Chapter 3
Chapter three
Antonia
“This needs to be contained,” Edwin mutters over the boardroom table. His eyes land on me. My chest heaves, furious that all responsibility is being placed at my feet.
“And how do you suggest containing a wife’s grief?” I ask. He flinches, the way he does when I pose an awkward question. When he realizes he’s been outmaneuvered—again. “Send her a donation? Maybe a Caribbean cruise?”
The rest of the board shuffle in their seats. Four men in designer suits squirm like toddlers with filled diapers. Edwin, our finance director, purses his lips. He’s doubling down for battle, a war he can’t win.
“I’m open to suggestions,” I say.
The boardroom walls echo with silence. No one has a credible suggestion on how to handle the headline lying on the glass table between us.
Opengate Chooses Who Lives
Four simple words that could dismantle the company I’ve built up from the ground.
They chose another. My husband wasn’t considered important enough to save.
Grief bleeds through the article. A wife losing her husband because we couldn’t supply what was promised. Time ran out. Two patients needed the life-saving treatment before neurological damage could progress. We had to choose one to save.
“There was only one dose,” Harold, our Director of Supply, adds. “The situation was unfortunate.”
“Unfortunate?” I repeat. Fury rises, the way it does when our patients are reduced to numbers. “I think unfortunate is an understatement. It’s brutal.”
No one argues. There’s no winning this conversation. They know it. This is the part of my world I despise, the part I can’t control. When medicine stocks fail, red tape blocks the road, and someone dies because of it.
Ultimately, what makes this time worse is that it was me who chose who lived and who died. My own decision. Now, the victim’s family has gone to the press.
“You made the decision based on the evidence at hand,” Harold reminds me.
His team did what they could. I know they did.
Phoning every supplier, every trial program, every damn pharmaceutical company on our books.
There was only one available dose. It was then that I called the physicians.
The doctors asking me to pull strings and find what they couldn’t.
Both had secured the ridiculous funding to purchase, but only one was going to be allowed to follow through.
I asked for updates on each patient’s case. I consulted with our medical director, and we made the call. One patient’s health situation was further progressed than the other; one had a better chance of survival.
We gave them the drug.
And that made the bell toll on the other, and he died five days later, his family knowing the choice was ours.
“We need to respond,” I say. “Take accountability.”
“There’s nothing for us to be accountable for,” Edwin hisses, voice rising as I assume he imagines our stocks falling. “Antonia…”
I silence him with a look.
“Perhaps not legally,” I say, “but morally.”
My gaze roams over each man playing with their papers or fidgeting with their tie. Avoiding eye contact at all costs.
“Don’t worry, I’ll do it.”
My heel catches the edge of a tile as I roll my chair backward. I’ve had enough. I need to get back to work. Julian, our head of communications, clears his throat. I pause, my eyes snapping upward where he stares straight back.
“We need to consider the optics,” he says.
“Optics?” I swallow what I want to say, the argument burning my tongue.
“Yes, Antonia.” His shoulders straighten. “You can be outraged, but we still have two hundred people relying on us for a paycheck. Opengate needs to improve its image, be seen to be giving back.”
Resigned to the fact that this is something I need to hear, I sit back down. “I’m listening.”
The room exhales, the other men relaxing and the tension easing in seconds.
“Our profits are substantial,” he begins. “And public. Which is good for us, but vulnerable when the wrong narrative takes hold.”
“True,” Edwin says. “On one hand, we’re claiming we can’t get hold of the product, on the other, we’re declaring seven figures.”
“Exactly. This isn’t about what happened. It’s about what people believe happened.” Julian shuffles a stack of documents, then slides them over to me. I pick up the first one—a charitable organization looking for sponsors. “A few options.”
“Options of what?” I ask, confused, still focused on losing our patient. It’s not until I read the next profile that I see where he’s going with this. Each one is a pitch for funding for a new service or project, something that could benefit someone who is suffering locally, here in London.
“So your suggestion is we smooth over tragedy with philanthropy?” I don’t look up, focused on reading each pitch. “We use smoke and mirrors to redirect attention.”
“You could say that, or it’s giving back to the community after a successful few years.” He stands. He knows I won’t make a decision today. “Think it over. I’ll come see you Monday.”
“Sure…”
Chairs scuff across the tiles, and leather soles click as the doors open, the board taking their opportunity to disperse.
When I look up, I’m alone.
Just me and the paperwork—five charities needing help, five opportunities to do good.
And here I am again, left on my own to make the decision of who matters more.
***
The kettle clicks, signaling another cup of tea is on the cards. I place my laptop onto the coffee table and uncurl my legs from the sofa. Another mug will help straighten my thoughts. I’ll find the right words for this press release then.
The spoon clinks off the rim of the mug as the teabag swims in boiling water.
English breakfast, my favorite. I don’t care that it’s ten o’clock at night.
My eyes flick to the second hand on my kitchen clock ― ten more seconds to the perfect brew.
I’ve trusted that clock with my tea timing since I moved in here twenty years ago.
It looks the same, just faded. A bit like the rest of the place.
Our business requires difficult decisions. Supplies of specific medicines are often limited, requiring a determination of which patient receives treatment.
All Opengate policies were followed. Medical advice was taken.
On this occasion, Mr. Peterson did not meet the required criteria. Our deepest condolences to the Peterson family. Loss is always hard to bear. Our thoughts are with them at this time.
I revisit what I typed in my head.
That sucks.
Like really sucks.
I need to do better.
The line between regulation and emotion can appear thin, but in reality, it’s rigid. I made the correct decision based on the evidence. I know I did. But when the press gets involved, emotion overrides truth. No one wants context. They want someone to blame.
And the illness killing the patient is rarely a satisfying target.
This isn’t the first time Opengate’s distribution has been challenged.
We’ve been questioned before—when supply chains failed, when one patient was chosen over another—but never has it reached the national press.
Never have I experienced the open hostility I did today.
A picket line outside my office. Signs with slashes through my company name.
Opengate must explain.
All decisions must be overseen by the regulator.
Life for all.
I understand the anger behind the words. All of us want to believe that everyone will have the opportunity to survive. That if death comes knocking, there are always options waiting in the wings. But in real life, that’s not always the case.
Supply chains run short, treatment programs close, and sometimes, patients just don’t tick the boxes.
In a world where spreadsheets rule, emotions lose more than they win.
Over the years, I’ve cut red tape, camped outside executives’ offices, negotiated access to drug trials for patients who were told no. I don’t always win—even when the risk hits too close to home.
Tea in hand, I sink back on the sofa but don’t pick up my laptop. Instead, I turn my focus to the charitable cause profiles Julian presented me with earlier. Five opportunities to soften public opinion.
I don’t like any of them.
Every single one is corporate. Vast organizations run from glass towers by people far removed from the ground-level impact they promise. Sure, the services would do good in the local community, but I know how much funding would disappear into administration before it ever reached the patient.
If Opengate is going to give back, it needs to mean something.
Something smaller.
Something real.
Something where I can see exactly where the money goes.
Julian will need to do better.