Chapter sixteen
Antonia
The glass doors slam closed behind us, and our security locks the deadbolt. People scramble for towels; another egg hits the glass. Egg drips from my collar onto the floor.
“Are you alright?” Ben says.
He’s standing in front of me, chest wide, shielding my hot cheeks from the surrounding spectators. The shelter is welcome.
“I’m fine,” I mutter. “I just need a few minutes to clean up. We have a site visit.”
Something soft dabs at my eye again. His strong fingers carefully wipe away the mud. I step back out of his reach. My hands shake, curling into fists. I can hear my own breathing. I don’t like it.
All eyes are on us. My staff watch every move we make. Ben seems oblivious, more concerned with the muck on my face. But I sense the judgment; his kindness seen as much more than it is.
We need to move on from the chaos outside.
“I’m fine,” I repeat. He ignores me and continues cleaning me up.
My focus moves to the crowd outside, jeering. The front row bursts into applause, all of them grinning ear to ear. Their signs move at double speed, heels bouncing off the pavement. Every bloody one of them loves my humiliation. I half expect a scoreboard to appear announcing one-nil.
“This is exactly why we need media management,” Julian booms over the reception. I look up, causing Ben to glance over his shoulder as Julian storms across the open space. The cars must have turned back when they heard we never left. Ben takes a step to his right, blocking his path.
“Antonia,” Julian says. “This needs to be controlled.”
“What needs controlling is your tone,” Ben injects smoothly, making Julian’s eyes bug. I swallow my tongue. He’s doing it again. Protecting me when I don’t need it. Like he did moments ago, stepping between me and the projectile eggs. But I don’t stop him.
No one has ever stepped in front of the impact before. I’m not used to someone else taking the hit. It’s as unsettling as it is comforting. I don’t ask people to protect me, and someone doing it off their own back makes me feel indebted.
“Outrageous,” Ben declares as Julian storms off. “Who does he think he is?” He turns back and holds my gaze. “Talk to me.”
“We have a site to visit.”
“The site will still be there in an hour.” He stuffs the handkerchief in his pocket. “You need to take a breath.”
He steps up beside me, his hand landing firmly on the small of my back. The skin beneath my coat heats.
Just then, Clara rushes into the reception area, and the other men follow at a snail’s pace behind.
“Antonia,” she shrieks, bordering on hysterical. “Someone said you’d been shot.” She grabs my shoulders, her eyes runningover my face as if looking for a bullet hole. The rumor moved faster than the egg. For a second, I consider how easily panic spreads.
“Not unless chickens have started laying bullets, I’m afraid.” I try to smile. Partly to comfort her, the other part to show appreciation for her concern.
Her face twists, no doubt picking up the stench of raw egg. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.” She glances at Ben. “Did they get you, too?”
“Just my coat,” he says, expression still. “It’s over there.” He signals to a black lump by the door, thrown as far from us as possible. I’m not sure when he took it off. I was too wrapped up in my own victimhood to notice. “I’ll wait for you both in the boardroom. Take your time. We can leave whenever.”
With that, he walks away as relaxed as when he arrived this morning. Egg coating the back of his head. He was hit as well, and his white lie is comforting. The space he leaves feels colder than it should.
Clara walks at my shoulder to my office, not a step behind as the others do. Well, everyone except Julian; he’s always pacing ahead.
“I’ll sort your shower,” she mutters.
“No, I’m fine.”
“Antonia—,”
“Clara, please. I need a few minutes to myself.” We reach my office door. I stop and turn to face her, then reach over and squeeze her hands. “Thank you for your concern.”