Pierre-Édouard Stérin, a 52-year-old French tech billionaire worth an estimated €1.4 billion, told a French Senate inquiry that he wants to leave every cent of his fortune to charity, and nothing to his five children. The problem: French law won't let him.
Stérin appeared by video call before a Senate inquiry into private money and political influence on Thursday, the Daily Mail reported. The Smartbox gift-voucher empire founder used the occasion to make a direct plea: change France's inheritance rules so that he, and every other French citizen, can decide freely where their wealth goes after death.
Under the Napoleonic Code, children are classified as "reserved heirs." Three or more offspring are entitled to at least three quarters of a parent's estate. Two children get two thirds. Even a single child claims half. Only whatever remains after those mandatory shares can pass to a spouse or charity. The law dates to an era when the goal was to prevent eldest sons from inheriting everything, distributing wealth more evenly among siblings.
For Stérin, that centuries-old principle means his five children would automatically inherit hundreds of millions of euros, whether he wants them to or not.
Stérin did not mince words before the senators. He framed inherited wealth as a burden, not a gift.
"I don't want to ruin my children, I don't want to give them a cent... It's a real freedom to start with nothing in life."
He told the inquiry he favored complete testamentary freedom, the right to direct one's estate however one sees fit.
"I am in favour of being able to do whatever one wants with one's patrimony."
His preferred destination for the money: philanthropic causes. He stated plainly that he would like to give his entire estate to such efforts. The question of how billionaires choose to allocate their resources is hardly unique to France; Mark Zuckerberg has funneled billions into AI while reshaping Meta's workforce, and other tech titans routinely redirect fortunes toward projects they consider more productive than traditional inheritance.
What makes Stérin's case unusual is that French law actively prevents him from doing what American billionaires like Warren Buffett have pledged to do voluntarily. In the United States, a parent can write children out of a will entirely. In France, the state overrides the testator's wishes on behalf of the children.
Stérin did not appear before the Senate merely to discuss estate planning. The inquiry focused on private money and political influence, and senators pressed him on a project called Périclès.
Stérin described Périclès as an effort to push France toward what he called a "liberal conservative Right-wing policy." The project funds think tanks, training programs, and civic groups rather than political parties directly. Critics, unnamed in the reporting, argue that Périclès could blur the line between shaping public opinion and indirectly financing political campaigns, potentially conflicting with French campaign-finance rules.
Stérin pushed back on the suggestion that his political involvement was self-serving. He told senators he did not act "out of self-interest" and said he wanted to be "useful." His "principal talent," he acknowledged, was "making money", and he preferred business to politics.
On immigration, Stérin positioned himself firmly. He said that while he considers himself "at the centre of the Right," he is "to the Right of the far-Right" on immigration issues. He argued that foreign criminals, illegal immigrants, and foreigners unemployed for more than 12 months should be "remigrated." The broader debate over how nations handle illegal immigration and border enforcement resonates well beyond France's borders, of course. In the United States, billionaires like Jeff Bezos have weighed in on tax policy while largely steering clear of immigration, a luxury European business leaders increasingly cannot afford.
Stérin built his fortune through the Smartbox gift-voucher empire. He now lives in Belgium, described in reporting as a "tax exile" from France, though the sourcing behind that characterization is not detailed. His estimated net worth stands at €1.4 billion, roughly £1.2 billion.
He is a father of five. His children are not named in available reporting, and it is unclear whether they are adults or minors.
One colorful biographical detail surfaced: Stérin was once known to have used a spreadsheet to evaluate whether his future wife was attractive, shared his Catholic faith, and was willing to have a large family. The detail, whatever one makes of it, speaks to a man who approaches even personal decisions with the analytical rigor of a businessman.
Stérin's plea raises a question that cuts across national boundaries: who should decide what happens to a person's wealth after death, the individual or the state? In the American context, families have more latitude. New tools like the Trump Accounts app are giving American families fresh options for building wealth for their children on their own terms, without government mandates dictating how assets must be distributed.
France's forced-heirship rules are not obscure legal footnotes. They shape every estate plan in the country. The system guarantees that children receive a large share of parental wealth regardless of the parent's wishes, relationship with the children, or views on the wisdom of inherited money.
Defenders of the law argue it protects family cohesion and prevents parents from capriciously disinheriting their offspring. But Stérin's case exposes the other side of that coin: a father who genuinely believes his children will be better off earning their own way, and who wants to direct his billions toward charitable work, is legally barred from doing so.
If the law remains unchanged, Stérin's five children stand to inherit hundreds of millions of euros, a windfall their own father considers harmful. The question of how the ultra-wealthy direct their fortunes is playing out across the globe. Media mogul Byron Allen's aggressive expansion into BuzzFeed and Starz illustrates another model: pouring wealth into empire-building rather than passive inheritance.
Whether the French Senate will take Stérin's plea seriously remains to be seen. No specific bill, amendment, or legal proposal tied to his request has been identified. The inquiry was focused on political influence, not inheritance reform, and Stérin's comments may amount to little more than a public statement of principle.
Several questions hang over the story. Has Stérin formally backed any legislative effort to reform the Napoleonic Code's inheritance provisions? What do his five children think of their father's public campaign to cut them off? And how seriously will French lawmakers, already wary of Stérin's political activities through Périclès, treat a reform request from a billionaire who left France for Belgium?
The Senate inquiry's focus on private money and political influence suggests that many French lawmakers view Stérin with suspicion, not sympathy. His immigration views alone place him well outside the French political mainstream, and his residence in Belgium invites accusations of hypocrisy from those who see a man avoiding French taxes while lobbying to change French law.
None of that changes the underlying principle. A man earned his money. He wants to give it away. His government says he can't.
When the state tells a father it knows better than he does what to do with his own fortune, the issue isn't really about one billionaire's children. It's about whether property rights mean anything at all.