I Inherited Trillions, Now What?

"Mr. Blackwell, this—what you are proposing is—" The Prince began, but his words were quickly drowned out as his advisors erupted into chaos.

"This is insane!" one shouted, his voice cracking with disbelief.

"You want to destroy the oil market? You want to ruin Saudi?" another shouted, incredulous.

"Yes! You want to ruin Saudi Arabia!" a third added, shaking his head in frustration.

"Yes! Saudi is oil! Oil is Saudi! What you're suggesting is the future total destruction of oil!" they all cried out in a collective panic.

Alexander Blackwell sat there, unmoving, his face a study in calm. The storm of objections and shrill voices did nothing to stir him. His gaze was locked on the Prince, his expression one of eerie detachment. After a moment of silence, he spoke, his voice cool and unwavering.

"Saudi will be protected," Alexander said. "I will invest a considerable amount of money into buying a portion of the oil. When this is all over, I will sell it back to you at a standard rate."

His words hung in the air, but the advisors were not appeased. The room was filled with a growing sense of dread, as if the very air itself had become thick with the weight of what was being proposed.

"That's only short-term," one advisor retorted, his voice harsh with panic. "If what you say even happens a little, you will compromise the effects of oil!"

"Yes! It will compromise everything!" another advisor shouted.

"My prince, I told you this was a bad idea. He is a madman!" one advisor said, his face pale with worry.

"Yes, my prince! Let's leave. We shouldn't have even come here. We should go back and let the U.S. deal with this madman!" another advisor chimed in.

The Prince, his face pale and drawn, looked at each of his advisors, their anxiety echoing through the room like a tidal wave. Their fears were not unfounded—this was no mere business proposition. Alexander Blackwell's words, if taken seriously, had the power to bring down the oil empire, to turn it from a stable foundation into a crumbling ruin.

"Yes! If we do this, we would be going against the Rockefellers!" another advisor exclaimed, his voice shaking. "We had promised not to do this, but if we proceed with his plan, it could cause deadly repercussions—crippling us for ages!"

The Prince felt the weight of his advisor's words pressing down on him, and for the first time since Alexander had entered the room, a flicker of uncertainty passed through his eyes. His kingdom was built on oil. The prosperity of Saudi Arabia was tied to it in ways that couldn't be undone, not without catastrophic consequences. And now, a man—an outsider—was proposing to dismantle everything that had taken decades to build.

The room fell silent, and the Prince stood up slowly, his eyes never leaving Alexander's. His body language was rigid, his hands clenched into fists at his sides as he gathered himself for what he had to say next.

"Mr. Blackwell," the Prince began, his voice calm but laced with steel. "My advisors are right. What you are proposing is madness."

He paused, his gaze turning hard, his expression unreadable. "I have told you before, I will not get involved in the war between the Blackwells and the Rockefellers. And this—this is something I cannot allow. Ruining the oil industry is not something I will ever permit. It would ruin my citizens. It would ruin my country."

The Prince took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. His advisors stood behind him, their faces grim, their silence a stark contrast to the tension that filled the air. The weight of history seemed to press on the room, as though everything they had ever known was on the verge of collapse.

"I will not tolerate such discussions in my country," the Prince said, his voice low but firm. "As long as you stop with these talks, you are welcome to stay here under my protection. But if you continue with such madness, I will not hesitate to show you the door."

Alexander Blackwell didn't flinch. He didn't react at all. His eyes remained cold, impassive, as if this was just another business negotiation to him. The Prince, seeing no sign of acknowledgment or remorse in Alexander's gaze, exhaled sharply.

"Okay then, Mr. Blackwell," the Prince said, his voice hardening. "If you ever want to talk, you know how to contact me. But for this—" He raised his hand, as though severing any remaining connection between them. "Good day."

The advisors turned away, casting one final, disapproving glance at Alexander. They were disgusted, fearful, and uncertain, but there was nothing left to say. They had done their part to try and warn the Prince, but now, it was his decision.

Alexander Blackwell remained seated, his face as passive as ever, as if the chaos unfolding around him had no effect. His eyes followed the Prince and his advisors as they moved toward the door, their voices still murmuring in quiet anger and fear.

One of the advisors, unable to contain his frustration, huffed, turning sharply as the Prince moved to leave the room. The sound of his footsteps echoed through the quiet, but when the Prince reached the door, a sudden figure appeared.

Sebastian, Alexander's ever-loyal butler, stood at the threshold, his presence so still it was almost ghostly. He gave a slight bow as the Prince passed, his eyes downcast in silent respect. The Prince, however, didn't even acknowledge him, his gaze firmly fixed on the door ahead. He reached for the handle, but as he pulled it open, a chilling sight stopped him in his tracks.

Standing just outside the door were two guards, their expressions unreadable but their bodies taut, their hands resting on the guns strapped to their sides. The Prince's eyes widened in surprise, and for the briefest moment, a flicker of fear crossed his face. The guards' presence was unsettling, like a quiet threat hanging in the air.

Alexander's voice rang out suddenly, dark and cold, shattering the tension.

"Take your seat."

As soon as Alexander's voice fell upon the room, it was like a match had been thrown into a pool of gasoline.

The first reaction came from Prince Mohammed. His voice rang out, sharp and furious, as he spun on his heels, eyes blazing with outrage. "What is this?!" he bellowed, glaring at the two guards now standing by the doorway, clearly blocking their exit.

He turned toward Alexander, face flushed with rage. "You are insane! How dare you station guards against me in my own nation?! You better tell your men to stand down this very instant!"

The advisors echoed his fury.

"This is outrageous!"

"You will pay for this insult, Blackwell!"

"This is an act of war!"

