I Inherited Trillions, Now What?

Shorting is a trading strategy used when someone believes the price of a stock or asset will decrease. It involves borrowing shares of a stock from a broker and selling them on the market at the current price. The goal is to buy those same shares back later at a lower price, return them to the broker, and keep the difference as profit.

For example, if a trader shorts a stock at $100 and the price drops to $70, they can buy it back at that lower price, return it, and make a $30 profit per share (minus any fees or interest).

However, if the price rises instead of falls, the trader must still buy the stock to return it, possibly at a much higher price—leading to a loss. Since there's no limit to how high a stock price can go, shorting carries potentially unlimited risk.

In essence, shorting is a bet that something will go down in value. It can be profitable, but it's also risky.

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As Alexander's assistant revealed the goal, the air in the room seemed to freeze. Prince Mohammed sat still, his back stiffened, his eyes narrowing. It was as though a storm was brewing inside him, but he made no move to outwardly show it.

The cold, measured words hung in the air: "The goal is to short the oil market."

A slow, creeping disbelief began to spread across Prince Mohammed's face, the shock sinking deep into his bones. This was not just another radical idea—this was madness. This was a level of audacity he had never encountered before. The oil market—a near $9 trillion industry, the backbone of his country, the world's lifeblood. And they were going to destroy it. The thought was almost too insane to comprehend.

He sat there, frozen, his mind whirling. The weight of what had just been said settled on him like an oppressive weight. He could feel his pulse quickening, the blood rushing to his head as he looked from Alexander to his assistant.

The Prince's lips parted in a shaky exhale, his voice coming out in a hoarse, strained whisper. "How much?" The question came out more from a desire to understand what kind of madness he was dealing with, than from any expectation of a reasonable answer.

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At this point, Prince Mohammed had been hit with so many unexpected and audacious plans that his ability to be shocked had reached its limit. Still, the weight of the question hung in the air. He couldn't understand it. Why would anyone want to risk this? He needed to know the risk before he could make any decision. If Alexander was willing to gamble everything, then perhaps there was something more behind the plan—something beyond the madness.

Alexander stared at him, a faint smile playing at the corner of his lips, an unsettling calm in his eyes. The room felt charged with a silent intensity as the Prince waited, his breath shallow. Alexander's words were slow, deliberate, like a ticking bomb.

"One," Alexander said, his voice a calm ripple across the tension-filled air.

The Prince's brow furrowed in confusion, his face hardening. He was about to speak when the realization slowly dawned on him. He blinked rapidly, trying to process the number that had just been spoken. One? One what? One million? One hundred million?

"One billion?" he asked, a slight, hesitant laugh escaping his throat. His mind was trying to make sense of it all. But no, that didn't sound right. One billion dollars was still an unimaginable amount of money, yes. But in the grand scheme of things, it was nothing—especially in the context of a plan to take down a $9 trillion industry. One billion was a drop in the ocean.

He almost laughed at the absurdity of it. One billion? That was all? Was Alexander Blackwell really so unsure of his plan? Was he hedging his bets? The Prince couldn't help but feel a cold, creeping doubt wash over him. Alexander didn't look confident. This couldn't be it. This couldn't be the full extent of the plan.

For a brief moment, Prince Mohammed considered what he could do to get out of this. He thought, How can I back out of this with grace? If Alexander was offering such a paltry sum, maybe it was all just smoke and mirrors. Perhaps the man wasn't as serious as he appeared. Perhaps he was testing the waters, waiting for the Prince to push back. But then, the cold truth hit him. The man sitting across from him knew too much. Alexander knew the deepest secrets of the nation, things that could bring it to its knees. He couldn't refuse him outright. Not without risking everything.

The Prince's thoughts were a jumbled mess. His mind was racing, his heart thundering in his chest. It felt like the walls were closing in, his air thinning. His sense of composure—the bravado that had defined him—was slipping, replaced by the raw panic of someone cornered. Was this it? Was he going to lose everything?

He glanced at Alexander, trying to read him, to understand the man who sat so casually, his confidence almost maddening in its calmness. He could feel a cold sweat beading at the back of his neck. Am I really about to do this? His mind teetered on the edge of madness, and for a moment, he felt like he was about to crack. The pressure of the decision, the weight of the gamble, threatened to overwhelm him.

Then, just as the silence was becoming unbearable, Alexander broke it, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

"No," he said simply, and for a moment, the Prince's heart stopped. His eyes shot up, confused. What was he saying?

"I'm not shorting the market with one billion dollars," Alexander continued, his words deliberate and slow. He leaned forward, the intensity in his gaze piercing through the Prince's defenses. "I'm going to short it with one trillion."

The words exploded in the air, and for a split second, time seemed to freeze. The world seemed to tilt on its axis. Prince Mohammed's entire body went rigid. His mind couldn't process it. One trillion? No... The number was too big. Too incomprehensible. His head spun, and his vision blurred.

