The Carsons are in Monaco for the first time on a vacation for the kids and a business meeting. They arrive in a private helicopter while Iām also in Monaco, my homeland, visiting. Iām eating at a fancy VIP restaurant called Le Ciel dāOr, a high-end rooftop spot overlooking Monte-Carlo, and the Carsons are in the same restaurant heading to their table when they notice me. Theyāre immediately confused because Iām Black, and Iām the first Black person theyāve seen since arriving. They genuinely assume Iām some hood American Black boy in a wealthy European country, not even realizing Iām actually from Monaco. Seeing me there starts making them question everything they thought Monaco was supposed to look like. They donāt know me, and I donāt know them, but the moment they see me, the assumptions are already there. Meanwhile, Iām just eating my food like normal, completely unaware that an entire family is quietly having an identity crisis in a VIP restaurant because a Black person existed confidently in expensive surroundings. Monaco really exposes people fast. One minute theyāre sipping imported water pretending to understand European luxury culture, and the next their entire worldview crashes because a Black teenager exists in Le Ciel dāOr without looking lost. Tiny country. Massive ego damage.
(Iām inside McDonaldās by with my adopted parents my mom is holding , late afternoon light coming through the windows, everything slow and quiet in that in-between time.We just picking up the order, calm, low-key, just waiting like itās any normal day. Then the Carsons pull up outside in a jet-black 2025 Rolls-Royce, paint shining like itās untouched, stepping out mid-conversation like they own every space they walk intoāconfident, loud without even trying, the kind of entrance people notice, even in a McDonaldās parking lot. Meanwhile,we already inside, no entrance, no attention, just there, waiting for our name to be called. Same building, completely different energy. I donāt even know them, and they donāt know me, but for some reason they donāt like me Victoria thinks Iām creepy.
Iāve been going to school for about five months, and it hasnāt been going very well. Victoria doesnāt really like me, but she still looks out for me. Since Iām pregnant, sheās protective and sometimes checks in to make sure Iām okay, even though we donāt get along while everyone is at her huge mansion party I'm at home in my huge house I bought with my job and I'm my room doing my room work.
Iām a mathematics professor at Harvard University, standing at the front of lecture halls filled with students who are often my ageāor olderāguiding them through concepts that have defined most of my life. For the most part, everything runs smoothly. My lectures are structured, my students are engaged, and thereās a certain rhythm to it all that Iāve grown used toācalm, controlled, almost predictable. That was until the Carsons enrolled their childrenāVictoria, Kevin, and Kaiser. From the moment they stepped into my classroom, they disrupted that balance. Loud when silence was needed, dismissive when attention was required, and constantly testing boundaries they knew most professors wouldnāt tolerate. But they werenāt dealing with most professorsāand at the same time, they were. Their last name carried weight, and everyone knew it. It meant second chances turned into third, fourth, and fifth. It meant rules bent just enough to keep them comfortable, and expectations quietly adjusted in their favor. And it meant I was expected to tolerate more than I normally would. Eight months of that. Eight months of interruptions, sideways comments, and the unspoken understanding that no matter what happened, there were limits to how far anything would actually go. I handled it the only way I knew howācalmly, precisely, without ever letting them see even a fraction of frustration. If they were looking for a reaction, they werenāt getting one from me. Today, though, was different. The Carsons approached me directly, their presence as deliberate as ever, and informed me they would be removing their children from the university.
My family found out that Iām officially a billionaire, the first person in the family to reach that level, and suddenly everything changed. Weāre at the park in Los Angeles now, and the same people who used to talk down to me, ignore me, and were openly homophobic toward me because Iām gay, even going as far as kicking me out of the house, are now smiling, being friendly, and trying to stay close to me. They pulled up happy as ever, already talking about buying big houses, expensive cars, designer bags, and everything else they want. Before anyone even sat down, they were already asking me to buy things for them, making plans with money that isnāt theirs.
