Chapter 14
Chapter fourteen
Antonia
The haze of morning creeps into the site office, catching on the dust hanging in the air. Sean, our site manager, paces the narrow room again, boots heavy against the plywood floor. He’s furious. His jaw tight, phone clutched in his hand as if he might crush it.
I’m furious too.
The difference is I don’t pace. I fix.
“They can’t just pull out,” Sean mutters. “Not with groundworks scheduled next week.”
“They can,” I reply evenly, scanning the email again. “They did.”
Our primary contractor has withdrawn. Timeline concerns, they say. The new opening schedule isn’t practical, even though they assured me it was. They sat in this office and agreed it was possible. I wouldn’t have signed it off otherwise.
Now, they don’t believe we can hit summer without cutting corners. And they don’t want their name attached if we fail. Typical ass-covering behavior.
Outside, an engine whines in protest. Ben’s sports car announces itself before he even appears. The tires spin uselessly in the mud, a whirring complaint echoing across the site.
Despite everything, I almost smile.
Every time he arrives in that thing, I expect we’ll have to tow it free with the excavator. It’s impractical. Slightly arrogant. Entirely unsuited to where we are.
And yet he keeps driving it. And I keep watching.
Sean stops pacing when the engine cuts.
“He’s not going to like this,” Sean says.
Neither do I.
But liking something has never determined whether it gets done.
Ben appears, and the floorboard squeaks, his posture instantly tightening when he sees me. I’m never here this early. Usually, I go to Opengate first, but I’m spending more and more time here. It’s like an addiction.
“What’s wrong?” he says to me rather than the man in charge.
Sean steps in front, breaking our eye contact. Ben moves around him.
“We’ve lost the main contractor,” I tell him.
“Lost?”
“They’ve withdrawn. Effective immediately.”
“Why didn’t you call me?” He strides over to stand beside me. The heat from him pushes me a step back.
“I’ve already spoken to two alternative firms,” I say, choosing to ignore his question. I should have called him, but I wanted it sorted before he arrived. Fight the fire before it could spread. It just so happened that Sean was already here, double-checking plans.
“They’re coming on site today to discuss.”
Ben leans in slightly, and I have to tilt my head back to meet his eye. Neither of us looks away. Everything warms another degree.
“You should have told me, Antonia. This is a joint project. Both our reputations are on the line.”
My phone rings. Another contractor confirming a later appointment. When I disconnect the call, Sean excuses himself to deal with ‘minor works that can still be done’. He excels at running away from the tension and justifying his job in one sentence. Ben hasn’t moved a millimeter.
“What conversation was had with the primary contractor?” he prods.
I’m not in the mood for debate. “Enough. The agreement is dead in the water. We need to move on.”
“Did they propose an alternative timescale?”
Through the window, the site is shaded gold. The sun up and ready for the day. A digger sits idle in the corner. It will be getting collected later today.
“I didn’t ask,” I whisper, moving to the window, trying to catch a breath.
My lungs have barely filled since I was woken by the phone call at four this morning.
A heads up from a concerned employee of the company about the email about to land in my inbox.
Without thinking, I’d dressed, pulled on my boots, and headed to the site, wanting to fix it all before daybreak. It became the new chaos to control.
My early morning calls to contractors’ cell phones hadn’t been welcomed. It wasn’t until I checked my watch that I realized how early it was. I kept trying until I had enough options in place.
“What time did you get here?” Ben asks. We both look outside at the possibilities now frozen. I don’t answer because I don’t know for sure. He exhales, no doubt frustrated that I cut him out.
It wasn’t deliberate; it’s just how I operate.
And he knows that.
Over the past few months, I’ve shown that over and over. We wouldn’t be opening next year, never mind in summer, without it.
“I’ll guess before the birds sang,” he mutters, shaking his head, but there is a hint of amusement on his lips. “A delay wouldn’t be the end of the world.”
He walks toward the door, heading, I’ve no idea where. Nothing is happening outside. Maybe just needing space from me. The thought nips.
“Terminal illness waits for no one,” I snap. My defenses, which have begun dropping with him, fly back into place.
He stops, then turns slowly. The line of his jaw catches the morning light. I try not to dwell on it. “You think I don’t know that? I live it every day of my life. Professionally and—personally.”
Silence fills the office. The kind that steals air. His expression tightens slightly, like he’s regretting the emotional slip. Part of me wants to go to him, console him. But I stay steady. Emotion helps no one.
“You’re not the only one who understands what’s at stake,” he whispers.
He steps closer again. Not aggressive. But sure.
The gap between us reducing. “This isn’t just a timeline, Antonia.
It’s someone’s last week. Their last Christmas with their family.
The last number on a birthday cake they’ll see.
If we rush, use the wrong contractor, we get it wrong… ”
“Well, maybe you should trust me then to get it right.”
My boots leave trails of mud as I move to join him. He looks at the mess, and I pretend not to see it. The walk around the site when I arrived, using the torch on my phone, hadn’t been my best idea. Now, the floor is decorated with remnants.
“I’m trying to keep this project on track and budget.”
“This is more than a project to me,” he says, tone sharp. “Grief can’t be fast-tracked. We need to get this right.”
