Chapter 30
Chapter thirty
Antonia
The high buildings of the city disappear, and eventually I’m in open countryside. But every mile I get closer to the retreat, the tighter my stomach twists. I don’t feel as if I’m just walking into professional upset today. I’m walking into personal upset as well.
When I told Ben I don’t mix business with pleasure, it was the truth.
I never have—until now. Until he walked into my life with his calm demeanor and captivating stance.
And when I couldn’t look away anymore, I landed myself here, exactly where I said I would never be.
Kissing a man I share a boardroom with. One I’m terrified to get to know but don’t want to stay away from.
As I approach, the familiar black iron gates are already swung open, tall and imposing.
I roll down my car window, protester’s chants already claiming the air. Not that I can see them yet, but they’re waiting. Ready to let me know how they feel.
That’ll be Julian.
He’s invited them in again. The press. And with them come the others. Like he does it every time we have a site visit with notable board members.
This time, there was an email in my inbox confirming their attendance.
I replied with a simple ‘Okay’. After the last time, when I never knew they’d be here, we had a conversation.
Well, less of a conversation, more he was given a warning.
Blindside me again, exploit my vulnerability, and lose your job.
My staff have freedom, not free rein, and that day Julian needed reminding.
It’s good to keep the conversation open, keep the press involved, let people see we’re doing good. Supposedly. I can see both sides, but I don’t appreciate being blinkered.
My Jeep crawls up the driveway, bumping over the stones. It needs to be resurfaced—soon.
The mob is bigger this time. They swarm around the retreat. Signs raised, voices loud. My palms sweat on the steering wheel.
The exterior of the building is almost complete now. The interior’s nearly there too. We’re getting closer to the end.
Mud and mess still spread in all directions, construction materials scattered between. There are gardens under there, somewhere. We’ve just not found them yet.
The banners bounce high above the crowd. The statements are ruder. The catcalls nastier. The result of another online article no doubt. They land in my inbox every day, someone thinking I should see them. Links to podcasts they think I should listen to.
I don’t.
I don’t need to hear what they’re saying.
They all say the same thing.
We choose who lives and who dies.
That I choose who lives and who dies.
It just isn’t true.
But any time I defend myself, it falls on deaf ears. It’s easier to keep my mouth shut, no matter what Julian says. Silence can be more powerful, especially when you’re the one in the firing line.
As I pull to a stop in front of the main building, the jeers get louder. I roll my window back up, taking a few moments to contain myself before stepping out into the melee.
Someone bangs on my hood, and I jump, like a gunshot’s gone off beside me. No matter how many times I face this crowd, it doesn’t get easier. I used to find it easy to walk into hatred. It was a buzz, a challenge to beat. But now I’m tired.
It feels like everyone blames me. There are only so many times you can straighten your shoulders alone.
Finally, I unlock the car doors.
I locked them on impulse as I drove through the front gates, seeing the mob waiting for me. They’re always waiting for me. Sure, they’ll shout at the men too, but I’m the easier target. Or they think I am.
I’m the face attached to all the articles.
As I step out, my pink wellies catch my eye. They lift my heart just a fraction. Nonsense among the gray.
I round the front of the car.
Something hits my back.
A stone, maybe.
I don’t turn around.
When I look up, Ben is walking toward me, chin high, eyes fixed on mine. Professional, as always. He reaches me in three long strides, takes my elbow, and steers me across the farmyard toward the main building.
“Ignore them,” he says quietly. “Eyes front. Walk with me.”
I pull my elbow from his grip.
“I don’t need protecting,” I mutter. “We’re partners in this.”
A voice calls from behind us. “Is he your business partner or your dinner date?”
I hesitate mid-step. Ben’s hand presses briefly at the base of my back. “Keep walking,” he says.
And we do. We walk into the farmhouse together.
Inside, Ben steps in behind me and closes the door, sliding the bolt across the top.
It’s just the two of us in the site office. We got rid of the portacabin about three weeks ago, once the main house became watertight and we finally had electricity.
He sighs. “It’s getting worse. Julian needs to get this under control. There’s no way they should be here at every single site visit. We can barely speak before someone shouts at us.”
“How did they know?” I whisper.
He looks up. My breath catches as soon as his gaze lands. “Know what?”
“About last night.”
He swallows and shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe someone saw us. Maybe they’re guessing. Does it really matter?”
