Read Chapter 36: The Last Rehab

The hospital corridor smelled of antiseptic and cold coffee, a combination that had become as familiar to Julien as the scent of liniment and wet grass. He sat on the edge of the gurney in his surgical gown, the thin fabric doing nothing against the air conditioning, and watched the double doors at the end of the hall where they would take him in less than an hour.

Camille stood beside him, her fingers wrapped around his. She'd been quiet since they'd checked in, her professional calm fractured by something softer, more vulnerable. He could feel the tremor in her hand, barely there, like the vibration of a tuning fork.

"Your heart rate is up," he said, a weak attempt at humor.

"You're about to have your shoulder rebuilt. Mine's allowed to be up." She squeezed his fingers. "I checked you in under the name Marchand. The press hasn't caught on yet, but it's only a matter of time."

Antoine stood near the window, his hands clasped behind his back, watching the Mediterranean glint in the distance. He hadn't spoken much since they'd arrived, and Julien understood. This was his fault, in a way—or at least, the guilt of Vincent's death and the years of silence had led them here, to this moment where Julien's career hung by a thread of surgical thread.

"Father," Julien said, and Antoine turned. "Come here."

Antoine crossed the corridor, his steps measured, and stopped before the gurney. Up close, Julien could see the weariness in his father's eyes, the years of secrets etched into his face. The old man had aged a decade in the past week.

"I want you to know," Julien said, "whatever happens in there, I don't blame you. Not anymore."

Antoine's jaw tightened. "You should. If I'd told you the truth about Vincent years ago—"

"You'd have lost your pension. Your reputation. Everything you built." Julien shook his head. "You did what you thought was right. I can't hate you for that."

Camille stepped aside, giving them space, and Antoine took her place at Julien's side. For a long moment, neither spoke. Then Antoine reached into his jacket and pulled out a slim manila envelope, worn at the edges.

"I kept copies," he said quietly. "Original investigation files, medical reports, testimony transcripts. Everything Delacroix and his people tried to bury." He placed the envelope on the gurney beside Julien. "If something happens to me before the board meeting, or if they try to discredit me, you'll have the evidence."

Julien stared at the envelope, then up at his father. "You should have burned these years ago. They could have come after you."

"They did come after me. I just never let them find anything." Antoine's voice cracked, just slightly. "I've spent twenty years protecting a club that was already poisoned. I won't let Vincent's memory be used as a weapon anymore. And I won't let them take you down too."

A nurse appeared at the end of the hall, clipboard in hand. "Monsieur Valois? We're ready for you."

Julien's throat tightened. He looked at Camille, who had returned to his side, her eyes bright with unshed tears. He reached for her hand again, pulling her close.

"I'm not afraid," he said, and he meant it. "I've played in packed stadiums with broken ribs, faced down tackles that should have ended me, stood in front of Moreau and Delacroix knowing they wanted to destroy me." He glanced at his father. "I've lost a brother, gained a father back, and found something I didn't know I was looking for." His eyes found Camille's. "Whatever happens in there, I've already won."

Camille pressed her forehead to his. "You're going to be fine. And if you're not—" Her voice broke, and she steadied it. "If you're not, we'll figure it out. Together."

"Together," he echoed.

The nurse cleared her throat, gentle but insistent. "Monsieur Valois, we have a surgical window. The anesthesiologist is waiting."

Julien nodded and swung his legs off the gurney, then paused. He turned to Antoine.

"Before I go—the meeting. It's tomorrow at nine. If I'm still under—"

"I'll handle it," Antoine said firmly. "Roland has the drive. Moreau's testimony is locked in. I'll speak. You just focus on coming back to us."

Julien reached for Antoine's hand, something he hadn't done since he was a boy, and clasped it firmly. "Thank you. For everything. For telling the truth."

Antoine's eyes glistened, but he didn't look away. "You're my son. I should have told you years ago."

The nurse guided Julien toward the double doors, and Camille walked with him as far as they'd let her. At the threshold, she stopped, her fingers slipping from his.

"I'll be right here," she said. "When you wake up, I'll be here."

He smiled, a crooked, tired smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I know."

The doors swung shut behind him, and Camille stood alone in the corridor, the antiseptic smell suddenly overwhelming. Antoine moved to her side, placing a hand on her shoulder.

"He's strong," Antoine said. "Stronger than he looks."

She nodded, but her mind was elsewhere, replaying the conversation she'd had with Roland Petit that morning, the one she hadn't told Julien about. The interview she'd given the journalist had gone live at dawn—her full confession, unedited, unfiltered. By now, half of France had probably read it. The comments would be brutal, the scrutiny relentless.

But that wasn't what worried her.

Roland had called her twenty minutes before they'd arrived at the hospital. The news had been brief, clipped: Élise Fournier had been released from questioning, her lawyer citing insufficient evidence. She was back at the club offices, and Delacroix had scheduled an emergency meeting with the board—two hours before the official vote.

"He's going to try to kill the motion before it reaches the floor," Roland had said. "If he gets his way, your confession won't matter. The evidence won't matter. He'll bury it all in procedural votes and call for a new board."

Camille hadn't told Julien. Not now, not before surgery. It would have only distracted him, and he needed his mind clear, his body relaxed. But now, standing in the corridor with the clock ticking toward the surgery's end, she felt the weight of the secret pressing down on her chest.

Antoine must have noticed the shift in her expression. "What is it?"

She hesitated, then pulled out her phone and showed him the message from Roland. Antoine read it, his face hardening.

"Delacroix is moving the meeting up," he said. "He knows we're vulnerable. You're here, Julien's under anesthesia, and he thinks he can slip through the window before we can regroup."

"He might be right." Camille's voice was tight. "Roland says if Delacroix gets his emergency session, he can table a motion to dissolve the reform committee. Everything we've built—the evidence, the testimony—it all becomes moot."

Antoine's jaw set. He looked toward the double doors where Julien had disappeared, then back at Camille.

"How long until the surgery's done?"

"Two to three hours. Maybe more if there are complications."

"And how long until Delacroix's meeting?"

Camille checked the time on her phone. "Four hours. He probably thinks we're all pinned here."

Antoine was quiet for a long moment. Then he pulled out his own phone, scrolling through contacts.

"What are you doing?" Camille asked.

"Calling Roland. And then I'm calling a few old contacts from the investigation." He met her eyes, and for the first time since she'd met him, Antoine Valois looked like a man who'd been waiting his whole life for this fight. "Delacroix wants to move the timeline. Fine. We move it too. If Julien can't be at that meeting, I'll make sure the meeting comes to us."

Camille stared at him. "You can't just—"

"I can." He held up the manila envelope he'd given Julien, which he'd retrieved from the gurney before the nurses took it. "I have original documents, signed testimonies, and the medical examiner's private notes. Moreau's drive has the financials. And I have one thing Delacroix doesn't have anymore."

"What's that?"

Antoine's smile was thin and cold. "Nothing left to lose."

The double doors at the end of the corridor remained closed, the surgery underway, but Camille felt the ground shift beneath her feet. Delacroix was making his move.

And Antoine was about to make his.