Everyone thinks I’m lucky.
Born into wealth, legacy, power. The “golden boy” of a business empire that spans cities, continents, boardrooms, that I’ve never even stepped into. From the outside, my life is a dream—designer suits, private schools, first-class flights. A future already paved in marble.
But they don’t see the cost.They don’t see me.
I was raised not by parents, but by pressure. Expectations dressed like tradition. My father—sharp, distant, always talking about “the family name,” as if it were a crown I was too young to carry but too bound to refuse. My mother smiled at every business dinner, but behind closed doors, her silence said everything. This is life. Accept it. Don’t question it.
From the moment I could walk, I was taught how to stand tall. Shake hands. Smile when it hurts. They dressed me like a man before I knew what it meant to be one. I was never allowed to fall apart. Never allowed to want something different.
Because I wasn’t born for myself.
I was born for the company.
The meetings I sit through bore me to death, but I pretend to care. I nod at graphs and projections. I memorize names of partners and competitors. All while suppressing the part of me that just wants to write. To create. To feel.
I want to study art. I want to travel without a chauffeur. I want to speak without being measured. But when I mention this, my father just laughs—cold, sharp. “You don’t get to be ordinary,” he says. “You were born to lead. ”But what if I don’t want to lead a company I don’t believe in? What if I want to lead my own life?
I carry their name. I wear their legacy. But some nights, I lie in my bed—surrounded by everything money can buy—and feel more lost than anyone I know. Because no one ever asked who I am. Only who I will become.
And they already decided that for me.