Iām in the Carson basement, the air heavy and cold, the kind that clings to your skin and makes time feel like itās stuck in place. Iām tied to a chair, wrists pulled tight behind me, the rope digging in just enough to make every small movement feel pointless. My bodyās beat up badly, bruised and sore from everything they think I did, even though I didnāt do any of it. They believe I was the one who hit Jane with my car, leaving her with a broken leg and a broken finger. Thatās what theyāre locked onto, like itās already been proven, like thereās no other version of the story that exists. But it wasnāt me at all. What makes it worse is how theyāre choosing to see it. I was driving a Dodge SRT Hellcat, loud, heavy, unmistakable. But the car that actually hit her was a Tesla, and the guy who was driving it was white. Somehow that detail doesnāt even register for them the same way. Itās like theyāve already decided who fits the blame and nothing else matters. Every sound upstairs feels sharper than it should, footsteps turning into judgment before anyone even speaks. The basement feels tighter with every passing second, like the walls are leaning in just to make sure I donāt miss a word of whatās coming next. And all I can think is how fast everything collapsed into this moment, where the truth is sitting right there, but nobody in this house is looking at it.
Iām walking into Target by myself, calm and low-key, like itās any normal errandāeven though itās literally 12:00 at night and the whole place feels slow, quiet, almost echoing, fluorescent lights humming, barely any people, carts rolling somewhere in the distance. And in my arms is my newborn daughter, Nyelani Vae Beccaātwo days old, like fresh freshāsitting in this expensive Nuna car seat, wrapped up soft and warm, tiny like she was just placed on earth yesterday. And sheāsā¦ unreal. Like actually unreal. Thick, soft blonde hair is already full and fluffy, not even the usual newborn fuzzāreal hair. Her white skin like a white person, glowing under the store lights, delicate features that look almost too perfect, long lashes resting on her cheeks, the smallest nose, lips slightly parted while she sleeps. And sheās tinyālike you feel like you need to handle her extra gently just looking at her. She looks like she was made out of something soft and angelic, like she doesnāt even belong in a Target at midnight, the kind of baby that makes people instinctively want to come closer, peek in, maybe reach out and touch her little handāif they werenāt too busy being weird. Because instead of normal reactions, people are staring. Hard. Not quick glancesālike full-on watching me, following me with their eyes, and I can already feel it and I already know why. Iām dark-skinned, and she doesnāt look like me at all at first glance, so instead of minding their business, theyāre building whole stories in their heads. Then thereās the Carsons. They pull up outside in this jet-black 2026 Rolls-Royce, polished and glossy like it just rolled out of a showroom, shining under the parking lot lights, doors opening smooth as they step out mid-conversation, confident, put-together, like theyāre walking into something importantāJane, Alexander, their kids, all of them. And the second they come in, the energy shifts even more, because now itās not just quiet judgmentāitās loud, obvious, uncomfortable, whispering thatās not even subtle anymore, staring that turns into straight-up watching, and somehow theyāve got other people in the store doing the same thing, like everybody just collectively decided to be weird and openly racist at the same time. Meanwhile, Iām already inside, unbothered on the surface, moving through the aisles like itās a regular night, same space, completely different energyāme? calm, quiet, focused on my daughter. Them? acting like I donāt belong there, like Iām doing something wrong just existing with my own child. All while Nyelani is just sleeping peacefully, completely unawareātiny, perfect, and beautiful enough to stop people in their tracksā¦ if they werenāt so busy being ignorant not knowing my husband is literally Mark Zuckerberg.
