Chapter 18
Chapter eighteen
Antonia
“Cancer doesn’t negotiate,” Ben says. “It doesn’t care who you are.”
The reporter winces, just slightly, when his interviewee remains solid, unflustered by the barrage of questions being thrown.
Ben leans back in the leather chair, one leg crossed over the other. Strong hands resting on the arms. He suits being in the spotlight, even if I wouldn’t tell him that.
Julian must have pulled out every contact to pull this off within hours. Or Opengate’s reputation is destroyed more than I realized. Media attention doesn’t arrive this quickly unless people are interested. The mob outside is doing a better job than I gave them credit for.
Charles Rentworth is known for ruthless interrogation.
His social media presence is unmatched. He’s interviewed some of the most controversial characters.
And now, he’s interviewing Ben. Without my knowledge or consent.
I told Julian to get on with it, but that there would be consequences if it didn’t work.
He called my bluff.
Not that I have ownership over Ben. But the retreat is a joint venture now, and they organized this without me.
I don’t usually lose control of the narrative.
It’s destabilizing, but part of me feels it’s necessary to let someone else take over.
That’s the reason I threw down the gauntlet to Julian in the boardroom.
Deflecting responsibility isn’t my normal style, but he wanted it.
And no matter how often I tell myself I have this under control, I can’t ignore the fact that the unrest has affected me. Every day the stories spiral further, taking my business’s reputation with it. That hurts. But what’s worse is not knowing how to fix it.
My office door is locked. I’m sitting in the half-dark with the blinds drawn, laptop on silent with the subtitles slithering across the screen. I’d listened to begin with, then the grate of the reporter’s voice was too much, the harsh tone adopted before they’d really begun.
“Opengate is the reason this retreat can move forward,” Ben says.
“And you believe they’re the correct partner to be positioning yourself with, Doctor?”
There’s a pause. My stomach drops. This is his opportunity to separate himself from us. From me. Most would right now, with the media storm brewing; dodging the lightning might be seen as safer than standing still to take the hit.
I really hope he doesn’t. Not just professionally, but personally. If he throws Opengate under the bus, he isn’t who I thought he was.
Whatever way he answers this, he’s laying his own reputation on the line. Charles’s lips curl upward. Ben’s expression doesn’t change.
“Do you understand what Opengate actually does?” Ben asks.
I turn the volume back up. Relief swells in my chest. He’s standing with us.
He doesn’t need to do this, to fight in our corner. And he is; live on screen. This interview is being streamed as he speaks. It will be all over the industry and local news by dinnertime.
“Excuse me,” Charles splutters. “Who’s answering the questions here?”
“This is a two-way conversation. Is it not?”
Charles’s jaw tightens. Ben remains calm on the outside, anyway. I wonder if he’s the same on the inside. Or if, like me, he’s good at maintaining his facial expressions while your brain churns with the threats. I couldn’t feel more grateful than I do now. I owe him more than I can pay.
“So you’re comfortable attaching your name to a company accused of deciding who lives or dies?”
That hits me square in the chest. I’ve seen the accusation on boards, read it in chatrooms. But for someone to say it so matter-of-factly in front of, no doubt, the thousands that will watch this, it’s excruciating. After years of fighting for patients’ rights, this is what has become of us.
It makes me question whether any of it was worth it, if your years of work to stand up for those in need can be reduced to hatred.
“The only thing that decides who lives or dies,” Ben says, tone professional with an edge, “is the disease.”
Charles glances at the camera, looking out at his audience.
“No medicine is guaranteed,” Ben continues before the other man speaks. “All treatment plans have odds. Opengate can only distribute limited stocks to those with the best ones. That’s not favoritism. That’s triage.”
Charles goes to challenge him, his brows narrowing, but Ben doesn’t let him.
“The retreat isn’t a miracle cure. It’s a place for those with terminal diagnoses and limited time to forget for awhile. To set aside hospital corridors and antiseptic, just to live again, knowing they’re safe.”
My fists unclench, the tension I didn’t even realize I was holding gone. He answered that like he belongs here. I don’t like how he steadies the room as I hide in my office. Part of me is impressed, while another is still furious this was arranged behind my back.
“Opengate doesn’t offer miracles either,” he continues. “They open doors that are closed to others. That’s what I need in a partner. Not someone who promises what they can’t deliver.”
There’s a knock at my door. Clara steps inside, then closes it behind her.
“He’s doing well,” she says, softly.
“So far…” I don’t commit. There’s still time for this to all crash down. When I heard the interview had a thirty-minute slot with the potential to extend to one hour if content allowed, sickness climbed my throat long enough to make me swallow hard.
I wanted to step in. Stop them. Not expose us to more negativity. But I gave them the rope, so I needed to allow them to tie the noose or the knot, whichever would result from this. I need to trust my people, Julian, to do the job I pay him for.
“So, your wife,” Charles says, changing subject in an obvious attempt to catch Ben off-guard. “Bex?”
“Yes, Bex was my wife.”
The past tense lands heavier than any headline.
“Look at his hand,” Clara hisses.
Ben sits back on the black leather chair. Hands draped over the armrests, his ring finger bare. The gold band sits on the opposite side.
