Chapter 9
Chapter nine
Ben
I don’t know if she recognized me. But I remembered her, standing by the small gravestone. A soft toy at its base. Not once. But multiple times. Wrapped in a winter coat, red hair pulled high on her head.
That made Antonia Cole immediately different from what I expected.
I was preparing myself for a ruthless CEO, someone who would always be looking out for themselves. A woman who’d built an empire on the back of other people’s desperation.
When I walked in and found the woman I’d witnessed privately grieving, I saw someone who knew what a hospital corridor felt like when the last option had been crossed off the list.
I’d never ask her about it. Loss doesn’t need explaining, but her presence in that graveyard told me enough.
My desk phone rings. I let it, just for a few seconds. I’ve been dreading this call. Once the third ring ends, I lift the receiver.
“Mr. Collins is here to see you, Doctor,” my assistant, Olivia, says, her tone level, always professional. No hint that she knows what conversation I’m about to have.
“Send him in.”
Olivia pushes open my office door, and the man I’ve been expecting strides past her. Mid-fifties, Armani suit, he throws a wad of cash on my desk. Olivia softly closes the door.
“Is that enough?” he barks, not with fury but pain.
I push the money back across the table, and he sits down. “It’s not about money,” I say. “It’s access. The program is closed. They won’t release another sample.”
“You said this was our last chance.”
My tongue lashes behind my teeth. I take a breath. Terrified people hear what they want to, not always the truth.
“I said there was a potential treatment program, but it was a trial drug. I applied as required. Unfortunately, your wife’s case didn’t meet the criteria.”
He sagged, the fight that burst from every pore on his arrival evaporating. Devlin Collins is used to money paving a path wherever he wants to go. On this occasion, it hasn’t worked. He’s a man lost when his power fades.
“I’m going to lose my wife,” he says, voice breaking. “Do you understand?”
More than you could even imagine.
I want to launch into a speech about how I’ve sat where he is.
How I’ve had that same conversation with a consultant when I was losing Bex.
How over four years later, I’m still furious that medicine couldn’t save her.
Instead, I close the file on my desk, lean forward, and clear my throat softly.
His eyes, now filled with tears, rise to mine.
He sniffs back a sob, a feeble attempt to stop the pain flowing.
You can’t dam a river of devastation; it needs somewhere to run.
“Mr. Collins, you and Anna have my deepest sympathies. But we’ve exhausted every avenue; now our priority must be her quality of life. We need to keep her as comfortable as possible over the coming weeks.”
“And there’s nothing you can do? No other options.”
“Not that I’m aware of,” I say, then against my better judgment, “I’ll review the latest data again.”
He brightens immediately, and I instantly regret giving him false hope. It’s out of character, my widowed persona pushing the doctor aside.
“Thank you,” he says. “Whatever it takes. Whatever its costs. Please save my wife.”
Without waiting for me to respond, he stands and collects the money from my desk. He turns for the door and is gone within seconds. No doubt, rushing back to his wife’s bedside to share a sliver of hope.
I turn back to my screen and reopen the document on the new drug. It’s a trial, specifically for patients with a terminal diagnosis with metastasized cancer. The aim is lifespan not cure, but for patients close to death, time is the greatest currency.
Unlicensed. Locked behind regulations, only a few patients have been approved. My application for Mrs. Collins was denied. When I asked for specifics, they gave me a generic runaround response: other candidates were a better fit because one blood level wasn’t optimal.
Right now, any hope is better than none for the Collins family. And one statistic standing in the way of potentially months of life is barbaric. When the issue isn’t treatment being possible, it’s that access is denied.
Every time a drug request is in process or pending, my exasperation with my job rises a notch. We lose patients; that isn’t my issue. Not everyone can be saved from a terminal diagnosis. But when someone’s time is cut short by red tape, it cheapens what I do.
I lift my phone and call the Contract Research Company in charge of the clinical trial. No harm in trying again.
“Pinnacle Research,” the receptionist answers. “How may I help you?”
“Hello, Cassidy,” I say.
We’ve spoken about patients many times. She’s always been good at diverting me to the relevant trial manager. Pinnacle isn’t the biggest CRO, but they’re effective. I’ve never hit a stumbling block with them before. The rejection was a shock.
“Morning, Dr. Jones. Who are you looking to speak to?”
“The manager, Dr. Gordon, on the Lunavax trial.” She pauses, unlike her usual always-happy-to-help manner.
“Dr. Gordon isn’t taking calls,” she says softly. “Lunavax is now closed.”
“Closed as in to my patient or closed to all?” The question comes out sharper than intended. There’s a squeak of metal on the other end of the line as if she’s pushed her chair backward.
“Now, Dr. Jones, if you’ve received a rejection with regard to a clinical trial from Pinnacle…
” I recognize the switch from friendly to scripted.
I’ve joined the line to be handled and dismissed.
“Your patient perhaps did not meet our criteria as well as others. Funding is limited, as you know. Treatment cannot be guaranteed.”
“I understand that, but—”
She cuts me off. “I’m sorry, Doctor, please put any further information requests in writing. Goodbye.”
There’s a click of her replacing her own handset, then my own goes dead. Deep down, I know I’ve exhausted all avenues. All the normal ones anyway. But I’ve stood in that man’s shoes and prayed for someone to help me. If I can do something to give him more time with his wife, I will.
Antonia’s business card sits propped on my computer screen.
It’s simple—white and blue with the Opengate company logo at the center.
I pick it up, turning it over in my fingers.
From what I know of Opengate, they can open doors.
They have connections in almost every pharmaceutical company and CRO.
Sometimes, the right person has to ask. A contact needs to force a door open.
Reaching out to her is a risk. If she’s offended, it could end her potential partnership with my retreat. But if she can help, I can buy a family more time. Before I can change my mind, I punch in her number and hit call.
This isn’t about the retreat. Not today.
She answers fast. “Antonia Cole, speaking.”
“Antonia, it’s Ben Jones here.”
Silence for a beat. I wait.
“Ben, we already have an appointment scheduled. Do we not?”
“This isn’t about the retreat,” I say. “I wouldn’t call unless it mattered.”
“I assumed as much. I’m listening.”
I relax. She’s cool as expected, but professional. And she’s willing to listen.
“I have a patient. Terminal diagnosis. Rejected from the new clinical trial with Pinnacle for Lunavax. I’ve exhausted all my usual channels. The CRO has closed the trial.”
“What are you asking for?” she asks, direct and to the point.
I imagine her leaning back in her chair, phone at her ear, one leg crossed over the other. In control, as I envision she always is if our meeting was anything to go by.
“Influence,” I reply. “If Opengate has any leverage with Pinnacle, I need someone to reexamine the file.”
“And in your professional opinion, this patient has time on her side.”
Silence again. She waits for me to speak. Simple questions that if I get wrong could slam the door closed on the Collins family’s hope.
“If she’s accepted onto the trial, yes. The benefit could be substantial. Years potentially.” She still doesn’t respond. ”I’m not asking for guaranteed approval. Just a review.”
“Why this patient?” she asks.
“Why not?”
I twist the ring on my finger. All I can hear is her steady breath on the line.
“Why me?”
That takes me by surprise. She doesn’t strike me as a woman needing her ego rubbed, so I go with honesty. “Because you built a company that opens doors others can’t.”
“Email me the patient file. I’ll take a look.” No promises. No warmth. But sheer authority in her tone. She doesn’t ask for anything from me. There’s no bargaining. No mention of the retreat. She doesn’t name a price.
“Thank you,” I say.
“I’ll be in touch.”
She hangs up, and for the first time in weeks, I don’t feel alone in the fight.