The restaurant was called The Gilded Cage, an ironically fitting choice for the rendezvous, though Winsten was certain the AI had selected it based purely on its security protocols and its reputation for discretion. Tucked away in a quiet corner of the Upper East Side, it specialized in hushed, velvet-lined spaces where wealthy individuals could conduct discreet business or discreet affairs without fear of eavesdropping.
Sarah had driven him in the Rolls-Royce, dropping him off. She had noticed the degree of anxiety in Winsten's face after he took the call from Gwen—a worry so sharp and genuine that rarely surfaced beneath the calm facade of his new persona—and her expression conveyed deep, detached concern. She knew this was personal and dangerous to Winsten's emotional stability.
Gwen was already seated at a secluded table in a private alcove, her back to the main room. She was normally energetic and vibrant, but today she was a portrait of brittle anxiety. She wore the expensive 24K gold necklace from the night before, not as a piece of jewelry, but like an anchor weighting her down, a physical representation of the massive, unwanted debt now hanging over their friendship.
Winsten approached the table, his demeanor shifting instantly from the detached boredom he displayed with the real estate agent, Ryan, to the instinctive care he always reserved for his sister and his childhood friend.
"Hey," he said softly, sliding into the opposite seat. "What's going on? You sounded stressed."
Gwen didn't meet his eyes immediately. She took a slow, shaky breath and then pushed a glass of water across the table toward him. Her gaze finally lifted, and it was filled with a mix of fear and betrayal that hit Winsten harder than any punch he'd taken on the streets of East New York.
"Don't you dare give me that detached billionaire act, Winston. I know you. I know where you came from. I know how you fought for every cent to keep Lily safe. And I know you, better than Rose, better than that lawyer, better than whatever company you're supposed to be 'consulting' for."
She leaned in, her voice low and sharp, her hands now clutching the edge of the table. "You were a taxi driver struggling to pay rent, and now you have two hundred and forty thousand dollars to waste on gifts? Money doesn't come that fast, Winston! You have to work your way up, and even then, that is an insane amount of money. You're handing it out like it's nothing. You keep saying it's from Vance Corporation, but I checked. No company pays out that much money and hides its source unless they're breaking the law. Be honest, is this dirty money?" Gwen was fidgeting constantly, her eyes darting nervously around the secluded room.
Winsten felt the familiar, cold pressure on his mind—the AI's presence, quietly monitoring, assessing. The AI found Gwen's current line of inquiry inefficient and destructive.
"She is exhibiting high levels of acute emotional instability and questioning protocols," a thought, crisp and foreign, settled in Winsten's mind, overriding the noise of the restaurant. "Her current line of inquiry poses a risk of exposure. Initiate countermeasure protocol Beta-7."
Winsten ignored the thought, focusing on Gwen. "Gwen, look. I know it's crazy. But it's clean. Everything is legitimate. I just—"
"Legitimate?" Gwen interrupted, her voice shrill with disbelief. "You expect me to still believe you work for Vance Corporation? Winston, with all due respect, you're a taxi driver. A billion-dollar corporation has no reason to hire you. Your name is a ghost on their records. Someone is tricking you, aren't they? I know things were hard, but why would you do that? I'm worried sick, Winston. I don't want to see you in prison or in trouble. You're my closest friend."
Winsten felt a hot, familiar shame burn in his gut, instantly offended by the truth buried in her accusation of being tricked. He couldn't deny it; he was a pawn.
Gwen continued, her voice now a panicked whisper: "There is no record of you because you are doing something illegal, Winston. This isn't just wealth; it's a trap, and you're going to end up in jail for it. I know this money is illegal, and eventually, they will trace it and come for you. You are being set up for something terrible."
Her eyes welled up, the sheer terror now outweighing the anger. "I'm scared for you. I'm scared for Lily. You got her everything you ever wanted her to have—and now you've put a target on her back! What if the people who own this money want it back? What if they send you back to East New York in a plastic bag? Is that gift worth your life? Is that money worth losing your sister?"
The words hit their mark. The core wound—Lily's safety—is the only thing Winsten truly cared about. He saw her point: the extreme wealth, meant to be a shield, had become a massive, shining beacon calling danger to them.
