I Inherited Trillions, Now What?

"What do you mean we can't enter?"

The voice cut through the air like a blade—loud, angry, and accented. Though he spoke in English, it was clear from the sharp edges and lilting vowels that it wasn't his first language.

Inside the glittering lobby of The Ritz-Carlton, Riyadh, chaos was unfolding. A cluster of seven individuals had gathered around the reception desk, their frustration mounting by the second. At the center of their attention was a young receptionist, standing firm behind the polished marble counter. Despite the growing tension and the stern looks aimed her way, she maintained her composure with the kind of professional calm only years of elite hospitality experience could provide.

"I'm terribly sorry for the inconvenience," she said, her voice even and rehearsed. "But I've been instructed not to allow anyone access to floors four through nine."

A murmur rippled through the group.

"What? Is something wrong?" another person asked, clearly annoyed.

"I wasn't informed of the reason," she replied politely. "But the orders came directly from management. I'm simply carrying out protocol."

She tapped her tablet and continued, "We actually sent out emails to all affected guests. Unfortunately, we didn't receive a response from your party. Since there was no confirmation, we took the liberty of relocating your luggage. It's currently being held securely and can be retrieved here."

The first voice exploded again.

"You removed our things without telling us?!" the man bellowed.

"Rafael! Enough!"

The room shifted. Even the receptionist's expression changed as she looked past the crowd toward the entrance. And there he was—walking in with a quiet charisma that needed no announcement.

Neymar Jr.

Even in Riyadh, his name carried weight. No introductions necessary. The Brazilian football superstar didn't need fanfare—he was the fanfare. With dark designer shades pushed up into his curls, he moved through the lobby like it belonged to him, his signature walk making him seem taller than he was. Despite the long flight from Brazil, he looked every bit the icon: relaxed, stylish, and strikingly magnetic.

When he finally reached the reception desk, he removed his sunglasses and looked the receptionist in the eyes. She caught her breath—not from fear, but from the undeniable presence of a global star standing inches from her.

"I apologize for my friend," Neymar said, his voice smooth and low. "We just got off a long-haul flight. We're exhausted, and honestly, all we want is to lay our heads down in our rooms."

There was a warmth to his tone that contrasted the tension in the room. The others behind him—his entourage—quieted momentarily, letting their golden goose speak.

The receptionist, still flustered by his presence but loyal to her duty, gently shook her head. "I really am sorry, Mr. Neymar. It's not just your group. Every guest staying between the fourth and ninth floors has been asked to vacate. The directive came from the highest level of management."

She slid a pamphlet across the counter. "We've prepared alternative luxury accommodations nearby. Movers will be provided free of charge to assist with your luggage, and you may either have your remaining stay refunded or transferred to the new hotel. We'll handle everything."

Neymar blinked.

It wasn't the first time someone had said 'no' to him—but it was rare, and always left a sting. Still, it wasn't rejection that concerned him most—it was the exhausted looks on the faces behind him. Tired. Hungry. Frustrated. Not a good combo.

One of the other guests broke the silence again, clearly reaching their limit.

"Do you have any idea who you're talking to?"

"This is a disgrace!"

"You're about to go viral! We're putting your hotel on blast for this!"

They shouted. Loud enough to draw attention. Loud enough to shake chandeliers.

But the receptionist stood her ground. She didn't flinch. She didn't even blink. After what she had witnessed the night before, nothing could shake her.

Because the truth was, what had taken place in the last twenty-four hours had shaken everyone—staff, management, and even Riyadh's elite.

The decision to clear out the entire block of executive suites—floors four through nine—had come down abruptly and without explanation. No warning. No press release. Guests who paid thousands of dollars per night, some of the wealthiest and most powerful individuals in the region, had all been escorted out. CEOs. Politicians. Even a member of a royal family had been asked to vacate. The backlash had been swift and loud. There were threats, protests, legal warnings—but none of it changed anything. The rooms were emptied.

And then they arrived.

First, a security sweep. Dozens of men, moving with silent precision, scanning the premises with handheld detectors and trained eyes. Then a brigade of maids and cleaners, disinfecting everything top to bottom. After them came another wave of security, even more heavily equipped.

And then came them.

Four people, flanked by guards, walked in without saying a word. A graceful older woman whose age could not dull her commanding beauty. A woman with striking features that turned heads. A tall man dressed in a perfectly pressed butler's uniform. And finally—him.

