Everyone waits. I move to her side, and she glances at me.
“Medical allocation isn’t a popularity contest,” I say slowly. “Its viability and risk assessment. The calls made aren’t easy. But they need to be made.”
Murmurs ripple through the crowd.
“Antonia makes decisions others don’t have the spine to. That’s not cruelty. It’s being accountable,” I add.
She exhales and her body loosening.
“Opengate exists because medicine is finite,” she says. “Every allocation is reviewed by professionals. No decisions are made lightly. No patient forgotten.”
“But some die,” someone shouts.
“Medicine isn’t immortality. It’s triage. Doing the best with what we have. But we hope to give as many as we can—prospects and time.”
She doesn’t falter. Every line delivered with ruthless clarity. But I see the effort it costs her. The shadow darkening beneath her eyes.
The interrogation seems to have passed. Julian steps forward to thank them for coming. When one final question comes from a reporter at the back. I can’t see them, but the female voice is sharp, cold.
“And, Doctor,” she says, “is Opengate a company you feel comfortable aligning with after all recent revelations?”
Antonia stiffens, not looking at me, but mimicking a gazelle ready to run.
“I wouldn’t be standing here if I didn’t,” I reply without hesitation.
***
Later, the crowd disperse, and the shareholders disappear in their sleek cars. Julian doesn’t wait or even say goodbye. Just vanishes without a word. He got what he wanted.
A spectacle.
I find Antonia in the office, behind the desk, pulling off her boots. One white sock is stained dark, her foot soaked enough that water drips from her toes. The office floor darkens beneath it.
“Those boots are done,” I say.
She chuckles but doesn’t look up, too busy rubbing at her feet as if they’ve walked across hot coals.
“They’re old,” she mutters. “But reliable… usually.”
“Perhaps it’s time for something that doesn’t leak.”
Her eyes rise, then we stare at one another for a moment.
“Perhaps,” she says.
As I turn for the door, I stop myself and rotate back. “Can I ask you something?”
She stills. “Anything.”
“Do you regret choosing the other patient?”
“No,” she replies firmly. “I regret there wasn’t enough for both.”
There’s no defense.
No self-preservation.
She owns her choice.
Doesn’t justify it.
She carries it.
There’s a lot about her I find attractive. But her tenacity takes my breath away.