I Inherited Trillions, Now What?

The Nisā' Wing of Al-Yamamah Palace shimmered in silence, soaked in centuries of tradition and the haunting elegance of secrets never spoken. Soft, golden light filtered through the intricate latticework of mashrabiya screens, casting honeycomb patterns across the cool marble floors. The fragrance of oud, jasmine, and rosewater hung in the air like a royal decree—fragrant, powerful, and unchanging.

In this quiet sanctum—off-limits to nearly every man in the kingdom—the Crown Prince sat across from the one woman who could shake his composure: his younger sister, Princess Layla bint Salman.

Even here, where he was the heir to the throne, the man seen by the world as the future ruler of the kingdom, his authority mattered little. In front of Layla, power shifted. Not because she demanded it—but because she'd never known a world without it.

She sat across from him in full traditional garb, a silhouette in black—her abaya seamless, her niqāb pristine, even her gloves of the finest silk. There was no flash, no glitter. Her wealth whispered, never shouted. Yet it wrapped around her like armor.

She drank delicately, a silver straw slipping beneath her veil, disappearing into the unseen beneath. Watching her sip through layers of cloth made the prince pause. Her face—he hadn't seen it in decades. The last memory he had of her bare-faced was when she was three, during a chaotic family mishap. A tumble down the palace stairs, a cut lip, crying and blood. And then—veil. After that, nothing. The girl became the mystery.

Now, she was the ghost queen of the palace—spoken of with awe, moved like smoke.

The Crown Prince leaned forward.

"Well, Layla… would you do it?" His voice was soft, coaxing, betraying none of the tension clamping his chest.

She took another sip. The silence stretched.

Then, she exhaled.

"Arghhh," she sighed, setting the ornate glass down on a carved wooden tray. Her gloved hand brushed the edge of the cup.

"Okay," she said simply.

He blinked. "Yes? You mean—Yes?!"

A smile spread across his face—rare, genuine. He tilted his head toward the ceiling and whispered, "Alhamdulillah."

But before he could revel in his small victory, she raised her hand.

"But—"

The smile froze on his face. His head snapped forward again. "But? What but?"

Layla tilted slightly. The angle of her body, the cadence of her breath—it all changed. She didn't need facial expressions to toy with him. It was in the silence, the posture, the pause.

"He has to pass my list," she said, her voice now laced with a velvet cruelty. A test. A game.

He blinked. "List?"

A muffled snicker escaped from behind the niqāb. "Yes," she said sweetly. "Let's see if your precious friend—Alexander Blackwell—has what it takes."

A giggle followed. A rare sound in a palace built on silence.

The Crown Prince didn't laugh. He exhaled, slow and tired, feeling the tension thicken around them like desert heat. Layla was no ordinary royal. She was the only daughter of a king with fourteen children—thirteen sons and one daughter. The apple of his eye. The untouchable star in the night sky. Spoiled wasn't the word—enthroned was more like it.

Where he had fought tooth and nail for their father's love—where blood had been spilled to secure his place as Crown Prince—she had simply been born.

She should have been married long ago. But no man dared ask. Not even royals from other kingdoms. Who would approach the King of Saudi Arabia and request his only daughter's hand? It would be like asking to borrow the Black Stone from the Kaaba. It wasn't done. It couldn't be done.

And now, this. The moment she said yes—she didn't really say yes.

She said test him.

And the prince knew her tests were legendary.

Meanwhile…

Hours away, half a world apart, another power player in this vast, invisible chessboard was walking into a confrontation he hadn't expected—not so soon, not like this.

Nathaniel Rockerfeller had always been cold, composed, a strategist of legendary repute. The man who had orchestrated the fall of Alexander Blackwell's public empire. The whisper in the corridors of power. The architect of exile. He had watched Alexander fall from grace like a hawk watching a collapsing star—and he had plans to make sure that star never rose again.

But something had changed.

Something was off.

"Young Master Nathaniel," came a voice behind him.

Deep. Gravelly. Cold as a glacier.

He turned.

Standing in the doorway was a towering black man dressed in the crisply tailored uniform of a traditional butler—black waistcoat, white gloves, and polished shoes that glinted like obsidian. He was built like a mountain. Muscular, massive, with the poise of a soldier and the dead eyes of a man who had seen too much. No warmth, no empathy. He looked like he had been sculpted by war itself.

