Chapter 5
Chapter five
Antonia
The picket line is three deep this morning, people squashed between the metal railing and the wall. Bright signs bounce in the air, each one declaring my company corrupt. My taxi pulls up at the front steps, the driver waiting for my cue to leave.
“Give me a moment, please,” I say. His eyes flick up and catch my own in the rear-view mirror; he nods in understanding. “There’s more of them today,” I add as the sinking feeling in my stomach deepens.
“It was on the news last night,” he tells me. “The wife was interviewed again. No doubt rallied a few supporters of her cause.”
The taxi company’s been sending the same driver to collect me for weeks. I used to get different people most days; it was interesting. They would chat away as we wove through the London streets, telling me stories I didn’t ask to hear, but enjoyed anyway. Not that I ever told them.
“No one else wants this drop,” he says as if he can read my thoughts.
I tell myself not to take the bait, but I can’t help it.
“Why?”
He points outside with his chin, a protester waving a banner back at him. Her eyes filled with hatred, fists tight as if ready to punch—something or someone. A woman I’ve never seen turned red with rage over my world. My baby. The thing I’ve worked so hard to grow and make good.
That stings.
“You’re a liability.” He chuckles, and my hackles rise. “Not many of us would risk our cars in a mob. But a lady needs a chariot…”
“A mob?” I snort, briefly amused. “I’m not sure it’s quite expanded to mob yet, but I understand the sentiment.”
He shrugs. I realize I don’t even know his name, though right now doesn’t seem the time to ask. And I don’t want him to mistake politeness for interest. Our conversation this morning has already surpassed a boundary I’m comfortable with.
“So if I’m the bad apple,” I ask, again against my better judgment, “why are you here?”
He turns in his seat, cap pulled low over his eyes. He’s younger than I imagined, probably early forties, with eyes worth stopping for. I don’t like noticing that.
“Because I prefer to take the most scenic route.” He grins, his tongue darting between his lips. My skin crawls as if covered in ants.
That’s enough.
I end the conversation there, pushing open the door and stepping out into the fray. I’d rather face the wave of phones in my face than a man trying to chat me up because I’m a targeted woman. I feel safer out here than I did in his cab once his intentions were clear.
Eyes on the front door, I walk the path of hate. Women shout threats—karma will get your family—empty and shallow; only a worry when you have someone left to lose.
Men clatter wooden poles off the railings, the sound sharp in my ears. They bang louder the more I ignore them. Just before entering the revolving door, I turn back.
There are new faces in the crowd, but many I recognize. The same tattered signs in their hands, cardboard cutout on kitchen tables.
Opengate must pay.
Medicine for all.
The last one brings me up short.
The message cuts deep.
That’s the point. It was always the point.
Opengate was born from medicine shortages. From standing on the sharp end of them. From knocking on doors I was told wouldn’t open.
They did.
I made them, even if I was on my hands and knees.
I’ve committed twenty years to this cause.
But as I look at the protesters now, I know they don’t see me. All they see is a suit, a glass tower, and someone who said no to a dying man.
***
Clara is at my shoulder as soon as my ass hits the leather seat, long fingers dropping paperwork onto my desk. Invoices, proposals, meeting notes—each one vying for attention or a signature.
“Julian will be here in ten minutes to discuss his proposals,” she says, tongue clicking softly as she straightens the stack.
My long-suffering assistant has been with me since Opengate became something real. Before the boardrooms. Before the press. I met her years ago when she was a receptionist at a pharmaceutical company I camped outside of, refusing to leave until someone listened.
She saw my tenacity.
My refusal to accept no.
So she handed in her notice and came with me.
I don’t ask how many offers she’s turned down since. I don’t need to. Clara is as much a part of Opengate as I am.
And I couldn’t do this without her.
“I can delay him,” Clara says. “If you like.”
The thought is tempting. The last way I want to start the day is debating with Julian over which cause best suits his marketing campaign or where we’ll get the best return.
Our growth, good for my pocket, has diluted the core of the business.
Each day, it slips a little further from what it was meant to be.
And the more men in suits I hire—the ones who’ve lived in boardrooms since leaving university—the further the values drift. Opengate was created for those who couldn’t access what they needed. Now everything feels transactional. Give only if there’s something to gain.
It doesn’t sit right.
“No, Clara. It’s fine. I’ll handle him. But a coffee would be good.”