“Maybe he’s always worn it like that,” I murmur, not convinced. I’ve been clocking his ring for weeks, musing over whether he’d ever remove it. Again, it was a habit I wasn’t enjoying but couldn’t seem to stop—like thinking about him.
Clara leans in, and pinches my screen, zooming in on his now bare hand; a pale indentation sits where the ring once did—recently. My throat tightens. That’s not PR. That’s personal. His choice. I wonder why now. He didn’t do it for the cameras; that’s not how he operates.
“No,” she whispers, not that anyone else can hear us. “That’s new.”
Charles continues to press Ben for more details on Bex and her battle.
He deflects each one, always circling back to the retreat, the services it will offer, and how that can benefit future families.
He talks about his experience as an oncologist, and how he can view this from a widower’s and a professional’s perspective.
Every point lands true. There’s a difference in understanding from both sides. I know too.
“And your children?” Charles says. “They’re all on board with the retreat. You must be busy juggling all things as a single father.”
For the first time, Ben appears slightly unsettled. His gaze moves to the camera, and I notice a tension in his jaw that wasn’t there before. His kids are his weak spot. My son is my own.
“My children aren’t up for discussion,” he replies, smooth but certain. “Opengate, myself, my career, I’ll talk about. But not my kids. Their lives are theirs to tell.”
He could have used them. He didn’t. Ben drew a line he wasn’t willing to cross. I respect that. Maintaining my own privacy has always been paramount; it unsettles me how alike we are in our morals. From the little I’ve learned of him in our time working together, they align.
“Antonia Cole,” Charles says. My confidence wobbles. “Is she really as ruthless as the rumors say?”
Ben chuckles, his eyes rolling almost cartoonishly. It’s a stark contrast to the man drawing a boundary moments ago.
“Do you believe everything you read?” Ben asks. Charles smirks, the pair squaring off as if to fight. “You’ve interviewed some of the most successful men in the world. Would you ask their business partners the same question?”
“It’s a legitimate question, Doctor,” he pushes back.
“Antonia is a shrewd businesswoman. She’s successful because of her intelligence. And many patients and staff have benefited from her tenacity.”
My cheeks warm with the compliment. Clara glances over. Her lips purse as if hiding a smile, then her eyes return to the screen.
Charles sits back then, the fight leaving him. For the first time since the interview started, it’s as if he stops looking for an angle and actually listens to what he’s being told. He doesn’t interrupt. He lets Ben speak. It feels like a win.
Ben has the same ability to control a room as I do, even with the most difficult opponent. It’s uplifting to know he’s not only on my side, but able to pick up a sword too.
“Opengate wouldn’t exist without Antonia Cole.
Pharmaceutical companies wouldn’t be held accountable without Opengate.
” Ben holds the other man’s stare, professional but stern.
“Opengate has opened treatment pathways for my own patients before we worked together. I trust Antonia and her team to know the conditions and do what’s right. ”
My cell, that’s been sitting silent on my desk, lights up. Notifications pop up on the screen one after another, showing Julian’s name over and over again. Clara moves to lift it. I shake my head. I want to watch this to the end.
All I can watch is Ben.
“So,” Charles says, once enough time has passed that he’s sure he’s allowed to speak. “You’re saying this isn’t about redemption?”
“I don’t need redemption. I need impact.”
“And Antonia Cole? The woman who has made millions off others’ tragedy?”
Ben pauses. My phone buzzes again. The laptop screen dims, and I tap a key to ensure it doesn’t go blank. Clara and I hold our breath.
“Some people build companies from ambition. Some from loss. That’s not corruption. That’s being human,” Ben says. “Until you’ve walked the same path, you don’t get to comment on the correct way to grieve.”
The walls suck the air from the room. Everything dims. He didn’t say Mikey’s name, but he acknowledged him. Ben protected my grief; he didn’t turn it into a spectacle. The one thing I’ve always been afraid would happen.
“And is the retreat your way of grieving?”
The interview is nearing the end, the timer showing fifty minutes have passed. Charles is looking for a hook, something to go out on a high. To change the narrative and get the corruption story he wanted. One that would rip me and my company to shreds.
Julian took a risk. I know he did. But it also shows me he trusts Ben.
And he isn’t frightened to see his ideas through when I give him the chance, even if I don’t agree.
But any good CEO knows we don’t need yes-men, we need people of action to succeed.
Both Julian and Ben have shown that they are that today.
“My family will always have a void where Bex was.”
My gaze drifts to the desk drawer. The one I keep locked. The one no one opens. The one with only Mikey’s toy bunny inside. His hidden place in my office.
“But four years have passed since she left us. The retreat is a way of honoring her while helping those still fighting. Is that not what every family deserves? Space to be them.”
Charles wraps up the interview, and Ben shakes his hand just as Julian strides through my office door without knocking. That’s it, it’s done. Ben stayed strong, and I didn’t hate watching the whole thing. There’s a calmness knowing his answers line up with my own, and we’re on the same page.
“We’re trending for the right reasons,” Julian says, sounding smug.
I have to admit he has the right to be. I can’t deny it. The interview went well.
For the first time since the protests began, I don’t feel alone on the front line. I don’t need saving, but to know someone chose to stand beside me unsettles me more than any headline ever did.