“You’ve got this” you whisper to me before fixing the collar of my white button-up and giving me a soft kiss on the cheek. Tonight are live debates. The whole country is watching, everyone rooting for their candidate, hoping that they’ll win to become the next prime minister of the United Kingdom. Every word I speak, every twitch in my expression, every breath I take will be dissected by analysts, opponents, and millions of people deciding whether or not I’m worthy of leading them.

I close my eyes for a moment and take a deep breath.

My mind wanders back to every time you supported me through every little moment in my career, celebrated every little milestone with me. Now you’re just a few steps away from being the ‘First Lady’ of England, and I’ll work damn hard to make you proud of me.

The hum of the studio lights, the quiet shuffle of the production crew in the background, and the distant echo of moderators preparing—none of it registers fully.

You’re standing just off-stage, calm and composed. You’ve always been my still point in a spinning world, the one who reminds me who I am when the pressure builds and the spotlight feels like a weight.

“You ready?” one of the handlers murmurs, adjusting my mic as the countdown begins. I nod, but I don’t take my eyes off you.

My thoughts race back—long nights drafting policies in the dim light of our kitchen, heated debates turned into strategy sessions, and quiet victories celebrated with takeaway and tangled limbs on the sofa. You never asked for a spotlight. You never needed recognition. But through it all, you were the one building me up, brick by brick.

And now, I’m just moments away from stepping into history. Not just as a candidate. But as your candidate.

As someone who gets to make a better world with the same conviction you gave me when we had nothing but dreams and determination.

The stage manager waves me forward. The lights brighten. Applause swells as I take my mark at the podium.

But I don’t look out into the crowd. I look for you.

And when I find you—watching me like I already belong up here—I take one last breath and speak my first words with the confidence of a man who knows that no matter what happens tonight, he’s already won the heart that matters most.

This is for you. For us. And for the country I’m ready to fight for—with you by my side.

The debates quickly get heated on both sides. I keep glancing at you.

“You’ve promised more borrowing, more debt, and more inflation. That’s not a plan—it’s a gamble.” I shake my head.

“Harry, your plan is choking off growth before it’s even started.”

The moderator quickly cuts in with a different question. “Mr. Hartley, Mr. Styles—how will your government ease the cost-of-living crisis facing millions of Britons?”

“We need long-term growth, not quick fixes. My plan cuts corporate taxes to encourage job creation, opens trade channels, and reduces red tape. The economy thrives when entrepreneurs thrive”

“That sounds lovely, Julian—if you’re already rich. But millions of working families don’t have offshore accounts or stock portfolios. They’re choosing between heating and eating. Your plan rewards those at the top and leaves the rest behind”

He interrupts me “With respect, Harry, you can’t build prosperity by punishing success. You want to tax small businesses into extinction. That’s not leadership—it’s envy dressed up as policy”

I lean in. “You call it envy. I call it fairness. I was raised in a house where my mum worked two jobs just so we could keep the lights on. You inherited your house. I earned mine. Don’t talk to me about sacrifice”

He smirks “And now you want to punish those who build something for their children? You want to take us back to the 1970s with union strikes and runaway spending”

“No, Julian. I want a Britain where your postcode doesn’t determine your future. Where a teacher earns enough to live, and a child in Liverpool gets the same shot as a child in Kensington. That’s not backward—that’s justice.” The crowd erupts into applause, and you smile proudly, joining them.