The Daughter He Never Filmed Chapter 02

The Daughter He Never Filmed Chapter 02

The next morning, I went to Dad’s studio.

When I pushed the door open, only his assistant Leo Moran was there, calibrating gear.

“Elara, hey,” Leo said.

“Uncle Leo, where’s my dad?” I asked.

“Vance went to a meeting at the station,” he said. “He’ll be back later. Need him for something?”

“I’m looking for a USB drive,” I said.

I walked over to Dad’s editing desk.

It was buried in tapes and memory cards.

And there was Seraphina’s Vancouver photo.

Her by the campfire, boom pole in hand, corners pinned down with thumbtacks.

She looked so sweet in that shot.

I pulled open the drawer and fished around for my silver USB.

It held a documentary script I’d spent over a year developing.

About the last family farms in the Midwest.

I’d called it Hometown Chronicles.

Next week, Sundance’s doc platform opened for submissions.

I grabbed the drive, plugged it into the computer nearby, and wanted to print a draft.

The moment I opened the file, I froze.

Last modified, 11 PM the night before.

I clicked Properties.

The title had been changed to Four Seasons Journal.

And the author line.

Where it had said Elara Vance.

Was gone.

Replaced with three different words.

Seraphina Vance.

My fingertips went numb.

I scrolled down with the mouse.

Eighty pages of script.

From shot breakdowns to voiceover, even the camera notes I’d scribbled in the footers.

All untouched.

The only thing that had changed was the name.

The door swung open.

Dad and Mom walked in.

Seraphina trailed behind them, clutching a freshly printed binder.

The cover read Four Seasons Journal, by Seraphina Vance.

Seeing me at the computer, Dad paused mid-step.

“Elara, what are you doing at the studio this early?” he asked.

I yanked out the USB and turned around.

“Dad, that script is mine,” I said.

In my bag were the library microfiche copies I’d pulled after countless all-nighters.

Every ritual detail of farming festivals, from barn joinery to corn-harvest bonfire songs.

Collected by driving through a dozen Midwestern towns alone.

Dad’s face stayed blank.

He walked to his desk, pulled out his chair, and sat.

“I know it’s yours,” he said. “Your mother and I talked last night. We thought this subject would be perfect for Seraphina’s pitch.”

“Perfect for her?” I stared at his utterly unbothered face. “That’s my competition entry.”

“Your draft was too academic,” Mom said, setting down her bag and walking over. “Too theoretical, start to finish. Your sister’s got less experience, but she’s got warmth. Making her the on-camera presence will breathe life into this piece.”

“She doesn’t know the first thing about those farming traditions,” I said. “She can’t even tell a corn-harvest festival from maple-syrup season. How’s she supposed to be the face of it?”

“That’s why we need your script as the backbone,” Dad frowned, rapping his knuckles on the desk. “It’s a team effort. Your script is strong, Seraphina’s got presence—it’s a win-win.”

Win-win.

Using my blood, sweat, and tears and putting her name on it.

That’s win-win.

Seraphina stood to the side, biting her lip, eyes getting red.

“Sis, don’t be mad at Mom and Dad,” she said. “If it feels unfair, I’ll give the script back. I won’t pitch. I can’t do anything right anyway. I just cause trouble.”

She set the binder on the table.

Took a step back, shoulders trembling.

Mom instantly grabbed her hand, all concern.

“Don’t talk like that,” she said. “This was your father’s call. Can’t your sister show even a shred of generosity?”

Then she turned to me.

Her eyes were sharp.

“Elara, you two are sisters,” she said. “Maximizing resources is the smart play. Why are you always so petty? If your sister makes it big, you think she’d forget you?”

I looked at my mother.

My actual mother.

She was an ice-cold producer, trained to evaluate everything by ROI and the bigger picture.

“If the bigger picture means erasing my name, then I want no part of it,” I said.

I reached for the binder on the table.

“I’m not giving up this script.”

Dad slapped the table.

Not loud, but with heavy force.

“Elara, enough!” he said.

He stood, fixing me with a glare.

“Do you have any idea how many station connections I’ve burned to clear the path for this script? The gear’s rented, the crew’s booked. You pull the rug now and everybody’s left holding the bag?”

I knew.

Because two weeks ago, when I’d asked him to help me get an aerial team, he’d said budget was tight and he couldn’t approve it.

And then he’d turned around and thrown a full cinema-grade package at this Four Seasons Journal project.

“You’re the one using my work to pave the road,” I said.

“You’re the oldest,” Dad said, each word deliberate. “You can take the hit. Even if you start a new one from scratch right now, you’ll get it done.”

Same old line.

“Seraphina can’t,” I said. “She’s never faced real failure. She can’t handle pressure.”

I laughed.

A dry twitch of my lips.

Absurd.

“So because I can take it, I deserve to get robbed?” I asked.

“This isn’t robbery—this is resource allocation!” Mom cut in. “What’s with this attitude? We raised you to be independent and strong. You have to fight your sister for scraps now?”

I didn’t look at them anymore.

I looked down and clenched the USB in my palm.

Its silver shell bit into my skin.

“Fine,” I said quietly. “If this is resource allocation, then I wish her a smooth shoot.”

But inside, I knew better than anyone.

Arguing was pointless.

In their eyes, my pushback was pettiness.

My claim was narrow-mindedness.

Even if I’d spent over a hundred days writing it, if they decided Seraphina needed it more, they’d take it without a second thought.

Seraphina shot me a careful look.

“Sis, how about I buy you some boba later?” she asked.

“Don’t bother,” I said.

I hitched my tote bag higher and turned to leave.

As the door closed, I heard Dad say to Leo inside.

“This afternoon, dig out that old camcorder from storage and drop it off at Elara’s,” he said. “She can make do with that while she writes her new script.”

Old camcorder.

From when I was in middle school.

The station’s castoffs that couldn’t even do HD.

That was his allocation for me.

I stepped out of the building and the sunlight hit hard.

My phone buzzed.

A DM from my college advisor.

“Elara, the provincial slot deadline’s coming up,” he wrote. “Your Hometown Chronicles passed the first review. Make sure you get your dad’s studio endorsement stamp on it by next Wednesday and submit it.”

I stared at the message on the screen for a long time.

No endorsement stamp, no entry.

And that stamp was locked in Dad’s desk drawer.

I deleted the long explanation I’d typed out.

And replied with three words.

“Got it.”