The grand lobby of Sinclair Tower had been transformed into a brutal reality TV elimination room.
The glass revolving doors had been locked down. Only women whose names appeared on an ultra-exclusive digital list were allowed through the secondary security checkpoint.
Ken stood near the metal detectors, looking like his soul had vacated his body. His eyes were dead, hollow voids as he waved a TSA-style security wand over a woman with a PhD in neurobiology, checking her for concealed weapons.
"Arms up, please," Ken muttered, his voice devoid of all human joy. "No sudden movements."
Fifty feet away, seated like an empress on a plush, emerald-green velvet sofa, was Diana Sinclair.
