Chapter 17
Chapter seventeen
Ben
From Tragedy to Triumph: Who is Antonia Cole?
The headline sits bold across my screen. Eamon’s email arrived minutes ago. Thought you should see this.
He might be retired, but still has one eye on all things hospital-related. His subject line had me worried before I’d even clicked the attachment.
Cole lost her only child, Mikey, to cancer at three years old.
Her marriage shortly after. This unimaginable loss left her throwing herself into defending those who could not defend themselves.
Mikey was denied treatment due to not meeting blood marker criteria on a clinical trial. That stipulation ended his life.
In the years that followed, Opengate Limited grew into a multi-million-pound powerhouse from a grieving mother’s mission.
As scrutiny mounts, critics are asking: has Antonia Cole blurred the line between advocacy and profit?
Has she lost her moral compass?
Is Opengate built on compassion or control?
I read it again.
Then once more.
There’s nothing incorrect in the article, but there is a whole load of assumptions.
That’s the clever part. It’s the implication that poisons it.
Every line questioning Antonia’s integrity.
Her purpose behind Opengate. As if the loss of her child was a stepping stone to her career―and ultimately, her wealth―not the relentless hours spent chasing a cause she believed in.
It’s the time-old tale of someone doing well for themselves by helping others, then once they do ‘too’ well in others’ eyes, they become the enemy.
I return to the paragraph about her son. Mikey.
From the little time I’ve spent with Antonia, I know she keeps her professional and private lives separate. Before I accepted the funding for the retreat from Opengate, my research showed nothing regarding her son who passed. No marketing campaign. No funding ploy. Nothing.
No ‘why she does what she does’ interview.
Opengate was built from hard work, dedication, and learning to work the system. This article degrades all of it. They’re weaponizing her grief for a reaction.
My jaw tightens.
If someone wrote this about me. About the retreat. About Bex. If they suggested what I’m trying to build was some elaborate monument to my own grief, that I was using personal loss as leverage to get what I wanted, I’d be furious. Devastated even.
Liam would read it.
Ollie would hear about it at school.
Grief is hard enough without it being dissected in the public eye. Without those who’ve never lived it, wading in with their opinions. The article isn’t questioning Antonia’s business model; it’s attacking her. Her son is becoming a fact to be proved. Her emotions defended.
And I’m furious on her behalf.
I imagine her reading this today with her morning coffee. Clara rushing around, trying to protect the woman who claims she doesn’t need protecting.
Antonia won’t react. But she’ll absorb it. There’s no way she couldn’t. Even a woman made of steel couldn’t stop the fracture from this.
Julian was right. As much as I hate to say it. We need to control the narrative. Or at least, provide our own.
The public knowing Opengate is quietly funding the retreat is not enough to save what the protesters are determined to destroy. Not when headlines like this circulate. Not when the mob grows with every podcast.
If this is going to be handled publicly, it needs to be done right. Grief will be dragged into the spotlight, whoever steps up. It may as well be mine.
And the retreat will potentially get good PR in the process. Win. Win.
I open a new email.
To: Julian Haversham
Subject: Interview
If you still need someone to speak publicly, I’ll do it.
The reply comes within minutes.
Call me.
I stare at my reflection in the screen before picking up the phone. If I do this, it won’t only be professional. I’m stepping up not only as an oncologist but as a widower. Someone who has lived the pain. And once I step into the fire willingly, there’s no pretending I didn’t choose it.
I retreat to my den behind the kitchen. A pocket hidden away, where I can escape when I need to. The boys are upstairs getting ready for school, or I hope they are. The bangs and clatters above my head suggest they’re at least awake.
Julian answers on the first ring. I throw myself down on the sofa.
“Are you serious?” he says, tone sharp but cynical. “This could bring you unwanted attention. I’m delighted, but want to be sure you know what you’re signing up for. No last minute drop outs.”
“Someone has to. It may as well be me.” I slide my wedding ring from my finger and place it on the table beside me. Bex doesn’t need to be part of this.
“I’ll message you the details once it’s set up. Any scheduling restrictions?”
He’s already typing an email, the bang of the keyboard filtering down the line.
“No, I’ll work around you,” I say. “Sooner rather than later.”
“I’ll be in touch.”
The call ends, and I place my cell face down on the side table, nerves already itching my throat. An endless video of possible events plays in my mind. All the ways me agreeing to this could go wrong.
As I close my eyes, leaning back in my chair, I become aware of someone watching from the doorway.
“You took your ring off,” Liam says, voice quiet, not accusatory.
