Chapter twenty-five
Antonia
The building hums differently when it’s empty. Quieter. Safer. More honest.
Opengate is closed for the festive break. It doesn’t stop me from using my key on January second. Sitting at home with my laptop doesn’t settle me the way being here does. The silence feels earned.
The sofa bed was Clara’s idea. She found me curled in the old leather chair too many times. Said if I insisted on living here, I may as well do it properly.
The duvet and pillows are hidden at the top of a filing cabinet. Installing the shower was justified because I liked to work out then come straight here, although I haven’t been to the gym in years.
Losing myself in the stacks on my desk is my calm place. Where I feel in control. I doubt it will ever change.
The architect’s drawings for the retreat gardens have been passed. Once the construction staff return to work in the next few days, the accelerator will be pressed down further. With the heavy exterior building work complete, our focus is moving to the interior and aesthetic areas.
All we need now is the additional funding.
If income rebounds in the next few months, I can cover the shortfall myself. If it doesn’t, I may need to go cap in hand or worse, attempt fundraising activities to ensure we open on time. I hate both options.
June is the month I chose.
No strategic reason. Just summer light and the illusion of ease. The weather should be better. We could launch more confidently both inside and outside.
Ben hadn’t been sure. Wanting to wait to confirm an opening month. I don’t work like that. Deadlines are my fuel. They push me to do what needs to be done. Missing by one day isn’t a delay. To me, it’s a failure.
We agreed on June.
Now, when I look at what’s still to be done—the staff to recruit, the money needing to be raised, I wonder if even I was being too optimistic.
The past months have proved Opengate is not immune. Neither am I. I dislike admitting that. That I may not always get the result I want by pushing harder, no matter how determined I am.
Sometimes we need to ride the wave. Survive the dip. And then move forward.
But doing that may mean being flexible. Flexibility requires trust. I’ve never been good at letting go.
I don’t see him in the doorway. He knocks.
“How did you get in here?”
“You have security,” Ben says, walking in with a large white shopping bag in one hand and a red plastic folder in the other. He places both on my desk in front of me, then walks around to my side.
My knees turn a fraction toward him, and my chair rotates. He leans down and places warm lips on my cheek.
“Happy New Year,” he says, then returns to the other side of the desk.
He sits down while I stare at him.
“Happy New Year.” The words are more breath than sound. He smiles, then nods to the items on my desk.
I reach for the bag.
“Folder first,” he says. His sharp blue gaze never leaves my skin. I swallow, slightly unsettled, but half-enjoying the attention.
It’s a cheap plastic folder like the ones I used at school. A worn elasticated fastening secures it closed. It snaps as I open it, the line pinging backward, hitting my hand.
“Could you not afford better supplies?” I mutter.
He chuckles. “My son’s. You’re lucky it’s not covered in glue.”