I’ve committed twenty years to this cause.
But as I look at the protesters now, I know they don’t see me. All they see is a suit, a glass tower, and someone who said no to a dying man.
***
Clara is at my shoulder as soon as my ass hits the leather seat, long fingers dropping paperwork onto my desk. Invoices, proposals, meeting notes—each one vying for attention or a signature.
“Julian will be here in ten minutes to discuss his proposals,” she says, tongue clicking softly as she straightens the stack.
My long-suffering assistant has been with me since Opengate became something real. Before the boardrooms. Before the press. I met her years ago when she was a receptionist at a pharmaceutical company I camped outside of, refusing to leave until someone listened.
She saw my tenacity.
My refusal to accept no.
So she handed in her notice and came with me.
I don’t ask how many offers she’s turned down since. I don’t need to. Clara is as much a part of Opengate as I am.
And I couldn’t do this without her.
“I can delay him,” Clara says. “If you like.”
The thought is tempting. The last way I want to start the day is debating with Julian over which cause best suits his marketing campaign or where we’ll get the best return. Our growth, good for my pocket, has diluted the core of the business. Each day, it slips a little further from what it was meant to be.
And the more men in suits I hire—the ones who’ve lived in boardrooms since leaving university—the further the values drift. Opengate was created for those who couldn’t access what they needed. Now everything feels transactional. Give only if there’s something to gain.
It doesn’t sit right.
“No, Clara. It’s fine. I’ll handle him. But a coffee would be good.”
She blows out through her nose. A sound I’ve learned means she disagrees but won’t argue. Then she turns for the machine. Cups rattle as it hums to life. Clara picks up the silver jug of milk, frothing it expertly. She should have been a barista.
Yes, her macchiato is that insane.
Just then, there’s a knock on the door, and Julian strolls in without waiting for an invite. Dick. Sometimes, most of the time, he forgets who’s in charge. I let it slide because I know I am. Heneeds me to sign off on whatever contract he’s behind this week, and he knows it. Even if he hates it.
“Morning, Julian,” I say, without looking up as he sits opposite me.
He leans back, his arms pushing above his head, then hands behind it. With elbows pointed outwards, he’d look more suited in a sun lounger than here. I ignore it; he’s pushing for a raise—I won’t give him one. I’ll punch where it hurts instead.
His ego.
Clara places my coffee down, then gives Julian a glass of water. His eyes narrow, she smiles.
“You won’t be here long enough for me to make you one,” she says simply, turning away before he can say a damn thing. I bite my bottom lip. I should probably scold her, but she’s right. He’ll be sent packing in five minutes.
I push the stack of charitable proposals toward him.
“None of these fit Opengate’s core values,” I tell him. His arms shoot to his knees, and he leans forward. His mouth opens to argue, I beat him to it. “I’m not interested in corporate style charity. I want local.”
“These are local schemes—”
“Most of our investment will be spent on admin tasks and director bonuses.” I straighten, my gaze unrelenting. “Opengate was built on individuals. We grew as we saved people, as we gave them more time, one by one. I want a cause like that. One where we can see who we’re helping.”
He sighs, shaking his head. His lips threatening to laugh. He better not. It won’t take much for me to ask Clara to draft his final payroll paperwork.
“Those types of causes don’t have the leverage—”