I waited in the flickering shadows of the kitchen for another twenty minutes before the power finally hummed back to life. The sudden brilliance of the overhead lights felt like an accusation, exposing the guilt written all over my face. The hum of the refrigerator and the soft whir of the wine cooler returned, grounding the room in a normalcy that felt entirely fraudulent.
As the appliances began their low, mechanical drone, I stood up from the stool, my legs still feeling like they belonged to someone else. The lead security guard, a man whose name I didn't even know despite him guarding my life, stood near the kitchen island. He watched me with a neutral, professional intensity that made me feel like a specimen under a microscope.
"Where are you going, Mrs. Vanderbilt?" he asked, his
