The Daughter He Never Filmed Chapter 07

The Daughter He Never Filmed Chapter 07

Dad came home like a ghost.

He pushed the door open.

Living room in shambles.

Mom sat on the couch, the black notebook open in front of her.

Her hair was disheveled, the usual producer composure gone.

She looked up when he came in, eyes red.

“Dominic-go find Elara,” she said. “She took everything.”

Dad looked at the notebook.

Walked over and picked it up.

Entry by entry, line by line.

All their “for your own good” poison, quantified, turned into scalpels, laid bare.

Elara had never complained.

She’d just recorded facts.

“Find her? Then what?” Dad collapsed onto the couch, voice hoarse. “She made the Berlin shortlist with Echoes of Ruin. Signed with Blackstone.”

Mom’s head snapped up, disbelief written across her face.

Just then, Seraphina came downstairs.

She didn’t know what had happened.

She saw her parents’ expressions and assumed they were still annoyed about her Four Seasons Journal cut

So she defaulted to deflection.

She grabbed a glass of water from the coffee table, took a sip, and sighed.

“If sis hadn’t thrown a fit and run off, deleting all her storyboard files in the process, i wouldn’t be

with this cut,” she said.

Dad closed his eyes.

Disgust pooled in him like spilled ink.

It finally hit him.

When someone has no talent, all their complaints just look ugly.

That night before bed.

Dad passed Seraphina’s half-open door.

Inside, her hushed voice on the phone.

“Did you see that? Elara’s cheap little film actually made the list,” she whispered.

“Just luck, obviously.”

“That script was written for me anyway. Now she’s off in LA, playing independent director. Once my Four

Seasons Journal drops, with the station backing it, I’ll crush her.”

Dad’s hand froze on the doorknob.

The sweet, innocent, “sis is so amazing” Seraphina.

On a private call, sounded as vicious as a fishwife haggling over pennies.

“Mom and Dad don’t care about her,” she went on. “That SmallHD monitor? I asked for it on purpose. Just to

see her squirm-without the guts to say boo to Dad. Priceless. Why should she get top marks without lifting

a finger while I have to buy my way in?”

A chill ran down Dad’s spine.

He shoved the door open.

It hit the wall with a crack.

Seraphina’s phone clattered to the floor.

“Dad… Dad, let me explain…” she stammered, eyes darting, the innocent mask shattered.

Dad stared at this daughter.

The one he’d favored for over a decade, poured all his resources and hopes into.

And felt nothing but utter, bleak strangeness.

He walked over.

Didn’t say a word.

Didn’t yell.

Just bent down, picked up her phone, and walked to her desk.

Unplugged the power supply from that four-thousand-dollar red-ring lens kit.

“Starting tomorrow, that gear goes back to the studio,” he said, voice cold as stone.

“If you can’t cut Four Seasons Journal, then don’t. From now on, if you want to shoot, use your own phone.”

“Dad!” Seraphina shrieked.

“Zip it,” Dad didn’t turn around. “Because polish isn’t about stacking gear.”

The same line he’d used to brush Elara off.

Now it landed back in his face like a slap.

Turns out real talent shines in the dark.

And what he’d coddled all this time was just mud that wouldn’t stick to the wall.

Back in the bedroom, Dad told Mom what he’d overheard.

Mom collapsed onto the bed.

Her prized “big picture” had crumbled to dust.

Their self-congratulatory balancing act-they’d just been accessories to a fool crushing a genius.

“Got it,” Mom said, looking at her phone. “Info from a private investigator I hired. Elara’s been in LA. The day after tomorrow, Blackstone Pictures is hosting a New Directors’ showcase reception. She’ll be there.”

Dad stood up and grabbed the black notebook.

“First thing tomorrow,” he said. “We’re going to LA.”