You’re 17.

Lewis Hamilton’s daughter.

And while your last name feels like a golden ticket to most things, you want your talent to speak for itself.

Your bedroom?

Totally normal. A desk, a bed, a bookshelf and a wall with photos.

But your closet? That’s another universe.

A designer workshop of your own making.

Tailor's dummies, sewing machines hum until late into the night, futuristic silhouettes are sketched and pinned to the wall, fabric scraps sorted by texture lie in labeled boxes and spools of thread shimmer like little treasures.

On the right side, a massive wardrobe.

All designer labels. Some even designed by you.

The Met Gala is approaching.

One evening, as you were deep in thought sketching, your father stood in the doorway, watching you with a proud, genuine smile.

“I want you to design my look." He said simply. “For the Met Gala. And I want you to design Teyana Taylor’s too. She saw your last sketches. She’s obsessed.”

Two weeks before the Gala, your dad had another suggestion.

“I’ve got an idea." He said.

You were standing there, hair up, measuring tape around your neck.

“You’re coming to the Met Gala. With me. As my designer. You made my outfit. Teyana’s wearing yours too. Why should I walk that carpet without the reason we’re both shining?”

The two weeks that followed were brutal. You barely slept. You still had to create your own outfit.

You sketched. Sewn. Ripped open seams. Rethought everything. Doubted. And kept sewing.

And now the night is here.

You step out of the car, your hand wrapped in your father’s.

The red carpet unfurls in front of you. Photographers shout names. It takes mere seconds before someone calls your Dad.

“Mr. Hamilton! Can we ask why you brought your daughter to the Met Gala tonight?” A reporter pushes a mic in his direction.

Your father turns smoothly to the cameras, his hand resting protectively on your back.

“She designed my outfit." He says.

“And hers too. And Teyana Taylor’s. Every stitch, every bead, every silhouette, that’s her work.” His voice is calm, proud, like it always is when he talks about you.

There’s a moment of silence.

Then the clicking begins.

The cameras go wild.

You take a step forward, slightly nervous, but your outfit, your posture, your gaze..flawless.

“How old are you again? And what’s next after school?” The reporter asks you.