I Inherited Trillions, Now What?

While the Prince and his advisors were waiting inside the top executive room of the hotel—a room reserved for only the most powerful and influential figures on earth—a very different scene was unfolding behind the heavily guarded doors of the hotel's private office wing.

The room in question was nothing short of spectacular. Located at the pinnacle of the five-star property, it offered a panoramic view of Riyadh's dazzling skyline. Floor-to-ceiling windows allowed warm sunlight to wash over polished marble floors and walls adorned with museum-grade artwork. A custom-made Persian rug, imported from Isfahan, lay beneath a central arrangement of handcrafted Italian furniture. The scent of oud lingered subtly in the air, emanating from an intricate burner in the corner.

In a secluded section of the room—partitioned by a hand-carved wooden divider—was the private office. The office looked more like a billionaire's personal command center than a typical hotel study. It featured a dark walnut executive desk, imported from Switzerland, inlaid with gold trimming. Behind it stood bookshelves that displayed not just books, but artifacts—some centuries old. The lighting was perfectly balanced, neither too bright nor too dim, courtesy of custom chandeliers imported from Austria.

Inside that office stood four people.

Two of them, slightly set apart and silently observant, were Sebastian Hawthorne and his daughter Everlyn Hawthorne. The father-and-daughter duo served respectively as the Blackwell family's butler and secretary. They were dressed immaculately—Sebastian in his traditional black tailcoat with polished shoes and white gloves, and Everlyn in a sleek, navy-blue formal suit, tablet in hand. Both stood at attention with their hands folded, speaking only when spoken to. Their posture and presence exuded quiet authority and deference, a clear sign they were trusted inner-circle members.

But the tension in the room centered around the two figures in the middle.

Standing across from the desk was Elisabeth Usher, the elegant and formidable matriarch of the Usher bloodline. In front of her, calm as a still lake but powerful as a hurricane, was her son—Alexander Blackwell.

Her voice was strained, edged with disbelief and worry.

"Alexander, this is madness," she said, her tone firm but layered with maternal concern. "Why are you doing this? You can't possibly believe this will end well."

"Many have tried what you are attempting now son all have failed" she said anxious to delude him "You can't own the world son" she said hoping to put a stop to his wild ambition

Alexander, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit with a charcoal vest, didn't flinch. He remained seated, fingers steepled under his chin, his black eyes unreadable.

"All who failed lacked the skills ambition and quite frankly the money to do it that's why they failed"

"Money isn't omnipotent, son. You can't just buy the world."

He tilted his head slightly, his tone sharp as a scalpel. "Perhaps. But what money can't do—more of it will."

Elisabeth's lips parted in shock. She stared at him, not because she didn't understand, but because she did. "Even if that were true," she said, regaining her composure, "you don't have nearly enough."

Alexander stood slowly, his movements precise and deliberate. "Not yet," he said, each word measured like a contract clause. "But that's one of the reasons I'm here."

She stepped forward, lowering her voice. "And the Rockefellers? Do you think they'll stand by and watch you threaten their legacy?"

Alexander's eyes narrowed as he absorbed her words. Slowly, he turned to his mother, who stood there, gazing into those black eyes she had always adored.

"The Rockefellers are not a concern, Mother," he said, his voice ice-cold, devoid of any hint of hesitation.

She didn't flinch, meeting his stare before responding, "Not a concern? They chased you out of the country and are hunting you now."

Alexander moved with deliberate calm, his voice dropping to a near whisper, as if the weight of his words were too much for anyone else to comprehend. "It's all just circumstances. But in the grand scheme of things, the Rockefellers are nothing but an obstacle. Their fall is inevitable." He spoke as if he were discussing something trivial, unbothered by the immense power of the family he was dismissing.

"It's only a matter of time," he continued, his words carrying a dark finality, like a sentence.

His gaze locked with hers, and she found herself almost stepping back, as if his presence was suffocating. "They will fall," he said, each word slow, deliberate, and terrifying. "It's been willed so."

He stepped closer to the window, looking out at the city like it was already his. Then, his voice dropped further, almost like he was remembering something long buried. "This was always the plan, Mother. If not for Father's change of heart in his later years, these steps would have been executed long ago."

That hit her hard. She took a slow breath, her voice softer but laced with hurt. "Do you think your father was weak? Is that what you're saying?"

He turned slightly, his expression as unreadable as ever. "No. I don't think that. I believe he allowed lesser things to take precedence. He lost focus, started caring about... sentiment. He wanted peace. He wanted quiet. And while I don't hold it against him, I believe it was simply age catching up with him. A softening of the edges."

She gave a bitter smile, looking down for a moment before speaking again. "That softening... that was the man I married. The man I fell in love with. The things you call 'lesser'—family, love, kindness—those are the most important things, Alexander. They are what truly matter. And your father found his way back to them before it was too late."

Her voice broke slightly as she continued. "I pray you find your way too. Before it's too late."

Alexander said nothing.

She looked around the opulent room, her eyes scanning the wealth, the symbols of power and legacy that surrounded them. "We've been blessed, Alexander. Beyond measure. But if you go down this path, you might lose what truly matters. Even if you achieve your ambitions."

Her voice was quiet now. Almost a whisper.

"Don't lose Everything chasing the world."

Alexander stood still as she voiced her thoughts. "My guest has arrived, Mother. Let's talk about this later," he said, his voice tinged with impatience. He had grown weary of this conversation, one he had been having ever since returning from his meeting.

Elisabeth, sensing the shift in tone, responded, "Another thing—those people you're planning all this with... do you feel that's wise?" Her gaze remained fixed on him, a mix of concern and curiosity in her eyes.