"The boss is ready for you," the butler said, stepping aside.

Nathaniel swallowed.

Across the hall, his secretary stood nervously. Her name was Evelyn. Blonde hair pulled back into a perfect bun. Power suit of navy blue, hands clenched tightly behind her back. She was composed—but barely. Her knuckles had turned white. The slight tremor in her lower lip, the darting of her eyes to the grand double doors—it all betrayed her.

Nathaniel gave her a small nod. It was rehearsed. Polished. Reassuring.

But inside, he was just as shaken.

He turned toward the door. Took a breath. Walked in.

The room was something out of another era.

Old money. Old power.

Everything from the Persian rugs to the mahogany paneling screamed opulence, but not in the way of celebrities or new-age billionaires. No. This was Texan oil wealth, Rockefeller legacy. The room was cathedral-sized, as wide as it was long, with a 30-foot ceiling held up by dark oak beams and a towering bookcase wall that looked like it hadn't been touched in 50 years.

Animal heads adorned one wall—rare, exotic, extinct. A white lion. A black jaguar. Even the rumored head of a golden Arabian oryx, shot legally decades ago when the rules were different.

There was a desk—but no one sat at it.

Instead, a man stood near the far end of the room, his back turned to Nathaniel, facing the panoramic glass wall that framed a kingdom of its own.

Outside stretched acres upon acres of land. Endless green fields. Oil rigs in the distance. Silos, refineries, private airstrips. Empire.

And in the center of it all stood the man.

Gideon Marcus Rockefeller XIII.

The Thirteenth Head of the Rockefeller Family.

His hands were clasped behind his back. His white hair was thick, combed perfectly. He wore a bespoke suit in deep navy, with pinstripes so thin they looked like spider silk. His shoulders were impossibly broad, and though age had crept into his bones, he stood as if gravity feared him.

Nathaniel stopped halfway across the room.

The silence roared.

For a moment, it felt like even the wind outside held its breath.

Then the voice came—deep, thunderous, and slow, like a sermon written in stone.

"You sure have been busy," came the gravelly voice of the man who had raised him—and ruled him. Gideon Rockefeller, the 13th Head of the Rockefeller family, finally turned from the glass wall that stretched from floor to ceiling, revealing a face so similar to Nathaniel's it almost hurt.

Black hair, combed back with commanding precision. Green-brown eyes that burned through skin and bone. A chiseled jawline carved as if from stone. Nathaniel had always known he looked like his father, but every time they stood face to face, it was like staring into a darker, sharper, more brutal version of himself. A version that hadn't hesitated to beat, train, and forge him into what he was today.

Nathaniel kept his composure as best he could and answered, "Yes, Head."

Not 'father'. Never 'father'. That title had been beaten out of him, replaced by the one Gideon valued most: Head.

"And what's this I'm hearing about the Blackwell kid?" Gideon asked, his voice low but laced with steel as he began a slow, deliberate walk toward his son.

Nathaniel's jaw tightened as he lowered his voice, his tone edged with restrained fury.

"Alexander Blackwell—he didn't just outmaneuver us. He betrayed us. He proposed a capital raise, claimed it was to strengthen our AI position globally. We agreed—signed off on it—because we believed we were all in it together. But when the new shares were issued, we were sidelined. Completely. He and his European partners swept in and bought almost the entire block. Their stake soared. Ours diluted overnight. We lost leverage, lost visibility, lost respect. And the worst part? He used our own strategy as the selling point. He made it look like progress… while gutting us." He paused for breath. "We were set to dominate it, but he got there first. With our own momentum."

Gideon had now reached him. He raised his hand to smooth Nathaniel's suit, brush invisible dust from his shoulder, adjust his tie like a father preparing a son for prom. But there was no warmth in it.

"Look at me."

Nathaniel hesitated, then obeyed. The smile on Gideon's face was slight, almost gentle.

"I don't remember the Blackwell kid using me, ehn?" he said, sarcasm dripping like venom.

He turned his head slightly, speaking toward the stoic figure by the wall. "Ehn, Darren, do you remember me getting used?"