I hold his gaze. Today is so different from the night before. The business world has reappeared, the space between us wider.
But I still remember how easily that space disappeared.
I shouldn’t still feel it. But I do. The warmth of his hand on my back. The anticipation of what's next as he leaned in.
Something’s shifted, even if we’re pretending it hasn’t with the chaos on the other side of the door.
“How can you even ask that? Of course it matters. This is my professional life. This is my career. This is who I am.”
My voice sharpens. “I don’t want a reputation for sleeping with the people I work with. Never mind sleeping with a man I’m funding.”
His face darkens, but he can’t argue. The retreat, after all, was his ambition. He needed me for it to take off. And here we are, one day after a line was crossed, and there are already whispers that we’re romantically involved.
I’m not sure I can cope with that.
I’ve always prided myself on my professionalism. On who I am. The CEO. The woman at the top of the company. In control.
And here I am, stepping out with a man I’m giving money to so he can build a retreat in honor of his dead wife.
Even thinking that sounds insane. Saying it out loud would be worse.
“Antonia,” Ben says quietly. There’s no missing the apprehension in his eyes. “Are you okay?”
“Yes.” I don’t look at him. I can’t, or I may crumble and ask him to hold me. His chest offers warmth I can’t afford to sink into. So I just move to the desk and open my laptop.
This was meant to be a philanthropic mission. This was meant to be about doing something good. And every step seems to make it harder.
I’m not sure ‘okay’ is even in my vocabulary anymore.
All I’ve ever wanted to do is give people somewhere to rest when they’ve been given the most gut-wrenching diagnosis of their lives. Provide a space for families to grieve in safety. Be a rock in choppy waters. But all that seems to happen is more hatred getting piled on top.
Every negative result I’ve ever had is being shouted for all to hear. The thousands of positive ones, the patients I’ve helped, fade into the chaos. Leaving only the tortured souls behind. The ones I couldn’t save.
Ben glances out of the window, and my gaze follows his.
The signs continue to bob up and down, furious faces a sea beneath.
Opengate kills.
Cole chooses whether you live or die.
His eyes come back to me, heavy with something I can’t quite name. My walls threaten to drop, needing his comfort as much as I hope he needs mine. But I stay where I am; needing people only gets you hurt.
“I don’t know how they knew about us, Antonia,” he says. “Even if there is an us. It was one meal. One date. One kiss.” He pauses. “But I liked it.”
My feet threaten to push me upward; I will them to stay put. Ben beats me to it. He steps forward, then leans down, his lips touching my forehead. My eyes close, enjoying the proximity. His fingers trail across the back of my hand.
“I really liked it,” he whispers.
My body turns toward him, chin tilting upward. We’re left staring, millimeters apart. His breath hits my lips, my mouth reaching for his. Every nerve on fire. We almost connect, and the door handle rattles.
Someone tries to push it open, but the bolt holds. More cheers erupt outside. Ben chuckles, his forehead dropping to mine.
“Kiss me,” I say, needily. “Before they all appear.”
His smile widens, and he drops one on my nose. Sweet. Chaste. A promise for later. Then he strolls over, unhurried, and unlocks the door.
It flies open, and Julian storms in, cheeks red, chest puffed.
“What are you doing locking the door?” he snaps. “It’s crazy out there.”
“And whose fault is that?” Ben shoots back.
I try not to laugh. Somewhere in this ridiculous day, where people hate me, the man I kissed last night stands across the room, and the man who invites the press is shouting about protesters—everything collides.
And all I can do is laugh.
Because if I didn’t laugh…
I’d cry.
Julian bristles. No one likes being called out for their part in this nonsense. He wanted PR, and he got it. You don’t get to choose when it leaves.
“Who are we expecting today?” I ask him.
He looks at me as if I’ve just asked the time of day.
“I sent it in the email.”
“I didn’t read it.”
“The entire board,” he replies. His face looks like I slapped him. “It’s an updated site meeting. They want to see everything we’ve achieved in the past few weeks. I’ve told them the buildings are now watertight. We’re on schedule for a June opening.”
“We are,” Ben says. “We’re on schedule.” He glances at me before continuing. I hope the heat in my face doesn’t show. “But it would be nice to know what’s expected of us today. I don’t want to be thrown into an impromptu press conference again.”