Chapter thirty
Antonia
The high buildings of the city disappear, and eventually I’m in open countryside. But every mile I get closer to the retreat, the tighter my stomach twists. I don’t feel as if I’m just walking into professional upset today. I’m walking into personal upset as well.
When I told Ben I don’t mix business with pleasure, it was the truth. I never have—until now. Until he walked into my life with his calm demeanor and captivating stance. And when I couldn’t look away anymore, I landed myself here, exactly where I said I would never be. Kissing a man I share a boardroom with. One I’m terrified to get to know but don’t want to stay away from.
As I approach, the familiar black iron gates are already swung open, tall and imposing.
I roll down my car window, protester’s chants already claiming the air. Not that I can see them yet, but they’re waiting. Ready to let me know how they feel.
That’ll be Julian.
He’s invited them in again. The press. And with them come the others. Like he does it every time we have a site visit with notable board members.
This time, there was an email in my inbox confirming their attendance. I replied with a simple ‘Okay’. After the last time, when I never knew they’d be here, we had a conversation. Well, less of a conversation, more he was given a warning. Blindside me again, exploit my vulnerability, and lose your job. My staff have freedom, not free rein, and that day Julian needed reminding.
It’s good to keep the conversation open, keep the press involved, let people see we’re doing good. Supposedly. I can see both sides, but I don’t appreciate being blinkered.
My Jeep crawls up the driveway, bumping over the stones. It needs to be resurfaced—soon.
The mob is bigger this time. They swarm around the retreat. Signs raised, voices loud. My palms sweat on the steering wheel.
The exterior of the building is almost complete now. The interior’s nearly there too. We’re getting closer to the end.
Mud and mess still spread in all directions, construction materials scattered between. There are gardens under there, somewhere. We’ve just not found them yet.
The banners bounce high above the crowd. The statements are ruder. The catcalls nastier. The result of another online article no doubt. They land in my inbox every day, someone thinking I should see them. Links to podcasts they think I should listen to.
I don’t.
I don’t need to hear what they’re saying.
They all say the same thing.
We choose who lives and who dies.
That I choose who lives and who dies.
It just isn’t true.
But any time I defend myself, it falls on deaf ears. It’s easier to keep my mouth shut, no matter what Julian says. Silence can be more powerful, especially when you’re the one in the firing line.
As I pull to a stop in front of the main building, the jeers get louder. I roll my window back up, taking a few moments to contain myself before stepping out into the melee.
Someone bangs on my hood, and I jump, like a gunshot’s gone off beside me. No matter how many times I face this crowd, it doesn’t get easier. I used to find it easy to walk into hatred. It was a buzz, a challenge to beat. But now I’m tired.
It feels like everyone blames me. There are only so many times you can straighten your shoulders alone.
Finally, I unlock the car doors.
I locked them on impulse as I drove through the front gates, seeing the mob waiting for me. They’re always waiting for me. Sure, they’ll shout at the men too, but I’m the easier target. Or they think I am.
I’m the face attached to all the articles.
As I step out, my pink wellies catch my eye. They lift my heart just a fraction. Nonsense among the gray.
I round the front of the car.