Chapter 25
Chapter twenty-five
Antonia
The building hums differently when it’s empty. Quieter. Safer. More honest.
Opengate is closed for the festive break. It doesn’t stop me from using my key on January second. Sitting at home with my laptop doesn’t settle me the way being here does. The silence feels earned.
The sofa bed was Clara’s idea. She found me curled in the old leather chair too many times. Said if I insisted on living here, I may as well do it properly.
The duvet and pillows are hidden at the top of a filing cabinet. Installing the shower was justified because I liked to work out then come straight here, although I haven’t been to the gym in years.
Losing myself in the stacks on my desk is my calm place. Where I feel in control. I doubt it will ever change.
The architect’s drawings for the retreat gardens have been passed. Once the construction staff return to work in the next few days, the accelerator will be pressed down further. With the heavy exterior building work complete, our focus is moving to the interior and aesthetic areas.
All we need now is the additional funding.
If income rebounds in the next few months, I can cover the shortfall myself. If it doesn’t, I may need to go cap in hand or worse, attempt fundraising activities to ensure we open on time. I hate both options.
June is the month I chose.
No strategic reason. Just summer light and the illusion of ease. The weather should be better. We could launch more confidently both inside and outside.
Ben hadn’t been sure. Wanting to wait to confirm an opening month. I don’t work like that. Deadlines are my fuel. They push me to do what needs to be done. Missing by one day isn’t a delay. To me, it’s a failure.
We agreed on June.
Now, when I look at what’s still to be done—the staff to recruit, the money needing to be raised, I wonder if even I was being too optimistic.
The past months have proved Opengate is not immune. Neither am I. I dislike admitting that. That I may not always get the result I want by pushing harder, no matter how determined I am.
Sometimes we need to ride the wave. Survive the dip. And then move forward.
But doing that may mean being flexible. Flexibility requires trust. I’ve never been good at letting go.
I don’t see him in the doorway. He knocks.
“How did you get in here?”
“You have security,” Ben says, walking in with a large white shopping bag in one hand and a red plastic folder in the other. He places both on my desk in front of me, then walks around to my side.
My knees turn a fraction toward him, and my chair rotates. He leans down and places warm lips on my cheek.
“Happy New Year,” he says, then returns to the other side of the desk.
He sits down while I stare at him.
“Happy New Year.” The words are more breath than sound. He smiles, then nods to the items on my desk.
I reach for the bag.
“Folder first,” he says. His sharp blue gaze never leaves my skin. I swallow, slightly unsettled, but half-enjoying the attention.
It’s a cheap plastic folder like the ones I used at school. A worn elasticated fastening secures it closed. It snaps as I open it, the line pinging backward, hitting my hand.
“Could you not afford better supplies?” I mutter.
He chuckles. “My son’s. You’re lucky it’s not covered in glue.”
It’s my turn to snigger, but that stops when I pull out the check.
“It’s sorted.”
I glance up. Ben nods, and my jaw goes slack.
￡1,000,000.
“How did you?”
It’s then that I clock the name on the bottom.
Chase, Chase, and Waite Law. I’ve heard of them.
Two brothers and their best friend, who own a law firm in Canary Wharf.
Expensive suits. Expensive problems. They’re known for their high-profile clients.
Successful for sure. Not men I’d voluntarily align Opengate with.
“What’s the catch?” I continue when he doesn’t answer my question.
“There isn’t one,” he says. “Harrison Waite handed it to me himself. No payback required.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Because I saved his wife.”
My jaw snaps closed. I wasn’t expecting that. I look from the check to Ben and back again.
“I told you before… sometimes people remember.” He says it like it’s obvious. Like that’s the end of the story. “We did it, Antonia. June will happen.”
Relief threatens, but it seems too easy to succumb to it. Nothing is fixed until proven. Until we’re open. “As long as nothing else goes wrong…”
He shakes his head. “We’re allowed to win one, Antonia.”
I’m not sure if I’m peeved or in awe—possibly both.
“I’ll get it banked tomorrow,” I say, sliding the check into my top drawer, then locking it. “Thank you.”
I should feel triumphant; instead, displacement settles in my stomach. Wrong, but there. It should have been me fixing this. I made the call that caused the problem. He approached me for funding. And here he is raising the required money without my input.
“You’re welcome. So, are you going to open that?”
Now, we both look at the bag. Inside, there’s a box with an emblem on the lid, but I can’t make out what it is through the plastic.
“What is it?”
“Open it, and you’ll find out.”
I exhale, unsettled that he’s brought me something I wasn’t expecting, and not sure of the purpose of this visit. The funding could’ve been communicated via email. The check delivered on a working day. I’m lifting the box out of the bag when my computer pings with a new email from my lawyer.
“Longdown’s solicitor escalated the case,” I say, tapping at my keyboard. My attention immediately taken by the screen. “They’re out for blood.”
“What does your lawyer say?” he asks.
“I’m about to find out.”
I open the email. Everything comes into focus a little more.
No actionable evidence of misconduct.
“Good news?” Ben prompts.
“How did you know?”
My eyes slide to his as he cocks his head to one side.
“You actually smiled,” he whispers. “And it looked good on you.”
I laugh. It’s true. Even I felt the edges of my mouth lift. The threat of legal repercussions had been weighing on my mind. Even though I was confident in my decisions, being certain wasn’t something I could afford to be. Especially not how the past few months have progressed.
“It’s a relief,” I say.
He nods. “Now open the bag.”
The box inside is large. I immediately recognize the footwear brand. It’s one of my favorites. I hesitate. Something in the back of my mind is wondering if this could be some sort of joke.
I crack the lid. It sticks, lifting the box with it. It’s heavy in my grip.
Ben sits quietly and just watches.
The piece of tape securing it closed is easily removed with my nail. The top slides off smoothly.
Underneath is black tissue paper, but peeking out from the ruffle is bright pink. I pull the paper back.
A pair of Wellington boots. Identical to my own. In my size.
“CEOs shouldn’t have wet feet on company time.”
“You shouldn’t have…”
“I wanted to.”
He moves to stand, and I rise with him. He leans across my desk, hand outstretched. I take it without thinking. His grip is warm. Solid under my fingertips. It’s familiar.
“We work well together,” he says. “And team players look out for one another, whether it’s about Barbie boots or clinical trials.”
He’s turning away toward the door, but I’m not ready for him to leave. I haven’t even said thank you for the boots. As he reaches the threshold, for once, I act on impulse. For once, I take the leap.
“I don’t normally mix business with personal time,” I say.
He stops, freezing for a beat before turning around.
“But would you join me for dinner?” I ask. “To thank you.”
I gesture to the boots. I haven’t agreed to dinner with a man in years. Never mind invited one.
“I’d like that,” he replies, his voice soft but honest. “Tell me where and when.”
Then he leaves, and all I can do is watch him go. I pick up the boots, then take them over and set them beside the older pair. Both identically made, one with years of wear, but both still perfect in their own way.
It’s dinner, I tell myself. Not a declaration of anything more.
But even then, I know I’m lying to myself.
I do nothing outside the office that I don’t want to do.
And I want this.