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.