Chapter eighteen
Antonia
“Cancer doesn’t negotiate,” Ben says. “It doesn’t care who you are.”
The reporter winces, just slightly, when his interviewee remains solid, unflustered by the barrage of questions being thrown.
Ben leans back in the leather chair, one leg crossed over the other. Strong hands resting on the arms. He suits being in the spotlight, even if I wouldn’t tell him that.
Julian must have pulled out every contact to pull this off within hours. Or Opengate’s reputation is destroyed more than I realized. Media attention doesn’t arrive this quickly unless people are interested. The mob outside is doing a better job than I gave them credit for.
Charles Rentworth is known for ruthless interrogation. His social media presence is unmatched. He’s interviewed some of the most controversial characters. And now, he’s interviewingBen. Without my knowledge or consent. I told Julian to get on with it, but that there would be consequences if it didn’t work.
He called my bluff.
Not that I have ownership over Ben. But the retreat is a joint venture now, and they organized this without me. I don’t usually lose control of the narrative. It’s destabilizing, but part of me feels it’s necessary to let someone else take over. That’s the reason I threw down the gauntlet to Julian in the boardroom. Deflecting responsibility isn’t my normal style, but he wanted it.
And no matter how often I tell myself I have this under control, I can’t ignore the fact that the unrest has affected me. Every day the stories spiral further, taking my business’s reputation with it. That hurts. But what’s worse is not knowing how to fix it.
My office door is locked. I’m sitting in the half-dark with the blinds drawn, laptop on silent with the subtitles slithering across the screen. I’d listened to begin with, then the grate of the reporter’s voice was too much, the harsh tone adopted before they’d really begun.
“Opengate is the reason this retreat can move forward,” Ben says.
“And you believe they’re the correct partner to be positioning yourself with, Doctor?”
There’s a pause. My stomach drops. This is his opportunity to separate himself from us. From me. Most would right now, with the media storm brewing; dodging the lightning might be seen as safer than standing still to take the hit.
I really hope he doesn’t. Not just professionally, but personally. If he throws Opengate under the bus, he isn’t who I thought he was.
Whatever way he answers this, he’s laying his own reputation on the line. Charles’s lips curl upward. Ben’s expression doesn’t change.
“Do you understand what Opengate actually does?” Ben asks.
I turn the volume back up. Relief swells in my chest. He’s standing with us.
He doesn’t need to do this, to fight in our corner. And he is; live on screen. This interview is being streamed as he speaks. It will be all over the industry and local news by dinnertime.
“Excuse me,” Charles splutters. “Who’s answering the questions here?”
“This is a two-way conversation. Is it not?”
Charles’s jaw tightens. Ben remains calm on the outside, anyway. I wonder if he’s the same on the inside. Or if, like me, he’s good at maintaining his facial expressions while your brain churns with the threats. I couldn’t feel more grateful than I do now. I owe him more than I can pay.
“So you’re comfortable attaching your name to a company accused of deciding who lives or dies?”
That hits me square in the chest. I’ve seen the accusation on boards, read it in chatrooms. But for someone to say it so matter-of-factly in front of, no doubt, the thousands that will watch this, it’s excruciating. After years of fighting for patients’ rights, this is what has become of us.
It makes me question whether any of it was worth it, if your years of work to stand up for those in need can be reduced to hatred.
“The only thing that decides who lives or dies,” Ben says, tone professional with an edge, “is the disease.”
Charles glances at the camera, looking out at his audience.
“No medicine is guaranteed,” Ben continues before the other man speaks. “All treatment plans have odds. Opengate can only distribute limited stocks to those with the best ones. That’s not favoritism. That’s triage.”
Charles goes to challenge him, his brows narrowing, but Ben doesn’t let him.
“The retreat isn’t a miracle cure. It’s a place for those with terminal diagnoses and limited time to forget for awhile. To set aside hospital corridors and antiseptic, just to live again, knowing they’re safe.”