And then the clock struck 1211 a.m.
At exactly 1201 a.m., the command I had set in the router executed flawlessly.
The Wi-Fi network for the main house instantly went dark.
The effect was immediate and catastrophic for David’s smart home setup.
The massive television streaming in the countdown went completely black.
The expensive wireless speakers surrounding the room abruptly cut out, leaving a jarring, echoing silence in the middle of a cheer.
The custom party lighting, entirely dependent on the internet to function, reset to its default state: a harsh, blinding, clinical white light that illuminated every sweaty face and dirty plate in the room.
The sudden silence was deafening.
Guests stopped cheering, looking around in confusion.
I watched David frantically pull out his phone, tapping the screen aggressively, trying to connect to a network that no longer existed.
But the lack of music was the least of their problems.
In the stark, bright light of the kitchen, the head caterer approached Sarah.
He wasn’t smiling anymore.
Even from my window, I could see the tension in his posture.
He held out the payment terminal and my deactivated silver card.
Sarah’s face dropped.
She took the card, looking completely bewildered, and tried to hand him another one from her purse, likely one of David’s maxed out cards.
The caterer shook his head, gesturing aggressively to the terminal.
He was demanding payment right now for thousands of dollars of services already rendered.
David’s parents stood mere feet away, witnessing the entire humiliating exchange.
David’s mother’s jaw tightened, her previous warmth evaporating into thinly veiled judgment.
Sarah looked around frantically, her flawless, wealthy hostess facade crumbling into absolute panic.
She pointed at the Wi-Fi router, yelled something at David, and then stared at the declined credit card in her trembling hand.
The party had completely stopped.