I Inherited Trillions, Now What?

The Al Yamamah Palace.

A monument to power, wealth, and sovereignty.

Rising like a desert-born marvel from the heart of Riyadh, the palace was more than just stone and marble—it was a symbol. A national emblem carved into the very soil of the Kingdom. A masterful blend of classical Islamic architecture and modern grandeur, its domes glistened gold beneath the sun, its arches rose like waves of tradition, and its walls—etched with the stories of centuries—stood proud, unshaken.

The scale of Al Yamamah was staggering. It stretched across acres of manicured gardens and polished courtyards, dotted with fountains that whispered in the desert breeze and palm trees that had stood witness to some of the nation's most defining moments. Inside, corridors of polished marble ran like arteries through the palace, with ceilings soaring high above and chandeliers the size of small cars glittering in every hall.

But it wasn't just beauty.

It was power.

If Buckingham Palace was the heart of the British monarchy, and the White House the brain of American politics, then Al Yamamah Palace was both—the heart and the mind of Saudi Arabia. It was where policies were conceived, where history was written in ink and sealed with blood. Whenever Saudi Arabia wished to host a trusted ally, a fellow monarch, or a global powerbroker, it wasn't done in a hotel ballroom or even a modern office complex. It was done here.

Because this was the face the Kingdom showed the world.

And it never disappointed.

But now, the world was far away.

Far beyond the wings where foreign delegations were greeted with ceremony and spectacle. Beyond the vast meeting halls with their enormous conference tables and echoing acoustics designed for official diplomacy. Past the press rooms and opulent salons where deals worth billions were made beneath painted ceilings and tapestries woven with gold thread.

Here, deep within the palace, was a place even more exclusive. A side of Al Yamamah Palace that no foreign dignitary, no western businessman, no political outsider had ever seen.

This was not the diplomatic palace.

This was the royal palace.

And it felt different. Instantly.

The lighting here was warmer, dimmer. The air carried a hush—thicker, more reverent. Where the outer wings buzzed with activity, this place breathed in silence. It wasn't a place for negotiations or press conferences. It wasn't built for performance.

This was a home. The home.

The private residence of the King of Saudi Arabia.

It held the same level of luxury—the same towering ceilings, handcrafted ornaments, and priceless artworks—but here, the opulence had a more personal touch. Rugs handwoven in the south of the kingdom. Wooden screens carved by artisans whose families had served the royal household for generations. Family portraits in gold-leaf frames. The scent of oud lingered in the air—subtle, commanding, regal.

This was where the King lived.

And it was off-limits. Sacred ground. Not even the highest-ranking ministers dared to step foot here uninvited. Access was controlled tighter than any military base in the country. Even the crown prince had to make his presence known.

"Hold it."

The voice rang out, firm and sharp as a blade.

A line of guards appeared from the shadows—men in dark, traditional garb, but with armor sewn subtly into their robes. Their ghutras were black and perfectly pressed, a special color reserved for elite royal protection units. Unlike ceremonial guards stationed at the palace gates, these men did not stand for show. They were trained killers, loyal only to the King.

Their eyes were cold and alert. Their weapons—compact but lethal—hung ready by their sides. These were the King's personal guards, handpicked from the best of the Saudi armed forces, rumored to take oaths that extended beyond service and into blood loyalty.

The advisors, who had already endured a tense encounter earlier in the day with another security unit, instinctively slowed their steps. Some even flinched, struck with déjà vu and reluctant to tempt fate twice in one day.

But not the prince.

The crown prince kept walking.

He carried himself with the grace and pride of royalty—his posture impeccable, his steps measured, his eyes fixed. There was no hesitation, no break in composure. Though the events of the day—the confrontation, the betrayal, the bruised pride—still simmered beneath the surface, here he found something grounding.

These were his people.

They knew him. They respected him.

More importantly... they feared him.

And that fear comforted him.

After spending hours being challenged, dismissed, and looked down upon by an outsider on Saudi soil, here he was reminded of who he truly was. The heir. The power. The future.

The guards, recognizing him immediately, straightened. Their hands moved swiftly off their weapons, and their heads dipped in a synchronized motion of deference. One of them stepped forward and said, with deep reverence:

"Ahlan wa sahlan ya Wali al-Ahd.May Allah protect you, Your Highness."

The prince gave a small nod—dignified, measured. He didn't thank them. He didn't need to.

He was the Crown Prince of Saudi Arabia.

Instead, he spoke with calm authority, his voice echoing off the marble walls:

"Where is my father? I need to see him."

