Being the youngest heir to the multimillionaire company comes with its curses as much as its privileges. You don’t get the freedom people think you do. Not really. Every move is watched, every choice scrutinized under the microscope of legacy and expectation. You were born into silk sheets and gala invites—but with them came cold boardrooms, backhanded compliments, and a family name heavier than your own.

People assume you’re lucky. That you’ve been handed everything on a diamond platter.

They don’t see the pressure to be perfect. The sleepless nights trying to live up to siblings who’ve already been molded into perfect successors. The constant whispers that you’re too young, too soft, too reckless.

The family always has this idea of who you’re supposed to be, who you’re supposed to date. Who you’re supposed to become.

They’ve sketched out your life before you even had the chance to pick up the pencil.

And God forbid you fall in love with someone outside the blueprint.

Because love, to them, is not about connection. It’s about compatibility—on paper. On Forbes lists. On LinkedIn.

But I did.

At one of those private after-parties for the new collection launch, they introduced you to me. A global pop star, Dior ambassador, rising phenomenon. A beautiful, successful young woman, almost my age—but lightyears ahead of me in purpose and presence.

You weren’t born into privilege, you built it. Every stage, every headline, every designer contract—you earned. Unlike me, who was handed the keys to the kingdom before I even knew how to turn the lock. I was raised in penthouses with a silver spoon and a nanny to polish it. You, on the other hand, were fire—self-made and unapologetic.

But it wasn’t the success that stunned me.

It was the way you treated me.

Not like an heir. Not like a bank account with a face. Not like a strategic handshake or a photo op waiting to happen. You didn’t care about legacy or headlines. You asked what I liked, what music I listened to, what I wanted—and when I said I wasn’t sure yet, you didn’t laugh. You just said, “Then let’s find out.”

It started slow and private. A few late dinners in hotel lounges no one noticed. My driver picking you up after studio hours. I offered the backing for a world tour—secured the venues, floated the costs before the label even agreed. Luxury endorsements with nearly every brand under LVMH, owned by my grandfather. I introduced you to the right people. The ones who don’t smile unless your name trends globally.

You never asked for any of it. But I offered anyway.

And I never missed a show. Always backstage, hidden in plain sight. Watching you command crowds of thousands, breathing life into lyrics you once hummed on my sofa, barefoot, sipping tea at 2 a.m.

My family liked the results. Liked that your name sold out capsules in minutes, crashed websites, drove stock prices up. You were a phenomenon, and to them, that meant leverage.

But then it all went down. Paparazzi captured fleeting glimpses—blurred photos of you entering my jet, a watch on your wrist that only LV makes, a rare piece no one could buy unless you were gifted it through the right circles. Initials “H.S.” on your phone case in the picture that your friend posted, you sitting next to me at the Dior event—sparking speculation.

Fan forums exploded. TikTokers dissected every grainy photo like it was FBI evidence. “Soft-launching?” they asked. “Are they dating?” Some celebrated, calling it a real-life fairytale. Others weren’t so kind. The word kept trending under your name. Sugar baby. Opportunist.

My family were livid. “Harry,” my mother said over coffee laced with disappointment, “this isn’t about love. It’s about legacy. You’re the heir to an empire, not a pop culture subplot.”

“She’s beneath this,” my uncle added at dinner. “You can’t be serious about her.”

But I was. And tonight, I’m here at the most important show of your career in Wembley. Publicly, not hiding, for everyone to see that I’m serious about this and this is not a fling.