“She just walked into the ballroom wearing your custom gown, your grandmother’s diamonds, and your name, Mrs. Sterling.”
I stood perfectly still beside the floor-to-ceiling window of the master suite in our Bel-Air estate, watching two unfamiliar security guards in sharp black suits patrol the lower terrace. My own garden had been transformed into a border checkpoint. My smartphone had vanished three days ago. The estate’s Wi-Fi routers were inexplicably removed. The landlines were dead, all under the chillingly polite explanation that I required absolute rest, privacy, and “emotional protection” following what my husband, Julian Sterling, described to the board as a severe decline in my mental stability.
