Camille Moreau’s father signed her death warrant while she was still breathing.
Lying under the cold fluorescent lights of a private clinic in Lyon, her body shattered after a violent car accident, Camille could hear every word despite the beeping machines around her. The doctors believed she was in a deep coma. So did her father.
“We won’t pay for the operation,” Philippe Moreau stated coldly, zipping up his Italian coat. “Take her off life support if her condition worsens.”
The silence that followed was more intense than the shock of the accident itself.
Beside him, his stepmother Isabelle sighed in exasperation, as if this whole affair was merely disturbing her vacation in Courchevel.
“Mr. Moreau, your daughter can still pull through,” the surgeon replied cautiously. “The injuries are serious, but we have a real chance of saving her.”
Philippe gave a dry laugh.
“Save what exactly?” “Since her mother’s death, this girl is useless.”
The pen slid across the papers.
Refusal of resuscitation.
Camille felt panic tear at her chest. She wanted to open her eyes, scream, snatch the papers from her father’s hands. But her body refused to obey.
The memories of the accident came back in fragments. The rain on the ring road. The headlights of a black SUV. A sudden acceleration. Then the impact.
The SUV belonged to her father.
She was certain of it.
“What if she wakes up?” Isabelle whispered.
Philippe replied without hesitation:
“She won’t wake up.”
But Camille did wake up.