Even in Saudi Arabia, where wealth and royalty walked the streets, this man turned heads. Whispers had already filled the air the day before: Alexander Blackwell was in the country.

And now here he was. The most talked-about man in global finance. The living legend. The storm in a tailored suit.

When he walked into The Ritz-Carlton, it wasn't as a guest—it was as a force of nature.

The staff had understood everything then. Why entire floors had been cleared. Why royalty had been asked to leave. Why silence had been ordered.

This wasn't about Neymar Jr., for all his fame and fortune. This was something far larger.

And for the receptionist now standing firm against an angry football entourage, her resolve had only grown. Neymar Jr. was a star, yes. But he was not Alexander Blackwell. She knew what side to stand with

A car glided through the bustling streets of Riyadh, the desert city shimmering beneath the weight of its unyielding sun. Inside the sleek, black SUV, the air was thick with tension. Four men, all dressed in the traditional attire of Saudi Arabia—the flowing thobe and ghutra—sat in silence, their gazes fixed forward. Yet despite their calm appearances, their thoughts swirled with uncertainty. They had gathered here to discuss a matter of national importance, and the gravity of it hung heavy in the air.

"Sir, are you sure about this?" one of the men spoke first, his voice laced with concern. His tone was respectful, but his worry was palpable. He glanced at the man sitting across from him—the one who had yet to speak a word—but his gaze fell briefly on the hem of the Crown Prince's cloak. The material shimmered subtly, different from the others in the vehicle. It was a finer silk, marking the man before him as not just royalty but the de facto ruler of the Kingdom.

The Crown Prince sat back, his hands folded in his lap, his face an unreadable mask. He had already heard the concerns of his advisors, their voices raised in unison, their words dripping with caution. But still, there was something in the way he held himself that suggested a resolve far stronger than any hesitation his advisors might express.

"Yes, sir," another voice chimed in, less hesitant but no less concerned. "The American government has been threatening us, demanding that we extradite him and send him back home."

The Crown Prince remained silent, his fingers lightly tracing the edge of his sleeve. The pressure was mounting, not just from Washington but from other corners as well.

"Not just that," another man spoke, his words weighted with frustration. "The Rockefellers' representatives here have been on us, demanding we comply with the U.S. government and send him back. They're watching our every move, and they want us to bow to their will."

A fourth man, his face sharp and his voice firm, leaned forward. "Yes, sir. We've rejected every single one of their demands. But if they find out that you're going to meet with him... they'll go ballistic."

The Crown Prince listened intently, his eyes narrowed slightly. The tension in the car thickened, but it was as if he were unaffected by the mounting pressure. The stakes were high, and the consequences, if he made the wrong choice, could be disastrous. Yet, in the silence that followed, he spoke—and his words carried the weight of absolute authority.

"I can tell you 3.2 trillion reasons why," he said, his voice calm yet cutting through the tension like a blade. The advisors fell silent. The figure was obviously hinting at Alexander Blackwell worth of $3.2 trillion. And the Crown Prince was keenly aware of the opportunity that lay before him.

His advisors exchanged glances, but none dared to speak. They knew the Crown Prince had already made up his mind. He had weighed the risks, the potential fallout, and still, his resolve was unshaken.

"I know what you're thinking," the Crown Prince continued, his eyes unwavering as he glanced around the car. "But my mind is made up. Tell the Rockefellers that my meeting with Alexander is strictly for investment purposes. We have no interest in intervening in their personal matters. But we also won't side with them."

He paused, letting the silence stretch for a moment before speaking again. "My father and grandfather were business partners with the Blackwells, and they spoke highly of their brilliance in making money. It would be a disgrace to let this opportunity slip through our fingers."

The advisors looked at one another, their objections hanging in the air like unsaid words. But the Crown Prince was unyielding.

"In less than 24 hours since Alexander's arrival," he said, his voice low but firm, "we've already seen an increase in foreign investment pouring into the country. Tell me, what reason do I have to reject him?"

The car was silent now. The advisors had no counter-argument. The Crown Prince had made his decision, and there was no turning back. The car stopped outside the Ritz-Carlton, the towering building a symbol of luxury and power. The Crown Prince's gaze turned towards the hotel as the door opened.

"Okay, gentlemen, let's go," he said, his tone leaving no room for further discussion. The group disembarked, and as they entered the hotel lobby, they were met with a commotion. A group of people was gathered near the reception desk, their voices raised in protest. The Crown Prince's sharp eyes took in the scene—there, among the crowd, stood Neymar Jr., the Brazilian football superstar, surrounded by a group of agitated companions.