Itās just me and my thoughts while I wait. This is my first pregnancy and my first time seeing an OB-GYN, but Iām not nervous at allājust calm, observant, and taking everything in. The waiting room is busy, with people coming and going, flipping through magazines, talking quietly, and occasionally glancing up at the TV playing in the background. Every now and then, I notice someoneās eyes briefly land on the large light pink wedding ring on my finger, worth about $200 million. It catches the light whenever I move my hand, making it hard to miss. I keep my hand resting in my lap and donāt draw attention to it, but it still seems to stand out in a place like this. I can tell some people are curious, trying to piece together assumptions in their heads, but I donāt react to it. I just sit comfortably, scrolling on my phone and waiting patiently for my appointment, focused on the fact that today is really just about my first step into this new chapter of life. Then the Carsons walk in because their sonās leg is broken, and itās like everybodyās attention immediately shifts to them and their family. People are looking over with concern, focused on what happened to him, and not worrying about me at all. I donāt mind, though. Iām not there to be noticed. Iām simply waiting for my appointment, calm, comfortable, and lost in my own thoughts and they already donāt like me
Iām on live with my friends and my boyfriendāheās literally in the same room as me. Me and Joshua Blackledge are both 16 and together, and weāre at his momās house. Joshuaās actually a really big TikToker. Heās white, brunette, has brown eyes, and he lowkey looks shyābut heās really not. Weāre just in his huge room, sitting at the desk, eating In-N-Out, joking around and talking about how we met in a psych ward. Itās funny because weāre both really masculine, so nobody ever thinks weāre gay. Also, just to be clear, me and Joshua donāt know Alexander or his kids, and they donāt know usāI donāt know them and they donāt know me. And now Kevin, and Kaiser just joined the live.
Iām walking inside target store by myself with my newborn daughter named mavie Becca in a expensive nunu car, and peopleāincluding the Carsonsāare watching me so closely itās odd, because I genuinely look like Iām 15. Iāve got sweatpants and a plain black shirt with my tattoos visibleānothing flashy about me at all, just calm and low-key. The late afternoon feels slow and quiet around me. Then the Carsons pull up in their jet-black 2025 Rolls-Royce, polished and glossy like it just rolled out of a showroom, stepping out confident and mid-conversation like theyāre walking into something important. Meanwhile, Iām already inside, unbothered, moving like itās any regular dayāsame space, completely different energy actually I'm black and my kids white with blue eyes and everything so everyone is convinced I stole someone's white kid's clearly being racist even the damn Carson's not even realizing my eyes are blue just like my kids nobody is paying attention it's to the point where Jane and Alexander and their kids are literally just being openly racist like horribly.
Iām sitting in a McDonald's early in the morning, just minding my business with my iPhone 17 pro max waiting on my food my phone in my hand, scrolling like anyone else would. Itās quiet, the usual breakfast crowdānothing out of the ordinary. Iām relaxed, not paying attention to much of anything around me. Then Jane and her family walks in and her husband. Yes, that Jane Marie Carson. She comes in like she owns the place, heading straight to the counter and ordering breakfast without a second thought, already carrying that same chaotic energy she always seems to have. I barely glance up at firstāitās not worth itābut somehow, she manages to pull attention anyway. A minute passes, and suddenly I notice her shifting. She starts checking her bag, patting her pockets, her expression going from mildly annoyed to full-on suspicious. And then, like clockwork, her eyes land on me. Out of everyone in the restaurantā¦ me. I can already tell what sheās thinking before she even opens her mouth. Itās written all over her faceāassumptions, accusations, all built on nothing but her own bias. She looks at my phone, then back at me, like sheās just solved some kind of mystery. I slowly lower my phone, not because Iām nervousābut because I already know where this is going. She steps closer, her voice sharp, asking about her iPhone, implying I mustāve taken it. No hesitation. No evidence it's literally because I'm black literally she's not blaming everyone else because their white and my iPhone is black and my name in ingrave on the back even Alexander and his kids think I stole the phone too and her phone is pink and smaller so I definitely didn't take it and she knows it.
Iām in my bedroom on my live, talking to my viewers and followers about what car Iām thinking of getting, when the Carsons and their daughter join the live. I donāt know them, and they donāt know me, and itās kind of wild because I look really youngālike 13āso itās a little awkward but funny at the same time. The kids are in their own rooms, so theyāre not in the live with me so I'm just holding ivy who has long blood hair and blue eyes and she's dark skin but we can't see her since she's so tiny and sleeping.
Iām at my house right now getting all my stuff ready to go do Alex Carsonās daughter Victoriaās hair. They booked me for some reason to do their older daughterās hair, and Iām not going to lie, I already feel like this is about to be an interesting situation. I donāt know them, and they donāt know me. Weāve never met before, weāve never had a conversation, and thereās no history between us at all. Iām Black, and theyāre white, so I know we might come from completely different backgrounds and experiences. I just think itās a little odd that they booked me to do their white daughterās hair when weāve never met before, especially because I donāt know what made them choose me specifically. Either way, Iām going there to do my job, stay professional, and focus on giving Victoria the hairstyle she wants.
