I Inherited Trillions, Now What?-Chapter 160: Preparations II

"Sir, would this be wise?"

The words fell out quietly, uncertainly—but they echoed in the stillness of the office like thunder. Everlyn's voice, usually precise and composed, cracked just slightly as she spoke. Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman had just exited the room, and Alexander Blackwell was still facing the door, hands behind his back, the light from the chandeliers throwing shadows across his frame.

Everlyn's eyes followed her father, now halfway down the corridor with the prince. Despite her attempts to stay professionally detached, the weight of what they had just done gripped her chest like a vice. She had repeated her concerns countless times. Even though she had agreed—no, committed—to this plan, even though she had strategized, plotted, and pushed for it with ambition burning in her chest, fear still found its way through the cracks.

They were in too deep now. And she knew it.

A single misstep, a misread expression, an unexpected shift in the prince's mood—and everything could unravel. Everything they'd built. Everything they were building. If Alexander fell, it wouldn't just be the end of his reign in this game—it would be the end for her. And her father. And possibly everyone in their orbit.

Alexander, still facing the door, glanced at her sideways, a faint smirk tugging at his lips."What, are you about to lecture me too—like my mother?"

Everlyn didn't flinch. Her face remained a professional mask, but her answer came sharp and cool.

"Yes, sir."

That caught him. His brows lifted slightly. Not in offense—he was amused. Maybe even impressed.

Everlyn didn't wait for permission. She stepped forward and said, "The guards. The setting. The way the entire meeting was staged—it was a little on the nose. If the prince had been anything but receptive, we could've walked out of there in handcuffs. If we were lucky."

She didn't pause.

"Right now, sir, everything—everything—hinges on his word. And we don't even know if he'll keep it. Right now, we are—"

"Vulnerable," Alexander finished for her, the smirk now gone.

The word didn't hang. It landed—like a sword on a map.

He walked away from the desk and toward a wall lined with books—first slowly, then more deliberately, his fingers trailing along the spines like he was searching for something ancient. Something sacred.

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"Yes," he said. "We are vulnerable. And if the prince pulls out now, if he decides that we're too risky, too foreign, too bold—he won't even need to make a call. They'll detain us. Pack us back to the States under the guise of some fabricated violation. And there… even if we do get acquitted of every charge, every accusation—that would take time."

His fingers stilled on a shelf.

"And time…" he continued, "time is not on our side. If we're immobilized, if our hands are tied, the jackals will come. They'll feast on us—on our reputation, our influence, our resources. Piece by piece. And they won't stop until there's nothing left but the bones."

Everlyn stood still, her heart pacing faster than her mind. She hated that he was right. Hated that her own doubts were being mirrored aloud—but there was something different in his voice. He wasn't panicked. He wasn't unsure. He was… calculating.

Then he turned from the shelf, a thick book in his hand. He brushed the cover with his thumb, murmuring almost to himself:"Ah. Good. It's here."

He walked back to her, the book balanced in his hand like a gift, or a weapon.

"But here's the thing, Everlyn," he said, holding her gaze now with razor precision. "Yes—we're vulnerable. But is that… necessarily a bad thing?"

He placed the book in her hands.

"Vulnerability is the birthplace of reinvention. It strips you of illusions. Forces you to be sharper. To build better. Smarter. Stronger. You don't build empires from a place of comfort. You build them when everything you are is exposed and every move matters. That's how we lay our foundation—not on strength, but on pressure. On necessity. And necessity…" he paused, "necessity breeds the most powerful innovations the world has ever seen."

Everlyn said nothing—but her grip on the book tightened.

He gestured toward it. "As for the prince? Don't lose sleep over him. He'll accept. He has to. There are no other players on this board who can offer what we're offering. He may wear the crown—but right now? He needs us more than he knows."

He turned, walking toward the door now, guards moving to flank him.

"And besides," he said over his shoulder, almost lightly, "he's a smart man."

Then he was gone.

The room was still. The silence he left behind felt alive—like it was holding its breath.

Everlyn stood frozen, then slowly looked down at the book in her hands. Let My People Go Surfing, by Yvon Chouinard. The cover was worn. Marked. It had clearly been read and re-read. She recognized it—Alexander had quoted from it more than once. It wasn't just a book. It was a philosophy. A blueprint for unorthodox empire-building. For building something new in a world addicted to the old.

She exhaled softly. Then she heard his voice again—his final words before leaving:

"Forget the prince," Alexander said, his voice cutting through the tension like the crack of a whip. "Right now, what really matters is the money to fund all this. And for that… it's all in your hands now. Don't let us down."

The words hung in the air long after his footsteps had faded. His presence, commanding as ever, lingered like a shadow across the room. As he exited, the guards flanking the hallway moved with him, each one in sync, professional, alert. Nothing about the way he walked out was casual—everything was precise, deliberate. A man used to being in control, and taking no chances.

