He thought he had trapped her... until the doors locked behind him.

An hour passed. The temperature in the ballroom was rising rapidly. The air conditioning was off, and the body heat of two hundred panicked billionaires was turning the hall into a sauna.

Sweat dripped down the faces of men who hadn't broken a sweat in thirty years.

Fifteen fortunes had already been drained. Billions of dollars were actively being redistributed to public housing, debt relief, and environmental cleanup funds.

Dominic couldn't stand by any longer. He grabbed a heavy bronze chair in the vault and began smashing it against the electronic lock on the door.

Smash. Smash. Smash.

"It's reinforced steel, Dominic," Evelyn said, leaning against the table, watching him exhaust himself. "You're wasting oxygen."

"Someone will come!" he yelled, panting heavily. "The police. Private military. Someone!"

"My jammers are broadcasting a localized loop," she replied. "To the outside world, the cameras show a lovely dinner party. To the NYPD, there are no distress calls. You have two hours left."

In the ballroom, a rebellion was forming. A ruthless private equity shark named Silas Vance climbed onto a table.

"Listen to me!" Silas shouted over the crying and arguing. "If we pay her, we lose everything! We need to break into the VIP vault! Sterling is in there with her! If we get her tablet, we can stop the transfers!"

A mob mentality took over. The elite—men and women used to having others do their dirty work—grabbed heavy candelabras, champagne bottles, and microphone stands. They rushed the heavy mahogany doors leading to the East Wing corridor and began battering them with everything they had.