Alexander met her gaze with a mild, confused look. Elisabeth quickly seized on the moment, her voice sharp and determined. "You know as well as I do that these people are unpredictable. Let me explain," she continued, her tone firm. "Take Donald Trump, for example. There's a reason the elite families turned on him in the first place—he's self-centered, and his unpredictability is off the charts. He's key to your possible return to the States, but he's also a liability. You can't ignore that."

She paused, watching him carefully, then moved on. "As for the prince... he's a national leader, with ties to the Rockefellers. Leaders like him will do anything for their people, but the second they think they can get a better deal, they'll drop you without hesitation. And Elon—" she hesitated, "I don't even know why he's connected to this at all, but I will say this: he craves public love and affection. The minute he feels any animosity from the people after working with you, he'll turn on you. These three men are pivotal to your plans, but they are just as dangerous as they are valuable."

Alexander listened in silence, his expression unreadable. When she finished, he finally spoke, his voice cold. "It seems you've been reading our character reports," he said, glancing at Sebastian and Evelyn. He noted their tense posture but dismissed it. They couldn't stop her from checking those things. He didn't care to stop her; despite her vocal opposition, he knew his mother was ultimately on his side.

He continued, "And yes, you're right. They all have flaws." His gaze hardened as he spoke. "But those flaws are useful. Trump's unpredictability, for instance—it's exactly what I need. His self-centered nature keeps him isolated from the elite families. That's to my advantage. He's the only one whose voice he'll listen to, and once the election is over, his importance will diminish after he's done the work for me. As for the prince... you nailed it. As long as I offer the better deal, he'll always back me."

Alexander's voice grew colder, his tone almost chilling. "And Elon... well, he's a special case," he said slowly, his words deliberate. "His need for public affection is exactly what I want. His importance will become evident later. He'll follow the public's mood, and I can control that."

The room fell quiet again, the tension palpable as Alexander's words hung in the air like a storm waiting to break. He looked directly at his mother, his voice turning ice-cold as he concluded, "And as for your concern about manipulation—smart people are the easiest to control, Mother. The more intelligent they are, the more they believe they can outsmart everyone else. But they forget—they're just as vulnerable to manipulation as anyone else They are easier than even fools most times."

The room fell into a tense silence once again, the weight of the conversation lingering in the air. Alexander's eyes never left his mother as she slowly rose from her seat, a deep, resigned sigh escaping her lips. He spoke then, his voice cold and composed as ever.

"If that would be all, Mother, I have a meeting to attend now," he said, his tone final, as though the discussion had already reached its conclusion.

Elisabeth's expression softened for a moment, but her resolve didn't waver. With a small shake of her head, she turned to leave, her footsteps deliberate but quiet against the marble floor. As she reached the door, she paused, turning slightly to throw one last remark over her shoulder, her words heavy with the burden of years spent in this world of power and politics.

"This is your dream, son," she said, her voice low but unwavering. "It is exactly what it is—a dream. It's not attainable. I hope you realize that." She spoke not with anger, but with an air of sorrow, as though seeing her son chase a vision she feared would destroy him.

Alexander's eyes narrowed, but he didn't immediately respond. His mother was right, in her own way, but he was determined to prove her wrong. His voice cut through the air, smooth and calculating as ever, as he interrupted her departure.

"You are a believer, right, Mother?" he asked, his words carefully chosen, almost rhetorical. Elisabeth stopped and turned to face him, a glimmer of frustration flashing in her eyes. She knew exactly what he was doing—baiting her into a conversation she had no desire to continue.

"Well, let me ask you this," he continued, his voice dropping to a more contemplative tone, though the challenge still lingered beneath his words. "Do you believe God would place a dream in the heart of someone if they weren't capable of achieving it?"

Elisabeth's breath caught, and for a moment, the world around them seemed to hold its breath. She stood still, the weight of his question pressing against her chest, her thoughts clouded by the gravity of his words. She had spent her life cautioning him, warning him about the dangers of ambition, but this—this was different.

She didn't want him to have the last word, but she also knew she couldn't back down now. Her voice was firm, but there was an undeniable sadness beneath it as she spoke.

"You can't win it all, Alexander," she said, her words final, carrying the tone of someone who had lived long enough to understand the harsh realities of the world. "You will lose one day. That's inevitable."

Her words hung in the air like a warning, but Alexander simply stared at her with an unreadable expression, his mind already working on the next move. The calmness in his eyes never wavered, but his voice took on a slight edge of mockery as he responded, the disbelief in his tone almost palpable.

"Lose?" he asked, his voice laced with incredulity, as if the very concept of losing was a foreign idea. "I don't know how to lose," he continued, his tone colder now, more resolute.

Elisabeth's gaze remained fixed on him for a moment longer, but there was nothing more she could say. She had given him everything she could—warnings, wisdom, and love. But she had no illusions. He was determined, and nothing would change that.

"You will learn," she said, her voice heavy with finality, as if she had accepted that nothing she said would stop him. "And I just hope it doesn't cost us too much." Her words were filled with a quiet sorrow, a mother's hope for her son to come to his senses, even if it meant facing the painful consequences of his decisions.

As she turned to leave, the sound of her footsteps echoed in the vast, empty room. Alexander stood there, watching her, unmoving, his expression unreadable. The door clicked softly behind her, and the room felt eerily silent in the aftermath of their exchange.

His gaze lingered on the space his mother had once occupied, the tension of the conversation settling in his chest. But there was no regret in his heart—only a cold, calculating resolve.

With a quiet sigh, he turned his head, his voice cold and commanding as he spoke to the waiting figures in the room.

"Bring the prince," he said, his words clipped and final.

There was no time for reflection, no room for hesitation. Alexander had a vision, and nothing would stand in his way—not his mother's concerns, nor the doubts of those around him. He would shape the world as he saw fit, piece by piece, until it was molded into something that belonged only to him.