Chapter 16
Chapter sixteen
Antonia
The glass doors slam closed behind us, and our security locks the deadbolt. People scramble for towels; another egg hits the glass. Egg drips from my collar onto the floor.
“Are you alright?” Ben says.
He’s standing in front of me, chest wide, shielding my hot cheeks from the surrounding spectators. The shelter is welcome.
“I’m fine,” I mutter. “I just need a few minutes to clean up. We have a site visit.”
Something soft dabs at my eye again. His strong fingers carefully wipe away the mud. I step back out of his reach. My hands shake, curling into fists. I can hear my own breathing. I don’t like it.
All eyes are on us. My staff watch every move we make. Ben seems oblivious, more concerned with the muck on my face. But I sense the judgment; his kindness seen as much more than it is.
We need to move on from the chaos outside.
“I’m fine,” I repeat. He ignores me and continues cleaning me up.
My focus moves to the crowd outside, jeering. The front row bursts into applause, all of them grinning ear to ear. Their signs move at double speed, heels bouncing off the pavement. Every bloody one of them loves my humiliation. I half expect a scoreboard to appear announcing one-nil.
“This is exactly why we need media management,” Julian booms over the reception. I look up, causing Ben to glance over his shoulder as Julian storms across the open space. The cars must have turned back when they heard we never left. Ben takes a step to his right, blocking his path.
“Antonia,” Julian says. “This needs to be controlled.”
“What needs controlling is your tone,” Ben injects smoothly, making Julian’s eyes bug. I swallow my tongue. He’s doing it again. Protecting me when I don’t need it. Like he did moments ago, stepping between me and the projectile eggs. But I don’t stop him.
No one has ever stepped in front of the impact before. I’m not used to someone else taking the hit. It’s as unsettling as it is comforting. I don’t ask people to protect me, and someone doing it off their own back makes me feel indebted.
“Outrageous,” Ben declares as Julian storms off. “Who does he think he is?” He turns back and holds my gaze. “Talk to me.”
“We have a site to visit.”
“The site will still be there in an hour.” He stuffs the handkerchief in his pocket. “You need to take a breath.”
He steps up beside me, his hand landing firmly on the small of my back. The skin beneath my coat heats.
Just then, Clara rushes into the reception area, and the other men follow at a snail’s pace behind.
“Antonia,” she shrieks, bordering on hysterical. “Someone said you’d been shot.” She grabs my shoulders, her eyes running over my face as if looking for a bullet hole. The rumor moved faster than the egg. For a second, I consider how easily panic spreads.
“Not unless chickens have started laying bullets, I’m afraid.” I try to smile. Partly to comfort her, the other part to show appreciation for her concern.
Her face twists, no doubt picking up the stench of raw egg. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.” She glances at Ben. “Did they get you, too?”
“Just my coat,” he says, expression still.
“It’s over there.” He signals to a black lump by the door, thrown as far from us as possible.
I’m not sure when he took it off. I was too wrapped up in my own victimhood to notice.
“I’ll wait for you both in the boardroom. Take your time. We can leave whenever.”
With that, he walks away as relaxed as when he arrived this morning. Egg coating the back of his head. He was hit as well, and his white lie is comforting. The space he leaves feels colder than it should.
Clara walks at my shoulder to my office, not a step behind as the others do. Well, everyone except Julian; he’s always pacing ahead.
“I’ll sort your shower,” she mutters.
“No, I’m fine.”
“Antonia—,”
“Clara, please. I need a few minutes to myself.” We reach my office door. I stop and turn to face her, then reach over and squeeze her hands. “Thank you for your concern.”
She nods, accepting I need space, then goes to sit at her desk. I push open my door, closing it firmly behind me.
I stand, staring at my desk, head resting against the wood of the door. My breathing has almost returned to normal, but there’s no hiding from the tension in my hands.
I shrug out of my coat, discarding it on the floor at my feet, then make my way to the bathroom. Today, I’m relieved I have a shower in here.
Thirty minutes later, I’m striding into the boardroom as if earlier didn’t happen. I concentrate on placing one foot in front of the other with steadiness I don’t feel. That egg could have been a bullet. I can’t stop thinking about it.
And Ben moved in front of me without a second thought.
When we’d left the offices earlier, I’d expected to be hurried into the cars, the way I’ve been every day since the protests began. As pressure has increased, we’ve hidden behind strengthened glass. Protecting ourselves from the insults.
But Ben, he’d walked out, head held high. He looked the crowd in the eye and asked them what we’d done wrong. His previous patient’s wife wanted to know why he’d taken our side. He’d deflected by praising my company. By pointing out the truth that the real criminal in all this is cancer itself.
It knocked the air from me as I watched, slightly awestruck that he had the confidence to stand tall.
Then the chaos came. Mud thrown. Eggs cracked.
It doesn’t change what he did or how he approached it with an empathy none of us had mustered in months. I’m not sure where to put that.
Julian has already fanned paperwork over the table. Ben sits quietly, scrolling on his phone. The other men talk, but he doesn’t even look as if he’s listening.