Seeing the look on the Crown Prince's face, the guards glanced at each other silently.

No words were needed.

They understood.

In unison, they parted like the Red Sea—still slightly bowed in reverence, their movements as sharp and disciplined as a military ballet. The gap they formed revealed a pair of massive golden doors, ornately carved with Quranic verses and the royal crest of the House of Saud. The message was clear.

The King was through those doors.

The Crown Prince gave a subtle nod. No theatrics. No fanfare. He simply walked forward, calm and composed, the weight of royalty in every step.

Just before he reached the doors, he paused.

He turned.

His advisors, who had been trailing behind like obedient ducklings, came to a quiet halt, their eyes darting between the prince and the intimidating royal guards flanking them.

"Alone," the prince said flatly.

He didn't shout. He didn't have to.

He turned back and opened the door without another word.

As the heavy doors shut behind him with a deep thoom, the guards, now released from their bow, immediately snapped back into position like human barricades—forming a circle around the stunned advisors.

The advisors stared at the closing door for a few long seconds, unsure whether to feel excluded, insulted, or relieved.

And then they slowly turned their heads—only to find the guards glaring at them again with the exact same "try me" expression they'd seen earlier.

For a solid three seconds, no one said a word.

And then... every single advisor had the same thought at the same time:

"Déjà vu? Seriously? Again?"

One of them—an older man with a thick mustache and trauma from too many security mishaps—actually muttered, "We've got to stop walking through fancy doors."

Another one whispered, "I'm starting to think this is cardio for these guys."

And so, once again, the royal entourage stood awkwardly still, surrounded by expressionless guards who looked like they were seconds away from turning the whole situation into a scene from a medieval execution.

Inside, the Crown Prince strode through a lavish hallway—a royal artery leading to the King's private quarters.

The corridor was breathtaking. Creamy marble floors reflected the soft, golden glow of overhead lanterns crafted in Damascus centuries ago. The walls were lined with framed calligraphy, ancient swords, and priceless gifts from emperors and presidents. There were niches filled with delicate vases from China, Ottoman carpets hung like tapestries, and every few meters, a heavy incense burner puffed out thick, fragrant oud that lingered in the air like ancestral memory.

It was a quiet march of power, history, and personal legacy.

After about a minute of walking, he entered a large, open room that looked like the lobby of a royal spa.

Inside, a group of female servants in flowing abayas and embroidered headscarves moved swiftly and gracefully, like a carefully rehearsed dance. Their dresses were deep emerald and navy, embroidered with gold threads and hemmed with tiny mirrors that caught the light as they bustled about with silver trays, folded towels, and pitchers of infused water.

Not one of them acknowledged the Crown Prince's presence.

Not because they didn't see him—but because they knew better.

Servants in the royal residence were trained with military precision: no eye contact, no words, no emotion unless spoken to. Royal family members might as well have been ghosts.

The prince didn't stop, didn't glance sideways. He moved with purpose. He already knew where to go.

And sure enough, beyond the large room, past a silk-curtained archway, he reached it:

The King's indoor pool.

A massive, tranquil haven encased in marble and glass. Sunlight filtered through high skylights and bounced off the crystal-blue water. There were lush green plants at the corners, and the scent of rosewater hung gently in the air.

There, at the edge of the pool, partially submerged in warm water, was a figure with his back turned.

The King.

He sat like a sultan from a different era—reclining against a cushioned stone edge, head tilted back in quiet pleasure as a trio of female attendants in traditional attire plucked grapes from a silver bowl and placed them delicately into his mouth.

Soft laughter echoed across the room. Not from the King, but from the women. It was a scene out of an Ottoman painting—opulent, intimate, untouched by politics or pressure.

The Crown Prince didn't blink. He was used to this.

This was... well, this was just Dad.

He cleared his throat.

Delicately.

The laughter stopped.

The women jumped slightly, startled by the presence they had finally dared to acknowledge. One of them nearly dropped the grape bowl. The prince said nothing except, "Excuse us."

It was not a request.

The women bowed, gathered their things in silence, and hurried out without another sound, vanishing like trained phantoms.

A few seconds of silence passed. Then:

"Ughhhhhhhhh..."

A long, disgruntled groan echoed around the marble walls—one that came from the very soul of a man who was not in the mood.

A voice followed—aged, gravelly, tired, and unmistakably annoyed.

"What do you want, child?"

The King of Saudi Arabia had spoken.

And the Crown Prince, unfazed by the sigh, the groan, or the kingly side-eye he was probably receiving, simply stepped forward and replied:

"We need to talk, Father."