She blows out through her nose. A sound I’ve learned means she disagrees but won’t argue. Then she turns for the machine. Cups rattle as it hums to life. Clara picks up the silver jug of milk, frothing it expertly. She should have been a barista.
Yes, her macchiato is that insane.
Just then, there’s a knock on the door, and Julian strolls in without waiting for an invite. Dick. Sometimes, most of the time, he forgets who’s in charge. I let it slide because I know I am. He needs me to sign off on whatever contract he’s behind this week, and he knows it. Even if he hates it.
“Morning, Julian,” I say, without looking up as he sits opposite me.
He leans back, his arms pushing above his head, then hands behind it. With elbows pointed outwards, he’d look more suited in a sun lounger than here. I ignore it; he’s pushing for a raise—I won’t give him one. I’ll punch where it hurts instead.
His ego.
Clara places my coffee down, then gives Julian a glass of water. His eyes narrow, she smiles.
“You won’t be here long enough for me to make you one,” she says simply, turning away before he can say a damn thing. I bite my bottom lip. I should probably scold her, but she’s right. He’ll be sent packing in five minutes.
I push the stack of charitable proposals toward him.
“None of these fit Opengate’s core values,” I tell him. His arms shoot to his knees, and he leans forward. His mouth opens to argue, I beat him to it. “I’m not interested in corporate style charity. I want local.”
“These are local schemes—”
“Most of our investment will be spent on admin tasks and director bonuses.” I straighten, my gaze unrelenting. “Opengate was built on individuals. We grew as we saved people, as we gave them more time, one by one. I want a cause like that. One where we can see who we’re helping.”
He sighs, shaking his head. His lips threatening to laugh. He better not. It won’t take much for me to ask Clara to draft his final payroll paperwork.
“Those types of causes don’t have the leverage—”
“Julian,” I snap, my voice cracking for a beat. “This isn’t about leverage. It’s not PR. This is about life. About giving back for what we’ve gained from other people’s losses.” I stab at the profiles, and they scatter.
“This isn’t it. This is optics. We would benefit more than the people who need it.” Air blows through my nostrils. He grimaces. “This isn’t what I want for Opengate. Find me a cause that’s real. One someone is putting their soul into.”
“Antonia… just think—”
“I’ve thought plenty.” My fingertips move to my keyboard. “Find me an alternative.”
And that’s the end of it. He knows better than to challenge me again. This is my company; it always has been. The people who work for me have freedom. I trust them a lot of the time. I recruited the best, but when I say no, I mean it.
Opengate has slipped to a place I don’t like. It was never meant to become this. Somewhere between growth and profit margins, I let other people define what success looks like. It’s time for me to re-stamp myself here in a way that matters.
***
Six o’clock rolls around fast, and my day has produced more questions than answers. A single patient is causing me headaches. Once again, we’re struggling to access the medicine they need, and it’s been passed onto my desk. Even I’m finding doors bolted closed that used to be wide open.
Bad PR doesn’t just stop on social media. Other companies turn inward too. My allies are retreating, and we can’t afford another scandal.
Clara appears again, this time dressed in her coat, ready to leave. It’s then I notice the two glasses of champagne in her hands. She wanders over and places one in front of me.
“Happy birthday,” she whispers, her voice soft almost sad.
I glance at the calendar on my computer. July 1st. Hell, even I forgot. And no one reminded me, not until now, not until the woman I pay to be here passed me a glass of bubbles. How pathetic.
Not one person sent me a message. Not one family member reached out.
It’s not surprising, but it still hurts. Even if there is no one, on most days I’m so surrounded by people, I can pretend that when I return to the silence of my apartment, it’s welcomed.
“Thank you.” I lift the glass, we click them gently together, and we both drink. She doesn’t ask if I have any plans. She knows as well as I do that this is the only celebration I’ll receive. We don’t speak. Beyond Opengate, there’s nothing to talk about, and that’s discussed all day, every day.
Once her glass is empty, she places it on my desk. Her working day is done, and she won’t be clearing it until tomorrow. No one else would get away with it.
“See you tomorrow, Antonia,” she says before walking out of my office door. Until all I hear is the click of her heels on the floor tiles receding to nothing.
I finish the champagne alone.
Forty-three years old.
And the only thing I’ve built that lasts is a company.
And now even that is in jeopardy.