The Apple Doesn't Fall Far From The Tree

Twenty Eight

A quiet meeting with one of my mom's colleagues two hours out of town. I shake hands, take notes diligently while sipping on a banana matcha, my professionalism shining through even though I look tired.

Back at the gallery, Ian appears; flamboyant, effortlessly stylish, helping me move a heavy pedestal.

"Darling, I'm too pretty to be doing manual labor."

I couldn't help but laugh, "Then stop complaining and lift."

Late at night. I sweep the gallery floors alone, airpods in, lost in my music. The art glows under the dim security lights, and I look around with quiet pride. This place, my mom's work, has become a part of me too.

My mom locks up beside me, "You're a lifesaver, Vin. I couldn't do this without you."

-

Earlier that day from Harry's Pov,

The stage lights are almost blinding. A giant banner behind the panel reads: "Innovating Access: Education for All.". The brand name of my new education project.

I sit at the center of a long table with other collaborators; all nonprofit directors, tech developers, and educators. My posture is relaxed, practiced, but there's a faint stiffness to my smile. I'm tired.

The moderator begins taking questions.

A reporter stands up in the crowd, clearing their throat before asking, "Harry, you've been funding schools in underserved communities for years now, but this project is on a much larger scale. What sets it apart?"

I leaned into the mic, voice calm, rehearsed yet genuine. "This isn't just about buildings. It's about access. Access to technology, training for teachers, safe places for kids to learn. We're trying to close the gap that keeps growing between the privileged and the under-resourced. The goal is sustainability, not just charity."

Flashbulbs pop.

Another reporter takes a stand, "And this anonymous backer... Can you tell us who's behind the funding? Many are curious about someone willing to quietly commit millions to the project."

My brows knit faintly. They weren't supposed to ask this. My assistant had all of the questions pre approved last night.

But I remained calm, neutral. "Whoever they are, I can tell you they care deeply about this work. That's enough, isn't it?"

The moderator tries to move things along, but later, when the panel ends, the group is directed outside where there's a red carpet that leads to the reception hall. The flash of cameras are relentless. I tug at the lapel of my tailored suit, moving through the crowd with my project collaborators at my side. We all smile politely, shake hands, and give quotes about the importance of expanding access to education. I'm professional and polished for the cameras when I hear a familiar voice.

"Harry Styles."

In the midst of all of the questions and flashes, I turn, and there she is; Whitney Astor. Elegant in a cream silk dress, older now but striking as ever. A flood of nostalgia hits me.

Born into money, so old it practically smelled of mahogany and trust funds, Whitney had never needed to work a day in her life. And yet, she did. Her parents' empire stretched across banking, real estate, and art, but Whitney had carved her own path. First dabbling in modeling, not for the paycheck but for the thrill of jet-setting shoots in Capri or Morocco. It was never her career, just another adventure. Her real passion was quieter, softer: owning animal sanctuaries across continents, raising awareness for rescues, wildlife protection, and ethical treatment campaigns.