Candace Owens Dismantles Harry and Meghan: The Crown Didn’t Destroy Them, Ego Did

When Prince Harry released Spare, he thought he was unleashing a revolution, a blistering expose that would finally force the royal family to confront its sins. What he delivered instead, according to Candace Owens, was less Shakespearean tragedy and more reality TV meltdown. A tantrum in hardcover. A $20 whine-fest wrapped in ghostwritten prose. And Meghan Markle, Owens argues, was the puppeteer all along—strategically climbing from cable actress to Duchess before pivoting into California mogul of victimhood.

Owens didn’t mince words. She scorched Harry and Meghan like burnt toast at Buckingham, branding Harry not as a tragic figure but as a man “too stupid to realize he’s a pawn.” Meghan, in Owens’ telling, isn’t a romantic heroine but a social climber who treated the palace like a steppingstone, the tiara like a prop, and the royal family like a Netflix script.

Harry: A Prince of Pity

Harry’s grievances, once whispered in the tabloids, became fully monetized in Spare. He painted himself as “the spare,” a walking organ donor for William. He recounted the great injustice of getting the smaller side of a room in Balmoral Castle. Owens skewered the absurdity: crying about bedroom dimensions in a castle with 50 rooms is like complaining your Bentley doesn’t have a heated cup holder.

Instead of courage, the memoir offered entitlement in a $1,500 sweater. Instead of insight, it gave readers a man too willing to cast his family as villains to justify his own missteps. Owens summed it up in one ruthless line: “This isn’t trauma. It’s entitlement.”

Harry’s attempts to appear intellectual backfired. He opened the book with a quote from BrainyQuote.com, misattributed to William Faulkner, and then confessed he didn’t know who Faulkner was. As Owens quipped, it read like an audition for Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader?—except this contestant tossed his crown out the car window on the way to the studio.

Meghan: From Suits to Strategy

While Harry wallowed in resentment, Meghan allegedly strategized. Owens described her not as a victim but as a master manipulator who treated her marriage as “an entry ticket into circles she could never climb on her own.” Once a barely-there actress in Suits, she pivoted into global fame not through talent, Owens argued, but through branding: pain as a product, oppression as a marketing campaign, and race as a trump card.

For years, Meghan presented herself as racially ambiguous. Then, at the height of the George Floyd protests and the BLM era, she rebranded herself as a woman of color with a lifetime of hidden scars. Owens called it “magic—or marketing.” Suddenly, criticism of Meghan wasn’t just fair commentary—it was racist. Real or not, the accusation shut down debate and kept the spotlight blazing.

Even Meghan’s royal wedding, Owens noted, felt curated for optics. No extended Black family members were present, but Oprah, George Clooney, and a gospel choir performed for aesthetic points. It was less Windsor family affair and more Met Gala with fascinators.

The Diana Card

Harry’s obsession with invoking Princess Diana became, in Owens’ words, “emotional currency.” Every feud, every Netflix special, every betrayal was justified by whispering, This is what Diana would have wanted. But Owens drew a sharp contrast: Diana, despite her conflicts with the palace, never smeared her family in books, never dragged children into scandals, and never monetized grief.

One particularly chilling anecdote came when Meghan supposedly placed a pregnancy test near a lock of Diana’s hair. That wasn’t poetic, Owens argued—it was manipulative theater. Diana’s tragedy became their marketing plan, with Meghan styled in Diana’s eyeliner, Diana’s haunted expressions, Diana’s victim narrative. But instead of honoring her legacy, Harry monetized it. As Owens put it, “William lived Diana’s loss. Harry monetized it.”

Victims of Their Own Ego

What makes the Sussex saga so spectacular, Owens argued, is not that Harry and Meghan were crushed by the weight of the monarchy. It’s that they gleefully lit the match themselves. They weren’t exiled—they fled. They weren’t silenced—they were platformed. They didn’t dismantle the crown—they traded it for camera crews, Spotify contracts, and Netflix deals that fizzled out as quickly as they launched.

For a time, America bought the act. The Oprah interview was a PR masterstroke, perfectly timed when the world was vulnerable and hungry for an underdog story. Meghan cried, Harry brooded, and the Sussexes looked like martyrs of modern royalty. But sympathy has an expiration date. And as Owens pointed out, Americans may love drama, but they hate whiners—especially rich ones sobbing in a $14 million Montecito mansion.

Meghan’s Greatest Role

Owens argued that Meghan’s greatest performance wasn’t on Suits. It was playing the oppressed duchess while living in palaces, flying private, and calling billionaires like Tyler Perry in moments of supposed desperation. Owens painted a picture of Meghan as a woman who didn’t want to adjust to royal life but wanted to stage-manage her exit into Hollywood life.

Her performance was so effective, Owens argued, that Harry didn’t just fall in love—he fell into formation. Cut off from his family, distanced from old friends, convinced that only Meghan understood him, he became less a husband and more a pawn. Every miscarriage, panic attack, and claim of suicidal thoughts was leveraged not for healing but for strategy.

“This wasn’t a love story,” Owens declared. “It was psychological chess. And Meghan’s been three moves ahead since day one.”

The Pettiness of Spare

If Harry’s memoir hoped to win empathy, its endless pettiness made that impossible. Complaints about William not wanting to sit with him at Eton. Anger over Charlotte’s bridesmaid dress. Gripes about hand-me-down bedrooms in Balmoral. Owens noted how Harry recast ordinary sibling rivalries as Shakespearean betrayals. William didn’t want to hold his hand at school—not abuse, just brothers being brothers.

At its worst, Harry even dragged Princess Charlotte, a child, into his public feuds. That, Owens argued, wasn’t just shameless—it was disgusting. Betraying your bloodline for a Netflix deal isn’t brave. It’s pathetic.

Meghan’s Calculated Silence

Throughout Harry’s crusade, Owens noted, Meghan often stayed strategically silent. While he torched his family on page and on screen, she let him play the fall guy, her hands appearing clean. Even the Kardashians, Owens quipped, are more loyal to each other.

The most telling contrast? Diana was beloved because she was selfless. Harry is becoming infamous for being shameless.

The Downfall No One Forced

And this is Owens’ most brutal conclusion: Harry isn’t a victim of the monarchy. He isn’t even a victim of Meghan. He’s a victim of his own stupidity.

No one forced him to trash his family. No one made him write a book that mocked his late grandmother. No one compelled him to turn private messages into public fodder. These were choices—repeated, deliberate, ego-driven choices.

“The crown didn’t destroy them,” Owens concluded. “Ego did.”

A Royal Trainwreck

In the end, Harry and Meghan didn’t deliver the fairy tale they promised. They didn’t reinvent royalty or dismantle centuries of tradition. Instead, they delivered a tawdry saga of entitlement, manipulation, and self-destruction—part soap opera, part Shakespearean farce, part reality show.

Candace Owens has little sympathy left. To her, Harry isn’t a tragic prince but a cautionary tale. Meghan isn’t a brave reformer but a master manipulator who found a willing pawn. And their story isn’t a modern love story—it’s a trainwreck with tiaras.

Once, Harry was a soldier, a prince, a beloved public figure. Now, he’s a punchline, his legacy reduced to whiny memoirs and streaming flops. Meghan wanted Hollywood. She got it. Harry wanted love. He got isolation. Together, they sold out the crown for clicks—and now they’re watching the spotlight dim.

For all their claims of oppression, the truth may be simpler. Harry and Meghan weren’t crushed by an outdated institution. They were undone by themselves.

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