She nods, accepting I need space, then goes to sit at her desk. I push open my door, closing it firmly behind me.
I stand, staring at my desk, head resting against the wood of the door. My breathing has almost returned to normal, but there’s no hiding from the tension in my hands.
I shrug out of my coat, discarding it on the floor at my feet, then make my way to the bathroom. Today, I’m relieved I have a shower in here.
Thirty minutes later, I’m striding into the boardroom as if earlier didn’t happen. I concentrate on placing one foot in front of the other with steadiness I don’t feel. That egg could have been a bullet. I can’t stop thinking about it.
And Ben moved in front of me without a second thought.
When we’d left the offices earlier, I’d expected to be hurried into the cars, the way I’ve been every day since the protests began. As pressure has increased, we’ve hidden behind strengthened glass. Protecting ourselves from the insults.
But Ben, he’d walked out, head held high. He looked the crowd in the eye and asked them what we’d done wrong. His previous patient’s wife wanted to know why he’d taken our side. He’d deflected by praising my company. By pointing out the truth that the real criminal in all this is cancer itself.
It knocked the air from me as I watched, slightly awestruck that he had the confidence to stand tall.
Then the chaos came. Mud thrown. Eggs cracked.
It doesn’t change what he did or how he approached it with an empathy none of us had mustered in months. I’m not sure where to put that.
Julian has already fanned paperwork over the table. Ben sits quietly, scrolling on his phone. The other men talk, but he doesn’t even look as if he’s listening.
When I’m a few paces away, Ben looks up and smiles. He places his phone on the surface, face down. I move to sit next to him, then Clara scurries in. The rest continue to speak as if we haven’t even arrived.
“Perhaps this is an opportunity,” Julian says as his onlookers' jaws slacken, almost entranced. “We can spin this. Create asympathy angle.” His eyes snap up to mine. “Oh, Antonia, I didn’t see you there.”
Ben stiffens in his chair. I reach over and touch his arm on instinct, then retract mine immediately. His eyes slide to me, he nods once, then returns his attention to Julian.
“As arrogant as always, Julian,” Clara mutters. There are snickers around the table. “Shall we begin now the boss is here?”
Julian clears his throat, stands, then begins passing papers to each of us. I glance at one. I’ve seen it before. More negative press. This is nothing new.
“This,” he says, “is all the negative PR I’ve been able to find surrounding Opengate in the past month. Posts, blogs, podcasts, and chat threads.”
“They say all PR is good PR,” Harold muses. There are mutters of agreement.
“Not when you’re accused of choosing who lives or dies,” Julian retorts, eyes narrowed. “Any change to our share prices, Edwin?”
It’s my turn to glare. Julian knows I’m fully aware of our declining market value. Shareholders get edgy, but I also know it will pass. This isn’t my first dance with bad press, just the most relentless.
“Trending downward,” Edwin mumbles, his pen twirling between unsteady fingers.
“First of all,” I begin. “My business has never been built on sympathy. We correct systems. Open supply chains when doors close.”
“I understand that.” Julian exhales, cheeks puffed, then flattened.
“The industry we’re in is highly emotional. With the social media platforms as they are, and thousands of influencers and reporters in our field vying for attention, it was inevitable that complications would crop up.” I look at each man individuallyas I speak. Usually, when I manage a crisis with words, there’s a visible lift in mood. Not today.
“Antonia,” Julian says. “Today, you were targeted. That is something we can use. I think we need to report this to the authorities. It’s time to drop the facade of being made of steel and act like a woman who’s been under fire.”
Facade. As if my strength is an act. As if he doesn’t believe this is who I am. I’ve spent years toughening to this version of myself. My gender has nothing to do with it. Loss makes you resilient. Time doesn’t fix you. It makes you harder.
“My being a woman has nothing to do with it.”
“No, but you’ll look prettier on camera.”
The comment lands exactly as it’s meant to. I stiffen, but let it sit. I won’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction.
Every man of the board chuckles. One louder than the others. Clara snorts, unimpressed. Ben doesn’t move.