“Julian,” I snap, my voice cracking for a beat. “This isn’t about leverage. It’s not PR. This is about life. About giving back forwhat we’ve gained from other people’s losses.” I stab at the profiles, and they scatter.
“This isn’t it. This is optics. We would benefit more than the people who need it.” Air blows through my nostrils. He grimaces. “This isn’t what I want for Opengate. Find me a cause that’s real. One someone is putting their soul into.”
“Antonia… just think—”
“I’ve thought plenty.” My fingertips move to my keyboard. “Find me an alternative.”
And that’s the end of it. He knows better than to challenge me again. This is my company; it always has been. The people who work for me have freedom. I trust them a lot of the time. I recruited the best, but when I say no, I mean it.
Opengate has slipped to a place I don’t like. It was never meant to become this. Somewhere between growth and profit margins, I let other people define what success looks like. It’s time for me to re-stamp myself here in a way that matters.
***
Six o’clock rolls around fast, and my day has produced more questions than answers. A single patient is causing me headaches. Once again, we’re struggling to access the medicine they need, and it’s been passed onto my desk. Even I’m finding doors bolted closed that used to be wide open.
Bad PR doesn’t just stop on social media. Other companies turn inward too. My allies are retreating, and we can’t afford another scandal.
Clara appears again, this time dressed in her coat, ready to leave. It’s then I notice the two glasses of champagne in her hands. She wanders over and places one in front of me.
“Happy birthday,” she whispers, her voice soft almost sad.
I glance at the calendar on my computer. July 1st. Hell, even I forgot. And no one reminded me, not until now, not until the woman I pay to be here passed me a glass of bubbles. How pathetic.
Not one person sent me a message. Not one family member reached out.
It’s not surprising, but it still hurts. Even if there is no one, on most days I’m so surrounded by people, I can pretend that when I return to the silence of my apartment, it’s welcomed.
“Thank you.” I lift the glass, we click them gently together, and we both drink. She doesn’t ask if I have any plans. She knows as well as I do that this is the only celebration I’ll receive. We don’t speak. Beyond Opengate, there’s nothing to talk about, and that’s discussed all day, every day.
Once her glass is empty, she places it on my desk. Her working day is done, and she won’t be clearing it until tomorrow. No one else would get away with it.
“See you tomorrow, Antonia,” she says before walking out of my office door. Until all I hear is the click of her heels on the floor tiles receding to nothing.
I finish the champagne alone.
Forty-three years old.
And the only thing I’ve built that lasts is a company.
And now even that is in jeopardy.