Neymar stepped forward as soon as he saw the Crown Prince. His face broke into a grin, and he spoke quickly, his accent thick but his words clear.

"Prince, it's good you're here," Neymar said, his voice laced with relief. "We just want to get some rest. It's been a long flight, and this whole situation is getting out of hand. Can you help us sort out all this unnecessary drama? We just want to go back to our rooms and rest our heads."

The Crown Prince's expression shifted from neutral to one of mild amusement, then to something akin to a smile, though it never quite reached his eyes.

"Oh, is that it?" he said, his voice light but carrying an edge of authority. The group behind Neymar visibly relaxed at the Prince's smile, but the Crown Prince's next words quickly brought them back to reality. "I'm sorry, that can't happen," he said with a cool tone. "The hotel is being used for something national right now. That's why I'm here. I apologize for the inconvenience."

Neymar's face dropped slightly, but before he could protest further, the Crown Prince motioned to one of his men.

"Take them to my residence," he instructed in Arabic, his voice firm. He turned back to Neymar with a sympathetic look. "Let my man take you to one of my homes. It should be more than enough for you and your friends to rest."

With that, Neymar and his group were quickly ushered out of the lobby, their complaints trailing behind them. The Crown Prince continued on, his entourage in tow. As he approached the receptionist, he greeted her with the traditional Saudi salutation, "As-salamu alaikum," his voice calm but commanding. She responded in kind, offering a warm smile as she welcomed him.

"No trouble at all," she said, her voice soothing. The Crown Prince nodded, appreciative of her professionalism.

The elevator doors slid open, and the group stepped inside. As the doors closed, the Crown Prince and his men ascended to the ninth floor. When they exited, they were greeted by three stern-faced guards standing watch. The tension in the air was palpable.

"Search them," one of the guards commanded, his voice firm.

The atmosphere in the room grew thick with tension as the advisors exchanged glances, their frustration reaching a boiling point. One of them, unable to contain his anger any longer, shouted out, "What nonsense is this? Do you even understand what you're doing? Do you have any idea who we are? Do you know who that is?" His voice carried a harsh edge, filled with disbelief.

Their reactions were immediate and loud, but it was the guards' unmoving, emotionless faces that silenced them. The advisors looked from one to another, then at the men standing stoically in front of them. The guards, seemingly unfazed, stood like statues, their eyes scanning for any sign of resistance or malice.

MBS, who had been observing the scene in silence, felt a knot tighten in his stomach. His position, his title, his status—all of it meant nothing in the face of these men. They were unyielding, merciless if needed. If they saw something even remotely suspicious, they wouldn't hesitate to end him where he stood. The chilling thought made him momentarily reconsider his next words.

But then, as if to assert his authority, MBS raised a hand. The room fell quiet immediately. He spoke in a voice that, despite the unease, carried a weight of command. "Enough," he said sharply, silencing the protests of his advisors before they could escalate further.

Turning to the middle man, the one who seemed to have some sway over the situation, MBS gestured with a calm but unwavering hand. "Do what you must do," he ordered, his tone final. There was no room for negotiation or argument.

The middle man nodded with a slight bow, his voice cold as he repeated the command: "Search them."

The guards, without so much as a glance towards the prince or his advisors, moved swiftly. They methodically began their search, their hands moving with precision, showing no regard for the status of the individuals they were inspecting. Their faces were expressions of pure professionalism, their eyes cold and focused.

As the minutes passed, MBS leaned back against the plush seating of the waiting coach. His advisors, however, remained anything but composed. Whispers of discontent filled the air, their voices growing louder with each passing second. "This is outrageous," one of them muttered under his breath. "Fifteen minutes, and we're still being treated like criminals! This is beyond disrespectful." "Keeping us waiting like this who does he think he is"

Another advisor shook his head in disbelief. "What do they think this is? An interrogation?"

Their grumbling reached a crescendo, but MBS remained impassive. He had seen far worse, and his years of experience had taught him that patience, while difficult, was often the most valuable tool in situations like these. Still, it didn't ease the tension.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the door to the coach swung open, and one of the maids—whom they had seen earlier walking briskly through the halls—stepped inside. Her presence was like a breath of fresh air in an otherwise stifling atmosphere. She glanced briefly at the advisors, then turned to MBS with a polite but businesslike air.

"Sir," she said with a slight bow, her voice carrying an air of respect but also a sense of urgency. "Mr. Blackwell would see you now."