Still, Alexander did not move. He sat there at his desk, calm and cold, his black eyes watching the prince like a panther sizing up a prey. His indifference only fueled their rage.

The prince, seeing no change in Alexander's posture, turned back toward the guards. In a low, warning tone, he muttered, "After this, Mr. Blackwell, I would advise you to start preparing your exit from the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. You are no longer welcome."

He turned to his advisors. "Let's go," he snapped.

But the moment he made a motion toward the exit, the two guards cocked their guns with a chilling click.

The sound halted them. The advisors instinctively stepped back. Even Prince Mohammed's steps faltered. He looked into the eyes of the guards—dead, unwavering. He took three careful steps back, his pulse beginning to pound.

Then Alexander's voice fell again—calm, firm, and final.

"My men won't move. So take your seat, Prince Mohammed."

The prince turned, eyes locking with Alexander's cold, unwavering gaze. He glanced again at the guards. Their fingers rested on the triggers. Something about their stillness, their absolute lack of fear, made him hesitate. He knew that look. These were men who followed orders without question, without thought. He had used such men before.

And Alexander Blackwell was very capable of giving such an order.

His advisors swarmed him with frantic whispers.

"Your Highness, I think we should just sit. He's mad, but he's serious."

"Where is our pride?! We are Saudi Arabia! We do not bend! It's a bluff! He can't do anything!"

The prince closed his eyes. The internal struggle waged in silence. Then, teeth clenched, voice low with contained fury, he growled, "Let's go sit down."

He turned, walking back to the seats, rage etched in every muscle.

The advisors were about to follow when Sebastian, Alexander's butler, appeared in front of them like a silent sentinel. "Only the prince has been asked to sit. The rest of you may wait outside in the reception room."

"What?!" one advisor shouted.

"This is unacceptable!"

"We are his advisors!"

But then the guards cocked their weapons again.

That shut them up.

Prince Mohammed, halfway to his seat, turned to see his advisors being dragged outside despite their protests.

"My Prince! My Prince! Stop this!"

Their screams echoed behind him, but he could do nothing. He was boiling with rage. He turned his eyes on Alexander, who was watching him with that same cold detachment.

The prince's voice cracked like thunder through the chamber, trembling with fury and disbelief.

"You will regret this! The Kingdom of Saudi Arabia is not some playground for you to throw your weight around! You dare hold me hostage? Assault my men? Are you mad?!"

He was halfway through his tirade when a voice, calm as death and colder than steel, sliced through the chaos.

"Seventy-three years."

The words hit like a bullet in the silence that followed.

The prince blinked, caught off guard. "…What?"

Alexander Blackwell slowly raised his head. His eyes—twin shards of obsidian—locked onto the prince, expression unreadable.

"Based on your current rate of oil production, your export models, and your remaining proven reserves, it will take exactly seventy-three years for Saudi Arabia to run dry."

Prince Mohammed stared at him, mouth ajar.

"That's—what nonsense are you talking about? Lies. Absolute—"

"Stop."

Alexander's voice was low, but it carried a weight that made the prince falter.

"Let's skip the theatrics. These outbursts won't rewrite data. And the data says this: your kingdom is dying, drop by drop, barrel by barrel. You know it. Your father knew it. Your government has spent billions trying to bury it."

The room turned frigid.

Alexander stood slowly, the chair creaking beneath him as he rose like a stormcloud on the horizon.

"You've clung to oil like a lifeline. But the world is changing. Faster than your kingdom can adapt. That's why you created Vision 2030. That's why you started peddling tourism and renewable dreams. But underneath the polished speeches and PowerPoints… is fear."

The prince's face had lost its color. His fists clenched. His pulse quickened.

How does he know this?

Alexander stepped forward.

"I've read the confidential reports. The ones buried in safes under Riyadh. The ones your own uncles haven't seen. The projections. The economic collapse models. The scenarios that start in year sixty-eight. The royal infighting forecasted for year seventy."

He took another step.

"You're not a king-in-waiting. You're the captain of a sinking ship, pretending the ballroom isn't underwater."

The prince backed up a pace, but there was nowhere to go. The room felt smaller. Tighter.

Alexander leaned in, voice like venom.

"Do you know why, despite all your money, your lineage, your decades of control… your family has never been accepted into the upper pantheon of power? and while we have"

The prince swallowed. His chest heaved.

Alexander's tone turned razor-sharp.

"Because my father was brave."

He paused.

"And yours… was a coward."

The words struck like a slap.

The prince's fury reignited instantly—his eyes widened, mouth opening to retaliate—

But Alexander raised a single hand. Calm. Slow.

"Don't. Save the rage. It won't change history."

He circled the prince like a vulture now, voice never rising, yet louder than any scream.

"While my father was building empires, yours was polishing thrones. While my house bled in the shadows to control the unseen, yours smiled for cameras and prayed the oil would never run out."

He stopped behind the prince, the air thick with tension.

"You inherited his timidity. His fear of evolution. His obsession with legacy over relevance."

Then, Alexander moved—deliberate and slow—stepping around until he stood face-to-face with Prince Mohammed once more.

And placed a firm, iron hand on his shoulder.

The prince flinched.

Alexander leaned in—so close, the prince could feel the ice in his breath.

"But I'm giving you a gift."

His voice was almost a whisper.

"The chance to rewrite your story. To tear your house down brick by cowardly brick—and rebuild something worthy of fear."

Alexander's grip tightened. Not just on the prince's shoulder—on the room itself. On history.

The prince looked up, eyes darting, lost between disbelief and sheer dread.

And then—Alexander delivered it.

A whisper.

A prophecy.

A threat.

A curse.

"Obey."