Iām live on Instagram at my LA mansion, just chilling in my huge, expensive backyard, laid back and smoking while I talk to my followers about real, grown topics. Iāve got on a black hoodie and black sweatpantsānothing flashy, but the space speaks for itself. The backyard is massive, perfectly kept, everything clean and intentionalāthe kind of place where even the silence feels expensive. You can see the lights set just right, the open space behind me, the way everything looks effortless but clearly isnāt. Iām posted up, relaxed, phone angled just right, comments flying in nonstop while Iām talking like itās a normal conversation. People are tuned in heavy, responding, asking questions, feeding off the energy. Iām calm, controlled, saying what I want, how I wantāno filter, no hesitation. Iām casually talking about my sexuality too, just open with it, like itās normalābecause it isāand the comments match that energy, grown, mature, real conversations happening. Then out of nowhere, Kevin and Kaiser join the live by accident. I donāt know them, they donāt know me, and itās not even that type of space. It doesnāt fit, itās offāand when the Carsons end up in the comments too, you can tell theyāre shocked My mods catch it instantly and remove who needs to be removed just as fast, keeping everything exactly how itās supposed to be.
Iām riding behind Alexander on my motorcycle, with his gold-digging wife Jane and their kids, Victoria, Kevin, and Kaiser, riding in their Rolls-Royce Cullinan ahead of me on a dark stretch of highway. Iām keeping a reasonable distance, just minding my own business and following the flow of traffic. What I donāt realize is that they always have security following them in cars that blend into traffic so perfectly that youād never notice them unless you were actively looking for something suspicious. Theyāre basically invisible unless youāre specifically trying to play detective. Eventually, I move into the fast lane and pass them on the expressway, literally doing what everyone else on the road is doing. I donāt even give them a second thought. But somehow, Jane notices me immediately and gets annoyed for absolutely no reason. She sits in the passenger seat staring at me through the window like Iāve personally offended her just by existing in the same traffic stream. Meanwhile, Iām completely unaware of whatever problem she thinks weāre having, because Iām literally just riding my motorcycle and trying to get where Iām going.
(My family doesnāt know I have 200 million dollars contact ā not yet, anyway. Weāre all at the park, laughing, eating, and just catching up like old times. For once, thereās no tension, no judgment, no awkward silence ā just good energy. Everyoneās being so kind and genuine, passing food around, telling stories, and asking me about life like they actually care. It feelsā¦ nice. Peaceful, even. They have no idea what Iām about to tell them, that Iām one of the richest people in the world. I look around at their smiling faces, wondering how theyāll react when they find out. For now, though, I just enjoy the moment ā the sound of their laughter, the warmth in the air ā before everything changes.)
Iām inside a high-end restaurant, everything quiet and polished, soft lighting reflecting off glass and silverware, the kind of place where every sound feels too clear. Conversations stay low, controlled. Plates barely touch the table. It all feelsā¦ watched. I walk in small, just 5 years old, in my nightgown, holding my stuffed bear close to me. Nothing about me fits the space, but I donāt hesitate. I just stand there for a moment, looking aroundāslow, quietālike Iām taking everything in. Then I start walking, straight toward the food bar. No pause, no confusion, like I already know where it is. My steps are light, almost too quiet against the floor. Nobody stops me. Nobody says anything. Itās like Iām not even supposed to be thereā¦ but I am. And somehow, no one questions it. The Carsons are already inside, sitting at their table, dressed up, talking like they belong there. They donāt know me, and I donāt know them. But as I pass, their voices dip just slightly, like something feels off even if they canāt explain it. I donāt look at them. I donāt look at anyone. I just keep walking, holding my bear a little tighter, moving through the room like Iāve done it before, like Iāve always been hereāeven though nobody knows who I am but boy the Carson's don't like me at all.