“And I will.”
“I or we,” he shoots back, then exhales sharply.
Neither of us speaks, facing off across the office. He lifts a hand, running it through his hair. It’s then that the top of his shirt gaps slightly, exposing a smattering of dark strands.
“We,” I force out, pulling my eyes away from where I shouldn’t be looking. Somehow, we’ve moved closer again. Both of us leaning in. Every nerve activates, my hands clenching into fists.
“It doesn’t feel like it. You didn’t even ask about an alternative schedule.”
“I didn’t need to.” The justification leaves my lips before I can examine it. Immediately, I want to shrink but railroad myself not to.
“This isn’t a partnership, Antonia. This is you needing control.”
I freeze. He’s right. And he’s called me out for what deep down I knew I was doing.
“Message me when the site meetings are,” he says, turning away. “I’ll be here.”
He pauses at the doorway, flinching as if about to say something else, but he doesn’t. He leaves, and I’m left standing in the site office.
Alone.
***
Opengate kills.
That banner has taunted me for weeks now. And here it is again. After a long day at the retreat site, I’m arriving back at the office in an attempt to salvage some of the day.
The crowd is bigger today. Julian said something yesterday about a podcast airing last night. I hadn’t really been listening, but this is the evidence I need to know it went ahead. More banners. More protesters. A mob standing against what I built to help those in need.
My route to the boardroom is more challenging than before, so I’ve been making my own way.
I drive to the front steps; security takes my car and escorts me inside.
It’s the new normal for now, after a man attempted to knock me off my feet last week.
The sign swung low. I was able to jump out of the way, but there was no doubt about his intentions.
I’m shrugging out of my coat as I walk into the boardroom. Julian is sitting in my chair, waiting for me, and Clara sits to his side, glaring at him.
“He refused to move,” she says, her pen scribbling furiously on a pad. More nonsensical doodles. I spot a man’s head and a guillotine. Julian must really have pissed her off.
“Julian, out of my seat.” He stands as I walk over. “No one needs to roleplay today.”
Julian moves over to the window, looking down on the protesters below. He doesn’t speak immediately; just opens the window a fraction so their chants float inside, hatred and pain cursing the air, over and over. Slander that we have blood on our hands. My hands.
“We need to control the narrative,” he says firmly. “Something to dilute the hate.”
He turns then, shrewd eyes holding mine. I straighten, but it’s a struggle. Today has almost beaten me.
“We didn’t invest millions for anonymity, Antonia. The board expects ROI on their investment. We have to give them something.”
“The retreat isn’t a marketing tool,” I shoot back.
“It was supposed to be.” He grimaces, nose pinching, the way he does when he loses a debate in the boardroom. He’s not lost yet. Part of me knows he’s right. “You’re spending a lot of time down there…”
“Are you questioning my work ethic?”
Julian strides over to the table and picks up a pile of papers beside Clara, then throws them down in front of me.
“These,” he says, “these are only what we could find this week.”
I sift through the pile. Pages and pages of articles and chatroom discussions about Opengate. Patients claiming we dismissed their claims without reason. Others saying we asked for money to ensure drugs were released.
“Pull every file detailed in these,” I say, trying to remain calm. “Check them.”
“Antonia,” Clara says, tone level. “This is slander. It’s internet gossip. It would take weeks to—”
“I don’t care. Check them,” I hiss, my precise control slipping.
“This is what we’re up against,” Julian continues. “We need something to smooth the cracks. The retreat. The Jones family’s story. It would be good for us all.”
“I said no.”
The tension edges upward. Julian’s teeth grind. Clara pushes herself deeper into her seat.
“It’s your business you’re killing,” Julian mutters, leaving before I can take another shot.
Clara looks anywhere but at me, and I know she doesn’t agree with my stance, but I won’t have Ben and his family become our PR protection campaign. That’s not why I invested.
I.
There it is again. Not we or us. I.
And it is I who may be sinking Opengate.
Back in my office, I close the door. It shuts with a satisfying click. The sofa is already made up for the night. Clara guessed I wouldn’t be leaving. I couldn’t face the picket line again.
As I’m pulling the band from my hair and kicking off my heels, I pull my phone from my pocket. It’s been stuffed there on silent since the altercation with Julian. I didn’t want any more shit tonight.
A missed a call from Ben. Three to be exact. Then a voicemail.
I consider deleting it before even listening. He’d been moody all day, and we only have two decent contractor options available. It will demand more from the budget, which could push our timeline back anyway. I’m not sure my pockets are deep enough.
I knew he was mad when I left the site, but I couldn’t be bothered to name it.
Then I think twice and press play on his voicemail.
“Antonia… it’s Ben. I’ve just left the site.
I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.
You’re right—families don’t have time. I just…
this place matters to me. I don’t want to rush it and lose what it’s supposed to be.
Anyway. I’ll review the contractor options tonight. We’ll sort it out. Goodnight.”
I replay it.
A man correcting himself without ego is foreign to me. I’m used to fighting my corner until they fold.
I don’t delete it.
I don’t reply.
I don’t know what to do with someone who doesn’t need to win.