze.

Al Yamamah.

The royal seat. The stronghold of power. The place where kings spoke—and were spoken to.

The advisors turned to him in disbelief, their eyes wide once again, but the prince didn't acknowledge them.

He stared forward, unmoved, as if the very weight of the coming days had settled into his spine.

"I need to meet the King Salman bin Abdulaziz Al Saud," he said.

"What The king" The voices of the advisors came out in shock

Today had been nothing short of a rollercoaster—a violent, twisting descent that none of them had been prepared for.

These were men who were used to respect, no—reverence. In the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, their words were law to many. They wielded power just beneath the royal family itself, and even within the palace walls, their opinions carried weight. They weren't just politicians or bureaucrats; they were the elite, the chosen few who helped shape the soul of the nation.

But today?

Today they had been insulted, threatened—even humiliated. And not by some brash local upstart, but by a foreigner. An outsider who dared to raise his voice on Saudi soil. A man who spoke with arrogance, as though he stood on equal footing with royalty. As if the laws, the customs, the centuries of tradition that bound their kingdom meant nothing to him.

It was an insult that still burned hot in their veins.

But what cut deeper, what truly fanned the flames of their fury, was not the outsider himself—it was the crown prince.

The man who was supposed to defend them. Their own prince. The very embodiment of national pride, power, and sovereignty… had fraternized with the enemy.

They had expected fire and fury. They had expected him to assert dominance, to show that this was their land. Instead, the prince had smiled—smiled—and called the outsider a business partner.

The word alone felt like betrayal.

They were already ready to demand answers, to express their outrage, when something else happened. Something that made every insult and humiliation before it seem like child's play.

The prince had uttered a name.

A single name.

The name of the King.

And in that moment, the air left the car.

The silence that followed was almost holy. Like the moment before a thunderstorm splits the sky.

To the world outside, the crown prince was the face of Saudi Arabia. The visionary. The reformer. The powerhouse behind every change the kingdom had embraced in recent years. His influence spanned from the oil fields to the high courts, from foreign embassies to school textbooks. His will was law. His word was future.

But these men—these advisors—they knew the truth behind the curtain.

The crown prince ruled only because the King allowed it.

For years now, the King had remained in the shadows. Disinterested, perhaps even weary of the day-to-day affairs of the nation. He had handed the reins to his son and watched, silently. But that silence… that was never weakness. That was patience.

The King's presence had become so rare, so reserved for monumental moments, that it had taken on the weight of legend. The last time he had stepped into political matters, the Kingdom had declared war.

War.

That was the level the King operated on. His involvement was never for petty disputes. Never for minor matters. No one went to the King for anything but country-shaping events. His word could reshape borders, change constitutions, end careers, or launch a thousand missiles.

And now, after a closed-door meeting with a man who had suggested altering the very soul of Saudi Arabia—its principles, its identity, its essence—the prince had calmly stated:

"I need to meet the King."

Not his ministers. Not his uncles. Not even the Crown Council.

The King.

Inside the royal convoy, the advisors sat like men who had just been told the earth was cracking beneath their feet. Their fingers clenched the armrests. Their robes suddenly felt too tight. Their throats too dry.

They turned slowly to look at one another, their eyes wide, unblinking. There was no need to speak—each man knew what the other was thinking.

"If the King is brought into this—then the very foundation of the Kingdom may be shifting."