"WHAT?!" The Prince's voice cracked, an animalistic panic rising in his chest. He leaped out of his chair, his legs almost giving way beneath him. The mahogany chair he had been sitting in was sent crashing backward from the force, its solid frame scraping against the floor. The sound was sharp, echoing through the room, but the Prince didn't hear it. His heart was beating too loudly in his ears.

He took a step backward, the blood draining from his face. Even Everly, standing by his side, instinctively took a step back, her eyes wide with shock. The Prince's breath quickened, his face flushed with a mixture of disbelief and fear. He was trembling slightly. His grip on reality was slipping, as though the world around him was dissolving into chaos. One trillion dollars? The thought was too vast, too radical.

Alexander remained seated, unfazed by the outburst, his eyes calm but piercing. He looked at the Prince, his expression unreadable, as if the announcement had been nothing more than a casual statement of fact. To him, it was just another step in the grand plan.

The Prince could feel his pulse pounding in his temples. Sweat beaded at his brow, his thoughts spinning in a frantic, endless loop. One trillion dollars. His mind raced to catch up, but it couldn't. How could he even begin to comprehend the scope of this?

This is madness. Complete madness. But is it possible? His thoughts crashed against each other like waves, and for a moment, he felt as though he was drowning in his own uncertainty. One trillion—he's betting a trillion dollars?

Alexander watched the prince unravel before him—his composure shattered, his air of dominance slipping with every passing second. He had expected arrogance, maybe even resistance, but this… this was delicious. The mighty Prince Mohammed, heir to one of the wealthiest monarchies on Earth, was now visibly trembling. His eyes were wide, sweat tracing faint paths beneath the ghutra wrapped over his head, his body stiffened like prey under the gaze of a predator.

"In 1992," Alexander began, his voice calm, cold, and deliberate, "George Soros broke the British pound."

The words cut through the room like a scalpel.

"He didn't just short a currency—he shattered the illusion of British dominance. He exposed the vulnerability of an empire once so revered, it ruled half the world. The Bank of England, with all its prestige, its legacy, its pompous pride, was brought to its knees by one man. One. And in that moment, history remembered Soros—not as a trader, but as a destroyer of crowns."

Prince Mohammed stood frozen, as if Alexander had ripped open a window to a storm he couldn't shut.

"But that wasn't the only time history was rewritten," Alexander continued, standing now, straightening the cuffs of his jet-black suit. "2008. The world fell. And who stood at the center of the storm? Michael Burry. Steve Eisman. Greg Lippmann. Men who saw through the farce of the housing bubble and made billions—no, legacies—by betting against it. The world condemned them at first, but time… time immortalized them. Books were written. Films made. Names carved into financial lore."

He walked toward the prince now, each step slow and powerful. "Those men saw what others didn't. And when they acted, they didn't just make money—they became legends. Do you understand?"

The prince, now visibly calmer but still stunned, swallowed hard. His heart had been a hammer minutes ago. Now it was slowing, regaining rhythm. Rationality was bleeding its way back into his mind. This was insane. But… wasn't all greatness born from madness?

Alexander stopped just in front of him, his hand extending with purpose, with finality.

"Do you want to enter history with me?"

The room stood still. Even the wind outside seemed to hold its breath.

For a moment, Mohammed said nothing. His eyes stared at the outstretched hand, fingers that might as well have belonged to the devil himself. Then, as the weight of legacy, fear, glory, and vengeance pressed down on him like a mountain, he reached out. Their hands met in the middle—a handshake not of friendship, but of fate.

"What do I need to do?" he asked, his voice steady, yet whisper-soft.

Alexander's lips curled into a small grin. The prince mirrored it, but theirs were not the same.

His was nervous.

Alexander's? It was darker. Sharper. A smile carved from a blueprint of ambition so vast and dangerous it bordered on divine madness.

This was it.

This was Alexander's true beginning.

For years, he had walked in the shadows of titans. The Rockefeller heir was still trying to play a game of legacy and revenge with him—foolishly thinking Alexander's ambitions were personal. But Alexander… he didn't want revenge.

He wanted replacement.

To obliterate the past and write a new order in its ashes.

To build an empire so unholy in its conception, so reckless in its scale, that history wouldn't just remember him—it would fear him.

This plan—the trillion-dollar short—was never about money alone. It was about collapsing an industry so gargantuan, so foundational to the global economy, that its fall would send shockwaves through every stock exchange, every capital city, every boardroom from Riyadh to Wall Street.

He needed obscene amounts of capital. Immoral sums. Numbers that would make governments flinch and billionaires stutter.

So he fused two obsessions together: the annihilation of the Rockefeller dynasty, and a scheme so profitable that if it succeeded, he would not just surpass them—he would eclipse them.

As the handshake lingered, Alexander's mind wasn't on the present anymore.

He was already at the end.

Already imagining the headlines.

"Blackwell Shocks the World—Net Worth Doubles in 24 Hours"

Alexander wasn't smiling because he had secured a deal.

He was smiling because the world didn't yet realize it had already lost.