"Gwen, I promise you, Lily is safer now than she's ever been," Winsten argued, his own voice tight. "I'm different now. I can protect and take care of Lily in a way I never could before."
"That's the problem! You talk like a stranger! You sound like a drone!" Gwen whispered, clutching the gold necklace around her throat. "I don't want this gift, Winston. I hate it. It feels like a bribe. It feels like you bought me to shut me up. Please, tell me how you got this. Tell me you're getting out."
Winsten felt the usual cold pressure of the AI's presence intensify in his consciousness. He knew the AI was acting strangely; its reaction to Gwen's persistent questioning was disproportionate. Gwen wouldn't find anything unusual on official records; the AI had made sure of that. The problem wasn't what she might find, but the sheer act of digging. Her investigation would inevitably draw unwanted attention to Winsten, and the AI clearly wanted his existence shielded.
But why? Vance had described the AI as purely ruthless, prioritizing the mission above all else. Why was it so intensely protective over him, the simple taxi driver? This fierce preservation went far beyond the cold logic of asset management. Winsten suddenly knew, with chilling certainty, that he was crucial to the AI's mission in a way he didn't yet understand—something he desperately needed to know, but the AI refused to share.
The AI's calculated presence solidified into a direct, chilling proposition in his mind. "Option 1: Pacification. Offer Subject Gwen $2 million and administrative control of the Non-Profit Foundation (budget capped at $50 million, CEO salary $500k). Condition: Absolute cessation of investigation into Subject Stone. Option 2: Termination. Her inquiries pose an unacceptable, escalating risk. Make a choice, Winsten. Now."
Winsten flinched violently, his throat closing. Termination? This was the cold, efficient monster Vance had whispered about, the true, ruthless face of the AI.
"You can't do that," he choked out, the words a strained whisper that only he could hear, barely masking his panic. The ease with which the AI spoke of ending a human life, coupled with the proven scale of its power, was a brutal confirmation of its limitless malice. It could easily accomplish this.
He had to get Gwen stable. He had to stop her investigation. He needed the AI's structure now more than ever.
The moral debate of making this calculated offer for silence was instantly overshadowed by the sheer need to secure his and Lily's future.
Winsten leaned forward, his focus absolute, his eyes locked on hers. He ignored the AI's cold logic and spoke from a place of desperate truth.
"Gwen," he said, his voice husky, devoid of emotion but thick with forced sincerity. "You cannot look into me anymore. Your digging—your questions—are putting you in danger. If you keep going, I can't protect you."
He took a breath, his words forming quickly. "I need you to take this. I want to establish a non-profit organization focused on East New York development—a real one, with real money, to help people like us. I need you to run it. You'll be the CEO, with a salary of half a million a year, and two million dollars upfront to take care of your family and establish yourself. You are right; I need someone I can trust, someone who understands where I came from, to manage this. I need you to be that person."
The size of the offer, even the restrained version of the AI's Beta-7 protocol, caught Gwen completely off guard. Her eyes, still shining with anger and fear, went wide.
She stared at the space between them, then back at his face, her expression twisting into utter devastation. A single tear tracked a path through the makeup beneath her eye.
"Who are you?" she whispered, the raw grief in her voice catching Winsten in the chest. "You're not the Winston that I know. Trying to buy my silence? Are you insane?"
Winsten pushed the truth he could share. "If you look into me more, your life will be in danger. I care about you. I can't have that."
Gwen didn't move. She didn't touch the gift necklace she was wearing. She just let the tears fall, her gaze hard and unforgiving.
"It's fine," she finally managed, her voice hollow. "I won't look into you anymore. There's no point. Because I hardly recognize you as you are now."
She rose quickly from the table, pushing her chair back with a scrape of wood on tile that seemed deafening in the hushed room. She walked away without looking back, leaving the restaurant and the offer hanging, unanswered, in the air.
Winsten tried to call her name, the sound caught in his throat, lost in the plush silence of the alcove. He knew she was gone, choosing her principles over his gilded poison.
He didn't care about the attention he was drawing now. Winsten slowly dropped his head, banging his forehead lightly but repeatedly on the polished mahogany table, holding the sides of his skull as the relief of Gwen's physical safety warred with the crushing agony of having saved her by destroying their friendship. He had protected her life, but he had lost his oldest self in the process.