"No, sir," Darren replied without blinking. His deep, resonant voice cut through the room like a blade. Dressed impeccably in a tailored black suit with white gloves, he was a mountain of a man—muscular, motionless, and utterly unreadable. His dead eyes gave nothing away.

Gideon chuckled, shaking his head. "Me neither, ehn."

Then, without warning, his right arm swung.

THWACK!

The sound echoed like a gunshot.

Nathaniel's head snapped sideways as the impact of Gideon's punch sent him crashing to the floor. A sharp sting blossomed in his jaw. He touched it—wet. Blood.

"GET UP, YOU FOOL!" Gideon roared.

Nathaniel stood, staggering slightly, wiping blood from his lip. His eyes flared with something between fury and shame.

"The Blackwell boy humiliated you," Gideon snarled. "And what did you do? You threw some stupid allegations at him? Is that how a Rockefeller fights back? Is that how you handle being disrespected?!"

Nathaniel spat to the side, then replied, "He's wanted in the States. His name is ruined. He can't step foot back here. I shattered his reputation."

Gideon, who had been listening in silence, suddenly snapped.

"And what does that even achieve?" he barked. "His company's doing just fine—thriving, actually. And he's in Saudi Arabia, a region you were supposed to just handle a region already locked down. Now look at it—they won't even listen to you anymore destroying years and years of the family's hard work poured into the place! You've only proven you're impulsive and weak."

Nathaniel frowned as the realization settled in.

"It's the prince," he muttered. "He probably sees Alexander as the lifeline—the way out for his family once the oil runs dry. But it's shortsighted. All of it. In the end, the whole structure will collapse, and Alexander won't be able to stop it. His company may still be standing, but it's here—under our jurisdiction. And that means I can still restrict him... through the government, if I have to."

He spoke almost absentmindedly, as if he hadn't just revealed a secret the Saudi royal family had gone to deadly lengths to protect. But in this room, it was treated as common knowledge—a quiet reminder of the Rockefeller grip on power and their unmatched ability to gather information.

Nathaniel, who had been so determined to defend himself, faltered the moment his father moved. He watched Gideon slowly turn to face him again—no yelling this time, just that look. That look that made his stomach tighten. Instinctively, Nathaniel took a step back, a flicker of fear crossing his face.

But Gideon didn't strike. He didn't raise his voice. He just stared at his son with icy disappointment and said, almost bitterly,

"You don't even know… do you? You fool."

Nathaniel's eyes widened. His gaze darted to the butler, as if silently demanding answers—What is he talking about?—but it was Darren who stepped forward, his tone calm, yet heavy with finality.

"As of a few hours ago," Darren began, "Alexander Blackwell has officially initiated the process of rescinding his United States citizenship—he's applying for Saudi citizenship, in accordance with international law."

Nathaniel's breath caught in his throat, but Darren wasn't done.

"And that's not all. He's also begun the legal transition to convert Blackwell Investments into a Saudi corporation."

The room fell silent—cold, suffocating silence. Nathaniel stood frozen, as if the floor beneath him had shifted. The betrayal he thought he understood… had only just begun.

The air in the room collapsed.

Nathaniel's knees almost buckled. "No... how? That's not... that's impossible—"

Gideon cut in, his voice quiet now. Measured. Deadly.

"So not only did the Blackwell boy outmaneuver you... he has tightened the Saudis' grip on their future. Strengthened their economy. Freed them from our influence. And you helped him do it."

The silence that followed was unbearable.

Saudi Arabia had been one of the Rockefeller family's most strategically vital assets. A place where oil wealth and shadow diplomacy had long given them leverage. A nation ruled by tradition, fear, and gold. And now it was slipping away.

Nathaniel looked up, desperate. "No—I can fix this. I know what to do. I have plans for his company i would just initiate them his cousin i can use him—I'll bring it up at the next family meeting and—"

"Don't."

Gideon's voice was final.

Nathaniel's blood ran cold. "Father, please don't—"

"You will not be at the meeting."

Nathaniel froze.

Gideon walked past him, settling into the massive leather chair behind his antique oil-baron desk. The horns of rare animals loomed above him, and the acres of green land stretched endlessly behind the glass.

"You're lucky I don't strip you of your position as heir."