I Inherited Trillions, Now What?

Inside the towering edifice that was the United States Embassy in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, the air felt heavier than usual. The building, nestled in the heart of the Kingdom's capital, stood as a regal fortress of diplomacy, its façade a seamless blend of modern might and classical grandeur. Tall marble columns lined the entrance like silent sentinels, and the American flag fluttered with solemn pride under the blazing Arabian sun. Soldiers stood sharply at attention, their presence a living reminder of the power that pulsed within the embassy walls. Beyond the grand lobby, with its polished floors and gold-accented décor, past layers of security and bureaucracy, lay a place far more sacred: the Ambassador's Office.

On the highest floor of the embassy, shielded from the noise and bustle below, sat an office unlike any other. Fitted with sleek mahogany furniture, vintage oil paintings of American landscapes, and the subtle scent of imported leather, the room embodied power. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a commanding view of the Riyadh skyline, while a massive desk sat at the center like a throne of judgment. Here, decisions were made that could tip the balance of international relations. Here, today, sat a man unraveling.

Michael Thrum, the United States Ambassador to the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, gripped his phone with clammy hands. A man once known for his polished composure, for a voice that inspired confidence and authority, was now reduced to little more than a trembling figure hunched in his chair. His voice, barely above a whisper, cracked under pressure.

"About that, sir," Michael said, choosing his words carefully, "I've met with the Minister of Interior and several others... but they're not giving me a clear—"

"What is taking so long?!" the voice on the other end thundered.

The volume and intensity of the voice echoed through the ambassador's grand office, making the high walls seem to close in. Michael winced. He recognized the voice—not from any public directory or government listing—but from the exclusive, veiled circles of influence and unchecked power. This was not an elected official. No, this was something more terrifying: an untouchable.

He swallowed hard. "Sir, I promise I'll get this resolved. I have a meeting with the Crown Prince later today. I'm working every angle—"

"It better be resolved before the week is out," the voice hissed, low and deadly. "We need Alexander Blackwell back in the States to answer for his crimes. And if you can't do that..."

There was a pause—pregnant, calculated, lethal.

"...then maybe you're not fit to wear that title. Maybe we made a mistake in sending you to a place where real power is required. If you can't deliver, Michael, we'll find someone who can."

Michael opened his mouth, panic flooding his chest. "Yes sir, I—"

Click.

The line went dead.

The silence that followed was deafening. It lingered in the air like smoke after a blast. Michael lowered the phone slowly, his knuckles pale, sweat beading down his temple. For a moment, he just sat there—stunned, shamed, sick.

He had been appointed barely over a year ago. When the letter of confirmation came, it was the happiest moment of his life. Ambassador to Saudi Arabia. Not just any foreign post, but the post. A crown jewel. A career-defining assignment that came with prestige, power, and access to an elite world. Private dinners with royal families. Multi-billion-dollar deals. The oil, the wealth, the influence—it was all intoxicating.

He had felt like a king in a land of kings.

But now, it all felt like a cruel joke.

In just a few days, since Alexander Blackwell's untraceable arrival in the Kingdom, Michael's world had turned to ash. Calls from Washington had gone from cordial to coercive. Whispers of failure circulated. His every move was monitored. He had deployed all diplomatic and covert channels. He'd met ministers, pleaded with interior officials, even sent former CIA operatives under diplomatic cover to track down the elusive billionaire.

They had returned defeated.

"Impossible," they said. "Blackwell has turned his hotel into a fortress."

Not a five-star hotel. A fortress.

Nothing they tried worked. No pressure, no charm, no deal had made a dent.

Now he was running on caffeine, sleepless nights, and fear. The dark bags under his eyes told a story of countless rejections and unanswered calls. His suits hung looser on his thinning frame. His hairline seemed to recede by the hour.

And now, that man had threatened him.

The man who knew his private number.

The man who knew what Michael's security clearance gave him access to.

The man who was no one and everyone at once.

"Fuck!" Michael shouted, hurling the phone across the room.

He stood up in a rage, slamming his fists on the desk. Paperweights clattered to the floor. Documents flew. He swept his arm across the surface, sending coffee mugs and pens crashing into the Persian rug. He grabbed a framed photo of his swearing-in ceremony and smashed it against the wall.

"Fuck! FUCK!"

He tore through the room like a storm, overturning chairs, kicking cabinets. His breathing came in shallow bursts. The sheer weight of failure, of humiliation, was too much.

Just as he was about to scream again, the heavy wooden door to his office burst open.

He didn't turn. "How dare you enter my office like that!" he barked, voice wild, barely human.

He turned abruptly, ready to tear into whoever had disobeyed protocol.