She stood there, eyes following the scene in silence.

Ever since he let the states, things had shifted. The atmosphere was tighter. The silence heavier. The sense of danger louder.

He wasn't playing with security anymore. Not after everything that happened. And definitely not with Liam injured. That incident had made one thing clear—no one was untouchable. Not even them.

Alexander had reassigned everyone. Every person close to him was now trailed by at least two guards, no exceptions. He himself moved with six. Six guards, wherever he went. It wasn't paranoia—it was strategy. Survival.

She didn't move.

Even as her own two guards stepped quietly into the room behind her, she remained still, locked in thought. The sound of the door closing behind them didn't break her focus. It only reinforced what she already knew.

It's all in your hands now.

He meant every word of it. She didn't need a second explanation. She understood perfectly.

He wasn't worried about the prince—that much was clear. Whatever arrangement had been made, whatever risk the prince posed, Alexander had already factored it in and set it aside. In his mind, that chapter was closed.

Now, everything that mattered depended on her.

And she didn't intend to waste a single second.

She didn't feel oppressed by the guards standing near her. There was no fear. No irritation. Their presence didn't unsettle her. Instead, it reminded her of the urgency. The importance of what she had to do. She wasn't just holding a task—she was holding the next move. The next result. The next success.

Everything was in motion now.

She turned toward her guards, eyes sharp, voice steady.

"Get the car," she said.

The car was a rarity on the streets of Saudi Arabia. Blacked-out, sleek, almost ghostly in its design, the Escalade glided through the streets unnoticed, but not by the residents. The car's presence didn't go unnoticed. The rare tint on the windows, the muted hum of the engine as it passed, made people glance up, drawn to it, yet hesitant to stare for too long.

But it wasn't the car that caught their attention. It was the plate number.

In Saudi Arabia, license plates were more than just a registration. They were an identity, a statement. The plates were often as unique as the individuals who owned the cars, and the rare ones were highly prized—difficult to come by. But this one… this one was different. There was no number. No identification. Nothing but a blank space where the plate should have been. It was an unspoken violation of the kingdom's unspoken laws. In a place where status was everything, it was practically an affront to have a car without the proper identification.

People stopped in their tracks as the car passed. They murmured, glancing at one another. The silent question was obvious: Who dares to break such a rule?

Inside, Everlyn was oblivious to the stares. She couldn't afford distractions. Her mind was locked on the conversation she'd had with Alexander only hours before. His words still rang in her ears, the weight of his promise to the prince echoing in her thoughts.

One trillion dollars to short the oil market.

She knew it wasn't just a play for the prince's approval. It wasn't just a tactic to make the prince comply. No, Alexander's promises were always real. If he said it, he would do it—and that one trillion wasn't some empty number thrown into the air. It was a plan. A strategy.

But the real question was: Where would they get it?

Normal procedures, normal routes, would never work this time. With Alexander's vast network, borrowing a trillion was a relatively straightforward task—especially with his partnership with JP Morgan. That's how the game worked for the ultra-wealthy. Banks didn't lend their own money. Instead, they borrowed from other sources—sometimes other banks, sometimes from private entities—and then lent that money to the rich, taking a cut of the interest. The rich, in turn, would use this borrowed money to invest, further increasing their wealth, all while never really touching their own cash.

It was a simple game, the basics of wealth. The only trick was knowing how to leverage the system.

But now, that option was off the table. JP Morgan was under intense scrutiny. If they tried to borrow a trillion dollars from them now, it would set off alarms—too many eyes would be watching, too many questions would be asked about where the money was going and who it was going to. Even if they managed to cover it up, it was too risky.

And that was just one bank. Alexander had already burned bridges with Rockefeller, making it impossible to approach any major American bank. That left them with a handful of European and Asian banks, but that presented an entirely different problem: The families who controlled those banks were the same people Alexander might one day call enemies.

It was a trap. No matter which way they turned, borrowing from the usual sources would put them in a compromising position. Alexander was too smart to risk that. So, he had devised a new plan. A plan she was about to execute.

The car came to a stop, and Everlyn looked up, eyes scanning the massive structure before her. The building loomed above them, an imposing sight, a statement of power and importance. It wasn't just any building—it was the U.S. Embassy in Saudi Arabia, a fortress of diplomacy and influence.

Her breath caught in her throat as she stared at it. The U.S. Embassy wasn't just a symbol of political might; it was the heart of financial negotiations that spanned continents.

Her guards flanked her as she stepped out of the car, the click of her heels against the pavement ringing in the stillness. She stood still for a moment, absorbing the weight of the task ahead. This wasn't just a building—it was the gateway to what she needed. The next step in executing Alexander's bold plan.

She turned to her guards, locking eyes with them. "Let's enter."

And with that, they moved toward the doors, the world around them still and silent, but inside her, the tension buzzed, electric with anticipation. The plan was about to unfold. The trillion-dollar game was about to begin.