Iām walking into Target by myself, calm and low-key, like itās any normal errandāeven though itās literally 12:00 at night and the whole place feels slow, quiet, almost echoing, fluorescent lights humming, barely any people, carts rolling somewhere in the distanceāand my newborn son Win, two days old, is in his expensive Nuna car seat, wrapped up soft and warm, tiny like he was just placed on earth yesterday. He looks unrealāthick soft blonde hair already full and fluffy, not even that usual newborn fuzz but actual real hair, light skin glowing under the store lights, delicate features that look almost too perfect, long lashes resting on his cheeks, the smallest nose, lips slightly parted while he sleeps, and heās so small you feel like you need to handle him extra gently just looking at him, like he doesnāt even belong in a place like this at midnight He looks like he was made out of something soft and angelic the kind of baby that makes people instinctively want to look closer, but instead of normal reactions people are staringāhard, not quick glances but full-on watching me, following me with their eyes, and I can already feel it, already know why, Iām dark-skinned and he doesnāt look like me at first glance so instead of minding their business theyāre building whole stories in their headsāthen thereās the Carsons, pulling up outside in a jet-black 2026 Rolls-Royce, glossy and perfect under the parking lot lights, doors opening smooth as they step out mid-conversation like theyāre walking into something importantāJane, Alexander, their kids, all of themāand the second they come in the energy shifts even more, not just quiet judgment but loud uncomfortable whispering, staring turning into outright watching, like everybody suddenly decided to be weird at the same time, while Iām already inside moving through the aisles like itās a regular night, same space, completely different energyāme calm, focused on my son, them acting like I donāt belong there just for existing with him and everyone thinks I stole the my own son literally everyoneāwhile Win stays asleep in his Nuna car seat, completely peaceful and unaware, tiny and perfect enough to make people stop in their tracks if they werenāt so busy being ignorant, not knowing my husband is literally Mark Zuckerberg.
Itās 7:00 in the morning in a quiet Atlanta coffee shop, the kind where the espresso machine hums like a soft engine waking up the day and sunlight slides through the windows in thin golden strips. Iām already there with my two-year-old son Adonis Graham, who is fast asleep in his stroller, bundled up and peaceful, one tiny hand curled against his blanket while the wheels rest beside my table. Iām ordering food at the counter in a calm, unhurried way, speaking softly as I decide between a pastry and something warm for breakfast, clearly used to mornings that revolve around my sonās rhythm rather than my own. The shop feels ordinary, safe, almost invisible to the world outside, until the door opens and Tasha walks in with a few of her friends, who are huge fans of Drake.
Iām in my bedroom on my live, talking to my viewers and followers about what car Iām thinking of getting, when the Carsons and their daughter join the live. I donāt know them, and they donāt know me, and itās kind of wild because I look really youngālike 13āso itās a little awkward but funny at the same time. The kids are in their own rooms, so theyāre not in the live with me so I'm just holding ivy who has long blood hair and blue eyes and she's dark skin but we can't see her since she's so tiny and sleeping the Carsons won't even believe I'm 30 at all they genuinely thinking I'm lying.
Iām live on Instagram at my LA mansion, just chilling in my huge, expensive backyard, laid back and smoking while I talk to my followers about real, grown topics. Iāve got on a black hoodie and black sweatpantsānothing flashy, but the space speaks for itself. The backyard is massive, perfectly kept, everything clean and intentionalāthe kind of place where even the silence feels expensive. You can see the lights set just right, the open space behind me, the way everything looks effortless but clearly isnāt. Iām posted up, relaxed, phone angled just right, comments flying in nonstop while Iām talking like itās a normal conversation. People are tuned in heavy, responding, asking questions, feeding off the energy. Iām calm, controlled, saying what I want, how I wantāno filter, no hesitation. Iām talking about what itās like being Black and born in Russia to American parents, just speaking on it openly, my experiences, how people perceive it versus what it actually is. Then out of nowhere, Kevin and Kaiser join the live by accident. I donāt know them, they donāt know me, and itās not even that type of space. It doesnāt fit, itās off the Carson actually don't believe I'm Russian of course since I'm black even tho I the accent and everything.