It was his secretary. A young woman, normally composed, now visibly rattled. Her hands trembled. Her eyes darted.

Michael glared at her, enraged. "What?! Spit it out!"

But she didn't speak.

She simply raised one shaking finger and pointed toward the hallway outside his door.

A couple of miles away from the U.S. Embassy, in the heart of Riyadh, the Crown Prince of Saudi Arabia stepped out from the grand chamber where he had just finished a private meeting with his father, the King. The hallways of the Al-Yamamah Palace—marble floors polished to perfection, golden chandeliers glinting from above, and towering walls adorned with centuries-old calligraphy—carried the scent of rosewater and oud. It was a place of power, reverence, and history, where decisions shaping the fate of nations were born.

As the Crown Prince emerged, a small crowd of advisors, who had been waiting outside with a blend of eagerness and trepidation, immediately sprang to their feet. Their faces were unreadable, but their eyes betrayed their desperation to know what had transpired inside. Their nervous energy was only barely concealed by the polished discipline of palace protocol.

"My prince, how is the King?"

"Yes, is he in good health today?"

"My prince, if we may—"

Their voices overlapped briefly, like whispers in a storm, before falling into a tense silence. Though their curiosity burned hotter than the Arabian sun, their training kept them quiet, heads bowed, waiting for permission to speak further.

But the Crown Prince was in no mood to indulge their inquiries. His face was unreadable, carved from stone. Without a word, he simply walked forward, his traditional white thobe fluttering as the guards along the hallway bowed in deference, their rifles gleaming under the palace lights.

The advisors hurried behind him, their footsteps soft but hurried. One tried again.

"Your Highness, are we returning to your residence now?"

Another quickly followed. "Or perhaps you wish to convene with the ministers?"

The Crown Prince didn't stop walking. "Not yet. I still have business within the palace," he said curtly, taking a sharp turn down a corridor none of the advisors had expected.

Their steps faltered.

Recognition dawned.

"The Nisā' wing," one of them whispered, his voice trembling.

They all stopped in unison, paralyzed, not even daring to follow any farther.

The Crown Prince turned, a glint of amusement in his dark eyes. "What? You don't want to follow me in?" he asked, sarcasm thick in his voice.

Nervous laughter rippled through the group. One advisor stammered, "Ah, Your Highness, we would never dare..."

"Of course not," the Crown Prince muttered with a scoff, turning back and walking alone into the heart of one of the most forbidden places in the kingdom.

The Nisā' wing of Al-Yamamah Palace was sacred ground. Hidden deep within the palace, it was more guarded, more private than even the King's own quarters. No male outside of the royal bloodline dared step foot within it. It was the sanctuary of the women of the House of Saud—the wives, mothers, daughters, and sisters who remained ghosts to the outside world.

Their names were not published. Their photos did not exist online. To the public, they were legends. Untouchable. Inviolable. Even among the powerful elite of Saudi Arabia, the women of the royal family were protected with an intensity rivaling the kingdom's most valuable resources. If oil was the heart of the nation, then its women were the soul—pure, hidden, and fiercely shielded.

And now, deep inside the wing, the Crown Prince sat across from one of them. Covered from head to toe in a flowing, pitch-black abaya and niqab, his sister, Princess Layla, sat with her hands resting delicately in her lap. The room was pristine, almost divine in its decor: white walls accented with gold trim, fresh jasmine in crystal vases, a hush of holiness lingering in the air. Everything about the setting spoke of purity, of sanctity.

That was, until she spoke.

"Are you mad, brother? You want me to marry a foreigner?" Her voice was sharp, slicing through the calm like a blade.

The Crown Prince did not need to see her face to know the scowl beneath the veil. He knew Layla too well. Her tone was all the expression he needed.

He sighed. "Come now, Layla. This is important."

"Important?! You must be insane," she snapped. "It's not even possible. I can't marry a foreigner!"

She shook her head under the veil, the fabric shifting as her disbelief became more palpable. "Your head must be hurting. You sound delirious."

The Crown Prince kept his calm. "Is it because he's a foreigner that you won't even consider this?"

Her silence stretched like a shadow. Then her voice came low and cold, "What game are you playing, brother?"

He smiled faintly, voice smooth. "Just that this person won't be a foreigner much longer."

Back inside the U.S. Embassy, chaos of a different sort had just been born.

Michael Thrum, the U.S. Ambassador to Saudi Arabia, stared at the paper trembling in his hand. His face was ghost-pale. His lips quivered. "Wha-what is this..." he whispered, his voice cracking as though he'd been struck.

The woman sitting across from him narrowed her eyes, her voice colder than death itself. "It is exactly what you think it is. Alexander Blackwell is formally rescinding his status as a citizen of the United States of America."