Chapter 8
Chapter eight
Antonia
“This is our redemption story,” Julian shouts, punching the air in the middle of the full boardroom.
“I haven’t said yes,” I remind him.
My skin crawls. This is how he views the opportunity, as a lion stalking its prey.
“Oncologist widower strives to create cancer patient retreat in late wife’s name. Opengate provides funds to ensure he succeeds.” He grins. The way a banker does when the stock market crashes. “The widower’s legacy supported by Opengate.”
“Julian, I haven’t approved—” I don’t even get to finish the sentence.
“This could be a documentary. We could follow the family. I can see it now.” Every man in the room grows an inch taller, lost in Julian’s worldview. All he sees is good PR and profit. “You did well, Toni.”
“Excuse me.” My words could smash glass. Not loud, sharp like an icepick.
The boardroom holds its breath. Julian’s face drops, knowing he’s overstepped. No one calls me Toni, no one. Ever. They know I hate it. Nicknames in the workplace don’t sit well with me. And I’ve never had one.
“I’m sorry, the excitement…” he bumbles, then scrapes together random paperwork. His pretending fools no one. He’s panicked. “I’ll get to work.”
He pauses before he leaves. Briefly, I consider telling him to clear his desk, but I’m annoyed, not stupid, and Julian is good at his job. Albeit a bull in a china shop in execution.
“Dismissed,” I mutter.
They all scramble. The atmosphere plummeted the minute Julian opened his mouth. Only Clara remains behind. She looks as if she’s waiting in the reception of a spa, filing her nails, oblivious to what went on.
Once the boardroom door is closed, she comes to sit beside me, plopping herself down on the neighboring chair, leaning forward so we’re eye level. I push my chair back a little, out of the heat of her breath.
“You’ve not said yes—yet,” she says. I glance over. “That man excited you.”
“Not the man, the idea,” I correct her. Only half-convinced myself. I didn’t like the fact I found Ben engaging. But I can’t deny that I did. I’ve thought of him often since we met.
“Tomato, tomahto.” Her shoulders bounce. “But I still hate Julian. He’s a—”
“Liability.”
We both laugh. The professional screen drops for a moment.
More like friends sharing a joke. It’s a feeling I haven’t had for a long time.
Since before Opengate. Since life was more than deadlines, breaking down doors, and spreadsheets.
I miss it. But I’m terrified to find it.
Because if I found a friend again, they’re always there to be lost.
Clara squeezes my shoulder, then rises, skipping off to complete a list of tasks she wants done before the end of the day. I watch her go, comforted by the fact that she’s here and on my side.
I trust my staff, most of the time, to do the jobs I hired them for. Julian was poached from a competitor; he’d driven the business upward in a matter of months. After meeting him at a medical awards dinner, I knew I needed him on my team.
But I don’t always agree with his strategy.
Especially on this.
He wants full naming rights. He wants full access to Ben’s personal story. He wants access to his son, his late wife’s child. He wants to exploit this family for our own gain. Make them the figureheads of Opengate.
I said no. We don’t fund grief. And I don’t want to inflict that attention on anyone. Especially not the man I met yesterday, the one who made me pause.
He pointed out that I grew a company from it. Grief is what drives our profit margins. He said it like an accusation. That stung because he wasn’t wrong.
When I pushed back that it wasn’t about the family, it’s about the people who need us now, he challenged me again: all ideas start somewhere, and most are from something personal. Humans need inspiration to build something, and that’s Ben’s purpose. She is. His soul mate’s passing.
But I’m not one hundred percent sure that’s the case.
I believe Bex’s death is a driving force behind the retreat, but I don’t think it’s the sole reason.
When he spoke, he spoke as an oncologist. He didn’t blink when he said we lose some.
He accepted every limit. Didn’t overpromise what they could offer.
Every statement was pinned with the truth of what he sees every day. Reality at the core of the pitch.
Cancer fractures families.
Mothers and fathers miss moments in their children’s life.
They're so busy surviving, they don’t live.
The purpose of the retreat is to gift back a little time.
Time for families to come together without the stresses of everyday life.
Where the medications are taken care of, the facilities are inclusive, and they can just be together.
It’s about when the treatment pathway comes to an end, and all that’s left is time to salvage.
It's an idea I can get on board with. One I can believe in. I’ve spoken to enough clients suffering from cancer to know that time is the greatest gift they can receive. It’s what Opengate does.
***
My apartment is quiet when I get home. It always is. It’s rare to even see a neighbor. No one has knocked on my door to introduce themselves in the last twenty years. Most of them probably don’t even live here anymore.
I’m not invited to the community parties.
They don’t ask for my help at events.
I pay my annual dues, any ongoing maintenance, and they leave me alone. I like it that way. When I come home, I want to close my door to the world and just be me.
As I step inside, I kick off my red heels.
They land next to the black ones from yesterday, which I haven’t put away yet.
I’m careful not to wear the same outfit two days in a row.
It’s important to be in control enough that you manage a wardrobe, especially as a woman.
People notice your attire; they notice if you haven’t straightened your hair.
I don’t give anyone an inch of doubt about who I am and who’s in charge of my destiny. It’s me.
Opening my refrigerator, I find the plastic tubs stacked perfectly. Each meal is labeled with warming instructions and nutritional values. They were delivered today. Not caring, I pick up the first one, rip off the lid and place it in the microwave. It pings five minutes later.
I don’t bother with a plate, just a fork, and eat the pesto pasta standing at my counter. After, it’s thrown in the trash and forgotten about until my cleaner arrives tomorrow.
Never being here, the apartment sits pristine most of the time. I don’t hoard knick-knacks; there isn’t a photo in sight. There’s nothing here that could be broken. It’s slick, easy, and a place to crash. My solace is found at the office. This is where I sleep.
After changing into my flannel pajamas, I grab my laptop and a glass of wine, then retreat to the sofa. Reopening my email, I find Julian’s proposal at the top of my inbox―his PR strategy for moving forward with Ben’s retreat.
It reads as I suspected it would, all bells and whistles. Invasive to the family at the center of this personal space. He doesn’t just want a tagline to promote. Something to mention when an enemy rears their head and says we’re bad. He wants a spectacle. A show.
Ben asked for only what he needed to open the doors. All we need is a good story to improve our reputation. I won’t suck blood from someone just because the opportunity is there. Just because they need our money.
I consider the email again. Then change direction and lift my phone. Ben answers immediately.
“Good evening, Dr. Jones speaking.”
He sounds the same as he did in my office: controlled, professional, and at ease with who he is. I wonder if he’s twisting his ring.
“Good evening, Ben, it’s Antonia Cole. I’d like to see this site.”
There’s a hiss like water spilling over the edge of a pot, then a clatter of metal. He clears his throat. “Good,” he says quietly. “I didn’t think you were done with it.”
Our conversation is cordial. Short. To the point.
Once done, I reply to Julian.
No press involvement at this stage.
Draft an alternative structure.
And I hit send. I don’t wait for a reply. I close my laptop.
This isn’t about optics. It’s about who controls my company. And that’s me.