My parents walked into the ICU like they were walking into a slightly disappointing hotel room.
My mother, dressed in an immaculate cashmere sweater set and clutching a Birkin bag that I had bought her for her birthday, looked around the room with a deep frown of annoyance. My father trailed behind her, checking his expensive smartwatch, looking equally put-upon.
“Geez, Sarah,” my mother complained, stepping up to the foot of my bed. She didn’t look at the heart monitor. She didn’t look at the IV lines snaking into my arms. She didn’t even notice the blood seeping through the thick white bandages wrapped tightly around my torso. “I told you we were coming eventually. Why didn’t you text us the room number? We had to wait at the front desk for ten minutes.”
“And the parking here is an absolute nightmare,” my father chimed in, crossing his arms. “I had to park the Mercedes in the public lot. And why is it so freezing in this room? You should ask them to turn the AC down.”
They stood there, two perfectly healthy, wealthy people whose entire lifestyle was funded by my eighty-hour work weeks, complaining about parking while I lay bleeding internally.
“Do you have any idea how panicked Lily was when she heard you went to the hospital?” my mother continued, her tone accusatory, as if my car crash was a personal insult to my sister. “She has anxiety, Sarah, you know this! We had to promise to buy her that new convertible she wanted just to calm her nerves. Your father already put down the deposit using your supplementary card.”
They didn’t see the monitors. They didn’t see the pale, bruised skin of my face. They only saw an inconvenience.
I didn’t say a word. I didn’t cry. I didn’t try to explain the severity of my injuries or beg for their sympathy. The time for seeking their love was officially over.
I looked down at the legal document resting on the tray. With a steady hand, ignoring the searing pain in my side, I pressed the fountain pen into the paper and signed my name. The signature was bold, aggressive, and entirely final.
My father finally noticed the woman in the sharp suit standing beside my bed. He frowned, pointing a finger at Naomi.
“Who is that?” he demanded, his voice dropping into the authoritative tone he only used when he wanted to intimidate someone. “Is she an insurance lawyer? Because if she’s trying to get you to sign a lowball settlement for the car crash, don’t do it. We can sue the other driver for millions. Lily needs a new wardrobe for her trip to Paris.”
Naomi smoothly pulled the document from under my pen. She pulled a notary stamp from her briefcase and stamped the paper with a heavy, satisfying thud.
She placed the document back into her briefcase, clicked the locks shut, and turned to face my parents. She stood at her full height, physically inserting herself between them and my hospital bed, acting as an impenetrable shield.
“No, sir,” Naomi said, her voice dropping the temperature in the room by ten degrees. “I am not an insurance lawyer. I am Naomi Vance, Senior Partner at Vance & Sterling. And as of ten seconds ago, I am Sarah’s sole legal and medical proxy.”
My mother’s face scrunched in confusion. “Medical proxy? What are you talking about? Are you crazy, Sarah? I am your mother! I am your next of kin! I have the legal right to decide everything regarding your care!”
Naomi didn’t flinch. She reached back into her briefcase and pulled out a second, thicker document.
“You used to have that right, Mrs. Davis,” Naomi said, her eyes narrowing with the lethal precision of a predator closing in on its prey. “Until thirty seconds ago. But medical proxy isn’t all she just stripped from your hands.”
Chapter 4: The Financial Cutoff
