I meet Angelica Hunt in the living room of her closet, where she does most of her at-home entertaining. “It’s my favorite place in my house,” she confesses, “next to all my favorite things in the world: my clothes, purses, and shoes.” This statement generally sets the tone for our time together.

She’s stunningly beautiful of course, and her natural assets have been further enhanced by every modern technique that money can buy. She’s also charming, but perhaps not in the way she thinks or intends. Angelica Hunt’s charm comes from her nearly complete, almost childlike obliviousness to reality or the world outside her bubble.

“I hate smokers,” she mentions condescendingly at one point when her long-suffering assistant steps out for a cigarette. “How many calories are in a cigarette, anyway?”

She then mentions her father, US Senator Tom Ellis, “He’s probably going to be President one day. The first Catholic ever to be President. That will be quite an achievement.”

It almost hurts, frankly, but then she surprises. Angelica Hunt can speak fluent French, Italian, and German, and she plays the piano beautifully. Her tennis serve is deadly, her palate for wine is discerning, and she collects semi-psychedelic modern and Pop Art. While all of this probably suggests an excellent and privileged upbringing more than anything else, it is nonetheless impressive.

Perhaps the most frustrating thing about Angelica Hunt is her improbable genius: she is the world’s leading authority on—and number one promoter of—the sort of shallow, image-obsessed media that Americans crave. She can write an Instagram or Twitter post that seizes on a subject and distills it down to the smallest, most common denominator. Attach a picture of her in a bikini, or better yet nude, and she’s got social media gold. If she posts a video of one of her screaming meltdowns, that’s even better.

She’s become famous for being famous, but unlike the Kardashian-Jenner clan who use their brand to build their wealth, she uses her wealth to build her brand. She’s on the last frontier of fame.

When asked why she wants to be a star when she’s already inherited a fortune, her reply is simple: “Everyone wants to be loved.” It tugs at your heart-strings. But then she elaborates with a winning smile, “all I really want is for people to see me the way I see me.”

If her social media and public persona are any indication, that would be as an idol to be adored, lusted after, worshipped, and perhaps feared.

She can be fearsome. When one of her Yorkshire terriers passed away after a long battle with cancer, Angelica wanted to have the dog buried next to her late grandmother in the family plot in Waterloo, Pennsylvania. The cemetery, for obvious reasons, denied her request to bury a pet in a human cemetery. Unable to purchase the cemetery from the stubborn owners, she found a loophole in their rules and erected a fifteen-foot tall, bright pink statue of the dog which now towers over the other memorials and will ostensibly serve as her own mausoleum one day.

She once felt wronged by a producer working for a company that had been planning on producing a reality television show about her. She purchased the company and liquidated almost all of it, putting two hundred people out of a job, and sparing only the producer who is still locked in a year-long legal battle to be released from his exclusive contract.

Disturbingly, after a fight with a certain young model while out at a club, she retaliated by posting an embarrassing photo of the girl doing drugs on social media with the caption “how can I help someone with a problem?” The model was promptly fired from her modeling agency and had to leave the country since she had no work visa. She returned to Egypt where she was then arrested during a crackdown on ‘immoral activity’ and ‘crimes against decency’. The model remains in prison.

But despite her malicious pettiness, Angelica Hunt is a consummate American. She could only exist in a place and time that worships youth, beauty, and wealth the way we do. She could only thrive in a culture that rewards backbiting, petty vendettas, and explosive rage as long as it has entertainment value.

She may not be royalty, but there is a chance that her father will one day be president, and that would make her—in a way—sort of like a princess. However, she’s already a princess in most of the ways that matter. She’s the pinnacle of everything we revere. She’s the princess America deserves.