A tall young man—about six foot two, with dirty blond hair, amber eyes, and strikingly handsome features—ran through the streets in frantic strides. In New York City, people rushing as though perpetually late was nothing unusual. Urgency blended into the city's background noise, and no one spared him more than a passing glance.
'This city doesn't care if I live or die,' he thought, finding a small grim comfort in anonymity.
This was the protagonist.
His name was Henry Sebastian Amberstein, now legally known as Henry Sebastian Stein—a change meant to erase expectations rather than invite questions.
Henry was the eldest son and heir apparent to the Dukedom of Westminster. A financial prodigy, he had once been quietly hailed as a genius who surpassed even Warren Buffett. At the age of ten, he had accurately predicted the collapse of the dot-com bubble in its entirety. Following Henry's instructions, the Amberstein family had positioned themselves perfectly, earning tens of billions in the aftermath.
The achievement had not earned him praise.
It had earned him a role.
'A role I never auditioned for,' he thought. That single success defined the trajectory of his life, turning childhood brilliance into obligation and curiosity into a tool to be wielded by others.
Now, he was running—from his father.
William Charles Amberstein: Duke of Westminster, Marquess of Westminster, Earl Amberstein, Baron Amberstein, Baronet of Eaton. Titles accumulated through nearly eight centuries of loyalty to the Crown—through war, trade, and calculated allegiance. His influence extended far beyond aristocratic ceremony.
Power, in William's case, was not symbolic. It was functional.
Extremely.
Henry slowed beneath a rusted fire escape, bending forward to catch his breath. His chest burned—not from exhaustion alone, but from the weight of time pressing down on him.
His phone vibrated.
Father.
Henry stared at the screen longer than necessary. Avoidance was a luxury he no longer believed in. He accepted the call.
"Sebastian," William Amberstein said. "You will listen, and you will not interrupt."
It was not a raised voice. William never needed volume. He spoke the way men did when interruption was neither expected nor forgiven—when resistance was simply accounted for later.
Henry straightened instinctively. Years of conditioning surfaced before he could stop them.
'I can do this,' he thought. 'I won't break.'
"I'm listening," he said—carefully choosing calm over reflex.
"Do you have any idea what you've done?" William continued. "You didn't simply run away. You humiliated this family. Eight centuries of reputation reduced to conversation fodder in European drawing rooms—all because you fancied yourself an actor."
"I didn't leave to shame the family," Henry replied evenly. "I left because I was disappearing."
"A stage performer," William said, unmoved. "A man who survives on applause from strangers. Is that truly what you believe you were born to be?"
Henry exhaled slowly. 'I was born to choose who I become,' he thought. "No. I believe I was born to choose who I become."
The silence that followed was deliberate. William was not surprised—he was recalculating. Silence, for him, was not absence but pressure.
"Dreams," William said at last. "You speak as though they outweigh obligation. You were not raised to chase whims. You were raised to lead."
"You raised me to perform," Henry replied quietly. "Just not on a stage you didn't control."
William ignored that—not because it lacked merit, but because acknowledging it would shift the ground beneath him.
"You will return to London. Immediately. I will permit you your indulgence—West End productions, charity galas, cultural patronage. But you will do so as an Amberstein, not as a boy hiding behind a false name."
'Permission…' Henry's stomach tightened. 'The kind that cages me even while it smiles.' "That permission is the problem," he said.
"Suffocated?" William replied coolly. "You call privilege suffocation? You mistake discipline for cruelty."
"I mistake ownership for love," Henry said. "And I won't live like an asset anymore."
A pause. Longer this time.
William rarely paused without purpose. When he did, it meant he was deciding which consequences to release—and which to save.
"You are throwing away a legacy men died to build," William said. "A family forged through war, commerce, and loyalty to the Crown—and you would trade it for a casting room in New York?"
'I'm not trading it,' Henry thought. 'I'm claiming it for myself.' "I'm not trading it. I'm refusing to let it define me."
"Power is not greed," William said, his voice lowering. "It is obligation. And one day, you will understand that—whether you wish to or not."
"I already understand," Henry said. "I read your projections. The mergers. The political donors. The media acquisitions." He paused. 'You don't build security. You build control.' "You're not building security. You're building control."
That landed.
William did not deny it. Men like him never denied truth—they waited to see how dangerous it was.
"Be very careful what you claim to understand."
"You don't need me to expand the empire," Henry continued. "You need me to legitimize it."
The silence this time was sharper. Not disbelief—recognition.
"You were born to carry this family forward," William said at last. "You do not get to abandon that simply because it frightens you."
Henry's voice was steady. 'I'm not frightened. I'm done.' "I'm not frightened. I'm done."
"You will regret this," William said—not as a threat, but as an assessment. "The world is not kind to men without protection."
'Then I'll learn to survive without a leash,' Henry thought. "Then I'll learn to survive without a leash."
"This conversation is not over."
"It is for me," Henry said. "This will be the last time you hear from me."
The line went dead.
Henry stared at the phone for a moment—long enough to feel the finality settle—then hurled it against the pavement. The screen shattered.
'God… or whoever you are,' he thought bitterly. 'You gave me a new life. One where I'm not dying of cancer. But you didn't say it would be free.'