My thumb and finger spin the ring again; it echoes against the wood, turning like a weathervane in strong winds. I open my eyes and turn my chair to face my son.
“I have an interview,” I tell him as way of explanation. His head cocks to one side.
“Is it important?”
“Very.” The seriousness of the situation settles in my stomach. Without Opengate, there’s no retreat. Without a good reputation, any business will slowly decompose.
“What’s it for?” he asks. “The interview.”
I smile. Liam is exact. Always wants whoever he’s speaking to understand what he’s talking about. Today is no different.
“The retreat.” I take a breath, then spin the ring again. We both watch it turn, then I lay it flat on the wood with my palm. “The future of it. The why…”
“Why what?”
“Why the retreat is necessary,” I explain. “There’s some negative press surrounding Opengate, and we need their support.”
Liam bites his lip, then opens his mouth to speak when my phone rings—Julian. I lift a finger to signal to stay, and we’ll talk after the call.
“Julian,” I say.
“Ben. Be at Opengate at three o’clock today.
I’ve sorted a few reporters.” He’s clear and clinical, calmer than I’ve ever heard him.
But PR is his expertise. “Email me some notes if you can. What you’re willing to speak about and what you aren’t.
I can’t promise they’ll stay off unwanted topics, but I can try. ”
“I have nothing to hide.”
I disconnect the call before he can say otherwise. You can’t control the media; anyone with an internet connection knows that.
“Who says you do?” Liam asks, startling me. I’d forgotten he was still here.
“Do what?”
“Have something to hide.”
I look at my son. So grown up, but still young. Who’s lost far too much already. It hurts knowing I couldn’t protect him.
“No one. It was just a figure of speech.”
His eyes move to my wedding ring, still sitting on the table. I follow his gaze, nervous about what he’s thinking. Four years since Bex died, and I’ve never taken it off. Today, I’m not sure why I did. But it felt like time.
“Mum wouldn’t want you to be stuck forever,” he says quietly. “Taking it off doesn’t mean you love her any less.”
I wasn’t prepared for that. My son humbles me with a single sentence. My position as father disappears for a second, my chest filling with pride. We stare at one another. “It’s okay to move forward,” he whispers, voice breaking. “She told you that.”
Before I can consider what to say, he turns and leaves. My eyes stay focused on the door, trying to work out whether that was an instruction or permission. I pick up the ring. Maybe I can live with only a groove on my finger, as terrifying as the idea of not wearing my mark is.
It’s time to move forward. Deep down, I want to.
Living with a ghost has become familiar, but unhealthy. My children need to see that life doesn’t end when we lose someone. It changes.
Today, I fight not only for my family and the retreat, but also for Antonia and what she’s built. I have to decide whether I’m an oncologist, a widower, or a man who isn’t ready to be defined by loss alone.
I consider dropping the ring into a drawer. It’s too final. So I slip it onto the alternative hand. On a finger it’s never graced. And decide to be someone in between.
Today, I’m comfortable with that. Being a widower ready to step out of the gray and into the technicolor of life once more. That’s a compromise I can make.
***
As I walk into the Opengate offices, whispers echo all around. Employees speaking in hushed tones. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I know it’s about me. Julian greets me at the front door, shaking my hand firmly in front of the protesters. They hiss and boo as if watching a pantomime.
A huge TV screen has been erected on the front steps, egg residue already glazing the glass. I pause for a moment, absorbing just what he meant by controlling the narrative, what I signed up for sinking in. This interview isn’t a conversation. It’s a rescue attempt. And I’m in the starring role.
I knew that, but seeing it play out in real life is a shock.
Julian leads me through to the conference room. Rows of chairs stand ready for guests, and there’s a raised platform at the front with two leather chairs poised to host. The knot in my stomach tightens.
Antonia is nowhere to be seen. I didn’t reach out, not knowing whether she agreed to the interview or not.
She didn’t want this. She made that clear. But she also said at the end of the last meeting that she trusted Julian with PR. That’s what she hired him for. And if his plan didn’t work, then he would be packing his things.
I decided not to invite her opinion any further. Not wanting a concrete answer. Conducting this interview feels necessary. My way of supporting her and what she’s built in one of the few ways I can.
“How are you feeling?” Julian asks. “Nervous?”
“Terrified.”
He looks at me, and for once, it’s not with annoyance or irritation, but something resembling respect. He shakes my hand again.
“Thank you,” he says, sincerely. “This is the PR spin we need. Be ready in ten minutes.” With that, he walks away. I’m left staring at the empty room, waiting for people who may or may not rip me to shreds.