The tension in Vance's private study in Pennsylvania was a physical thing, thick and suffocating, clinging to the mahogany furniture and the polished bronze of the fireplace mantle. The final, chilling pronouncement—that Winsten Stone was the "precious and dear" asset of the hidden protector—hung in the air, refracting through the dread-filled eyes of George and Melissa.
The two executives stared at Winsten with a profound, horrified curiosity, as if he were a monster or a dangerous, unstable weapon that had just been handed to them. This attention, this silent, wide-eyed judgment, grated on Winsten. He was not a marvel of future technology; he was a man who needed to pick up his sister from school. He was hungry, and he was annoyed.
Author Vance, meanwhile, had settled into a smug, satisfied expression. The dumb smile was back on his face, the look of a man who had successfully performed a terrifying magic trick and was now waiting for the applause.
Winsten ignored Vance's theatrical joy and the entirety of his story, which only served to make Winsten seem like a grotesque, gilded prize. He clapped his hands together once, the sound sharp and jarring in the hushed room.
"Okay, nice story, Vance," Winsten said, his voice flat and dismissive. "Honestly, amazing. And the theatrics were to die for. Now that that's out of way… where is the food? I'm starving. I can't believe you called me over to this bunker for this nonsense."
Melissa and George looked at him as if he were genuinely unhinged. He had just been told the hidden secrets of the world's governance, the identity of his protector, and the full extent of Vance's terror—and he wanted food?
Winsten met their stares with a blank look. "I'm serious. Where's the food?"
Vance, ever the showman and now ever the obedient proxy, played along. He gave a sharp clap of his own hands.
Waiters, silent phantoms in bespoke black uniforms, immediately materialized, gliding into the study and serving a selection of gourmet food. The portions were restrained, but the quality was undeniable—dishes involving delicate preparations of game and truffle, all presented with the precision of a culinary architect. Winsten immediately began to eat, ignoring the other three occupants of the room, focusing entirely on the meal.
George, unable to bear the silent weight of the revelation any longer, leaned toward Vance. "Vance," he asked, his voice a low, tight knot of anxiety. "Why tell us this? Why bring us in at all?"
Vance watched Winsten eat for a moment, his smile now chillingly conspiratorial. "Because you're going to help me find out who Winsten Stone really is. I tried alone, and I'm losing my mind."
George and Melissa felt a spike of pure, defensive terror. The last thing they wanted was to look into Winsten Stone and risk upsetting the Blue Nova AI 9 CEO, the terrifying entity Vance himself claimed to fear. They didn't want to know who Winsten was; they wanted to stay ignorant and survive.
Winsten, without looking up from his plate, a forkful of food suspended halfway to his mouth, decided to tease his reluctant collaborator. The air was heavy with the presence of the AI, a silent observer of all. Winsten chose his words carefully, speaking to Vance but aiming his fear toward the listening machine.
"If the Blue Nova CEO, whom you claim to communicate with regularly, finds out you're looking into me, won't they get upset?" Winsten asked, referencing the AI between them without directly exposing the machine's existence to the nervous executives. "I'm precious and dear, like you said."
Vance threw his head back and started laughing like a maniac, the sound echoing harshly off the dark wood walls. "Ah, the ever-funny Winsten Stone." He dabbed his mouth with a linen napkin. "If that was an issue, I wouldn't be alive, would I? I've been looking into you non-stop since the first time I heard of you."
Winsten chewed slowly, digesting the implied threat. The AI is allowing Vance to dig, but only so far.
"I see. You might be special, Vance," Winsten conceded, leaning back with a satisfied sigh as he finished his plate. "But can you guarantee that they won't do anything to George or Melissa for looking into me? Or maybe, if you ever came too close to the truth, they might just get rid of all three of you. Collateral damage, you know?"
Winsten was obviously not taking the threat seriously, relishing the chance to use his assigned role as a weapon. He was trying to scare Vance's underlings, forcing them into a paralysis of fear.
Melissa and George exchanged a look of utter dread. They were trapped between two monsters. They couldn't say no to Vance, who would surely end their careers (or lives) for insubordination. But they also risked disappearing entirely if they upset the ultra-powerful force protecting Winsten. They were caught in the most agonizing corporate pincer maneuver in history.
The late-night meeting eventually concluded. After what felt like an eternity, everyone got into their respective cars. It was past 2 a.m., and the vehicles slipped away into the cold, rainy darkness. Winsten settled into the back of the Rolls-Royce, feeling the quiet surge of satisfaction at having manipulated the corporate world's most powerful predator.
The next day brought a jarring return to normalcy. Lily was safely deposited at the new private school—a venerable institution with grounds that resembled a university campus and a seventy thousand dollar annual tuition. For Winsten, the cost was meaningless, a phantom number, but the trade was paramount: it kept Lily happy and insulated.
Winsten's life, now measured by seven-figure monthly deposits, was getting richer, but the richer it was, the busier it got. He was drowning in mundane tasks tied to managing impossible wealth and an absurd professional persona. The AI gave him strategic data, but it didn't do basic scheduling or social management.
He realized he desperately needed a secretary for his mundane tasks—someone who knew what the rich world liked and disliked, and how to navigate the impenetrable web of luxury, protocol, and hidden expectations.
He had asked Vance for this favor yesterday, requesting a high-level assistant. Winsten had to apply significant, playful pressure, using phrases like, "We're good friends, right? Please," deliberately trolling Vance with false camaraderie. It was obvious Vance didn't want to use his network to supply staff for the man he was desperately trying to investigate, but he eventually gave in, forced by the chilling reality of his arrangement with Blue Nova AI 9.
Winsten was scheduled to interview his first candidate today. The appointment was for 10:00 a.m.
At precisely 10:00 a.m., the doorbell to his Manhattan penthouse apartment rang.
Winsten, already feeling the oppressive weight of the day, walked over and pulled the heavy, armored door open.
Standing on his threshold, radiating a nervous professionalism that barely concealed a profound fear, was none other than the receptionist from the front desk of Winsten's high-rise residence—the same impeccably dressed woman who had first greeted him when he moved in. The AI had, predictably, chosen his secretary for him.