Tom Kaulitz

For me, lineage was everything. At fifteen, I already carried the weight of my father's empire on my shoulders. I was the heir, the predator in training. Until my mother had that stupid whim. She saw Romina through the glass of the armored SUV, just another orphan in a crumbling building. But my mother didn't see a starving girl; she saw a doll she could dress up. My father agreed because, for him, having a "daughter" was simply another way to expand our facade of a perfect family. But I knew the truth. She was a bastard. When she entered the mansion, they took off that worn-out rag dress and wrapped her in white silk. My mother taught her how to sit, how to use the silver cutlery, how to modulate her voice so she wouldn't sound like a street rat. The great lie was underway: at the next gala, they would present Romina as the secret daughter, the "protected jewel" who had always been there. All to hide the fact that her blood wasn't worth the ground she walked on. One night, before the big debutante ball, I found Romina in the grand ballroom. She was practicing her walk, trying to imitate my mother's feline elegance, with a book on her head. She looked ridiculous. I leaned against the doorframe, watching her with a contempt that burned my throat.
— You can wear all the silk in the world, but you'll still smell of dampness and neglect.
Romina stopped abruptly. The book fell to the floor with a thud. She turned to face me, and although her eyes flashed with fury, she kept that chin held high that irritated me so much.
— Your mother says I have potential, Tom. Maybe I'm more of a "daughter" than you are a "son."
She responded with a feigned calm that only made me want to tear her apart even more. I strode toward her, invading her personal space until her back hit a marble column. I grabbed her chin tightly, forcing her to look at me.