When I’m a few paces away, Ben looks up and smiles. He places his phone on the surface, face down. I move to sit next to him, then Clara scurries in. The rest continue to speak as if we haven’t even arrived.
“Perhaps this is an opportunity,” Julian says as his onlookers' jaws slacken, almost entranced. “We can spin this. Create a sympathy angle.” His eyes snap up to mine. “Oh, Antonia, I didn’t see you there.”
Ben stiffens in his chair. I reach over and touch his arm on instinct, then retract mine immediately. His eyes slide to me, he nods once, then returns his attention to Julian.
“As arrogant as always, Julian,” Clara mutters. There are snickers around the table. “Shall we begin now the boss is here?”
Julian clears his throat, stands, then begins passing papers to each of us. I glance at one. I’ve seen it before. More negative press. This is nothing new.
“This,” he says, “is all the negative PR I’ve been able to find surrounding Opengate in the past month. Posts, blogs, podcasts, and chat threads.”
“They say all PR is good PR,” Harold muses. There are mutters of agreement.
“Not when you’re accused of choosing who lives or dies,” Julian retorts, eyes narrowed. “Any change to our share prices, Edwin?”
It’s my turn to glare. Julian knows I’m fully aware of our declining market value. Shareholders get edgy, but I also know it will pass. This isn’t my first dance with bad press, just the most relentless.
“Trending downward,” Edwin mumbles, his pen twirling between unsteady fingers.
“First of all,” I begin. “My business has never been built on sympathy. We correct systems. Open supply chains when doors close.”
“I understand that.” Julian exhales, cheeks puffed, then flattened.
“The industry we’re in is highly emotional.
With the social media platforms as they are, and thousands of influencers and reporters in our field vying for attention, it was inevitable that complications would crop up.
” I look at each man individually as I speak.
Usually, when I manage a crisis with words, there’s a visible lift in mood. Not today.
“Antonia,” Julian says. “Today, you were targeted. That is something we can use. I think we need to report this to the authorities. It’s time to drop the facade of being made of steel and act like a woman who’s been under fire.”
Facade. As if my strength is an act. As if he doesn’t believe this is who I am. I’ve spent years toughening to this version of myself. My gender has nothing to do with it. Loss makes you resilient. Time doesn’t fix you. It makes you harder.
“My being a woman has nothing to do with it.”
“No, but you’ll look prettier on camera.”
The comment lands exactly as it’s meant to. I stiffen, but let it sit. I won’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction.
Every man of the board chuckles. One louder than the others. Clara snorts, unimpressed. Ben doesn’t move.
“With all due respect,” Ben says. All eyes turn to him. “I find mockery a less than favorable way to get what you want.”
Julian stills. All eyes turn to Ben. He looks completely at ease, unflustered by the conversation that has been rising an octave with each sentence. Inside, my guts are twisting, and I’m trying to unknot them to stay sane.
“She needs to listen,” Julian snaps. He always struggles with confrontation, especially when the other party is calm. He’s lucky he tends to be good at his job.
“She is your boss.”
The room goes quiet. The men who laughed moments ago suddenly find their fingers fascinating. I don’t need to be reminded of my position. But I don’t resent him saying it.
“And the person at the head of this company,” he adds.
That hits. Hard. A single statement reinforcing my position. A battle I’m not fighting on my own. It’s alien, but a relief. My eyes flick to Ben; he doesn’t look at me. His focus is solely on the man in front of him, the one he’s dismantling a single word at a time.
“There will already be footage,” Julian says, changing tact.
“It’s online,” Clara adds. She winces as we make eye contact. “The video—with the egg.”
I nod.
“We need to get this under control.” Julian leans forward, hands clasped. “We need to spin the narrative. Deflect to the good we’re doing.”
“What exactly are you asking of me?” I ask. Not beaten, but now he’s mellowed, willing to listen.
“You on camera. Talking about the good we’re doing.” Julian exhales. “The retreat. What it means to the patients. What it means to you.”
I freeze. My personal life stays personal. I’ve never used Mikey as a marketing strategy, and I won’t start now.
Clara steps in. “Julian.” She chuckles. “Do you really believe Antonia could be the warm face of Opengate? Have you seen her speak on camera?”
My head snaps to the side, and Clara shrugs.
“That interview you did way back when… the one for the business open day. It was awful. You sounded like a robot.”
It’s true. She’s right. Back when it was just the two of us fighting in our own little corner, I’d tried public PR. I think the reporter’s summary was cold and methodical. It didn’t help.
“Well, if not Antonia, who?” Julian mutters, exasperated. “I was told the Jones family is off limits.”
Silence. None of my team volunteers. Multiple men who line their pockets from our company earnings year after year and not one steps forward.
I open my mouth to argue again. Ben’s palm covers my knuckles, stopping me instantly. Something tightens in my lower stomach with the contact.
“If you need someone to speak publicly,” he says evenly. “I’ll consider it.”
He’s stepping into the fire again. I almost react. Almost. Then his grip tightens on my fingers.
And I don’t know whether to stop him from doing this.