In his previous life, he had been Tang Xiaoli.
He had been raised by loving parents, his childhood full of warmth and noise and careless joy—until the day blood spilled from his mouth. That single moment rewrote everything. Hospital rooms replaced classrooms. Months blurred into years.
Pain became routine.
The only relief came from movies, television shows, and music—shared by a kind, middle-aged man he met during chemotherapy sessions. Stories had given him escape when his body would not.
Then one day, everything went dark.
Cold.
Just cold.
Henry shook himself back into motion. Memory was a weight—useful only if it didn't slow him down.
'Well,' he muttered, breaking into a run again, 'can't keep sulking. Jeff will kill me.'
"Henry! There you are! Where have you been?"
A chubby, short, middle-aged man waved frantically.
This was Jeff Robinson, senior agent at William Morris Agency. Jeff had discovered Henry at seventeen in a West End production. He knew Henry came from a strict and powerful family—and had learned, wisely, not to ask more.
"Sorry," Henry said. "Cab broke down."
Jeff nodded, already moving. "Tom Hanks and Steven Spielberg are here."
He kept his tone casual. Years in the industry had taught him that panic was contagious—and rarely productive.
'Here we go,' Henry thought. 'Keep it together.'
The date was August 13, 2007. Henry had turned eighteen four months earlier.
They joined a cluster of actors waiting outside the audition room. Some paced. Some stared at the floor. Nervous energy pooled in the hallway, thick enough to taste.
Names were called.
Actors entered with hope and exited carrying whatever verdict they had been given—devastation, relief, or something in between.
Then—
"Henry Sebastian Stein."
Inside, Tom Hanks and Steven Spielberg sat with the producers.
"Good afternoon," Henry said.
"I've seen your audition tapes," Steven Spielberg said. "Your ability to shift from an elegant British accent to a Southern one so cleanly is very impressive."
He said it easily, without ceremony. Spielberg was exceptionally good at this—setting performers at ease without diminishing the authority of the room. Compliments, when sincere and offered early, had a way of turning nerves into focus.
Henry felt the tension in his shoulders loosen despite himself.
'Of course,' he thought. 'Spielberg understands performers. Fear rarely produces good work.'
"It's an honor, sir," Henry said. "Thank you."
"You may begin."
Henry performed.
When he finished, applause followed.
"That was wonderful, Mr. Stein," Tom Hanks said, smiling. The approval carried weight precisely because it was measured. "Very admirable."
"Thank you, sir."
Outside, Jeff exhaled quietly. "We'll hear back in a week or two."
Henry nodded. He had learned not to celebrate early.
That evening, Henry clocked in at a small, upscale café in Manhattan. The place was discreet enough that a few politicians and celebrities frequented it for privacy, but quiet enough for Henry to collect his thoughts and earn some money.
'A few hours of normalcy,' he thought. 'Even if it's just serving coffee.'
"Hey Henry, how'd the audition go?" Stanley, the café manager, called out.
"Pretty well," Henry said, letting a hint of satisfaction slip into his tone.
"Don't forget us when you're famous," Stanley teased.
'I won't,' Henry thought wryly. 'Not unless you want me to haunt your holidays.' "I'll send a card every few years," he said dryly. "Then you're dead to me."
Stanley chuckled, taking it as dark humor. Henry had learned to appreciate moments like these—brief, harmless levity.
"Table four. Celebrity," Stanley said, nodding meaningfully.
Henry straightened his apron and walked toward the table.
"Hi, good afternoon. I'm Henry; I'll be your server today," he said, professional and warm.
He glanced at the table and recognized the celebrity Stanley had mentioned. Taylor Swift. The teen singer had skyrocketed to fame with her debut album, a mixture of catchy lyrics and a seemingly innocent public image that earned her support from both teens and their parents. Her curly hair and tan skin made her immediately recognizable even among casual café-goers.
'She's more composed than I expected,' Henry thought. 'Fame hasn't made her brittle yet.'
"Hi, I'll be getting the sea bass…" she began, placing her order. Henry noticed her slight shyness as she spoke, a subtle tension he understood all too well.
He served the meals efficiently, keeping the interaction smooth, professional, and unobtrusive.
'It's easier serving someone when they want the normal,' he thought. 'Even a celebrity.'
After his shift ended, Henry headed straight to the hospital where he volunteered at the cancer ward.
"Henry! You're finally here! Let's go, I don't want to miss it!" one of the girls shouted.
'They're all counting on this moment,' he thought. 'Better give them something real.'
"All right, let's get this over with," Henry said, faking annoyance. The small act made the children smile. He liked that. He liked the control he had over small happiness.
He joined a group of little girls sitting cross-legged in front of the TV, fidgeting with excitement.
The show began.
Taylor Swift appeared onstage, singing on a talk show.
Screams erupted from the girls as they recognized her.
'Joy still exists here,' Henry thought, watching their faces. 'Even if the world outside is a battlefield.'
He smiled quietly, not for the celebrity, not for recognition, but because these children—their laughter, their energy—reminded him why life mattered beyond legacy, beyond power, beyond obligation.
'This,' he thought, 'is worth more than gold or titles.'