Chapter 4: Daughter vs. The Mistress's Dog
Seraphina's POV
The rain hammered against my windshield as I sped through Apex's congested streets toward Brightwood Schools. My knuckles had turned white from gripping the steering wheel too hard, but I couldn't help it. The school administrator's voice still echoed in my head: "Mrs. Ravencroft, your daughter is still waiting to be picked up. We've tried reaching Mr. Ravencroft, but he's not answering."
My heart clenched as I remembered Isolde's excited phone call this morning: "Mommy, guess what? Daddy promised to pick me up today! So you don't have to come get me!"
Her voice had been so full of hope, of childish excitement at the rare attention from her father. I should have known better than to trust Dorian's promises.
I finally pulled up to the school's entrance. And there she was—my daughter, her small figure huddled in the doorway, shoulders hunched forward, golden-brown curls hanging limply around her face. My heart broke into a thousand pieces.
Blinking back tears, I forced a smile and stepped out into the downpour, not bothering with an umbrella.
"Isolde!" I called, rain immediately soaking through my blouse.
She looked up, her beautiful brown eyes wide and red-rimmed. The moment she saw me, her face crumpled.
"Mommy," she whimpered.
I rushed to her, dropping to my knees on the wet concrete, pulling her into my arms. "Mommy's here now. I'm going to take you home, sweetie. Don't cry."
But even as I said it, I was fighting my own tears. I regretted ever getting involved with Dorian. Perhaps in another life, Isolde could have been born to parents who both cherished her. Instead, she was here, soaked and shivering, waiting for a father who had better things to do.
By the time we reached our house in the Oakwood neighborhood, Isolde was burning with fever. I laid her in bed, my stomach knotting with worry as I felt the unnatural heat radiating from her small face.
My phone rang. Olivia's name flashed on the screen.
"Mrs. Ravencroft, I'm so sorry," she began, her voice tight with obvious discomfort. "Mr. Ravencroft had an urgent matter come up, and he asked me to pick up Miss Isolde. But I was finishing some paperwork and didn't see his message until it was too late. I just arrived at the school and learned you'd already collected her..."
"Where did he go?" I asked, my voice sharper than I intended. I took a deep breath. "Olivia, as Mrs. Ravencroft, I believe I have the right to know where my husband went instead of picking up his daughter as promised."
There was a pause, and I could practically see Olivia weighing her words carefully.
"Miss Hawthorne's pet dog became ill," she finally said. "She was... quite distraught and asked Mr. Ravencroft to come see it. That's why he..."
I closed my eyes, a bitter laugh threatening to escape. My child was worth less than Belladonna's dog. How perfectly, cruelly fitting.
"Thank you for letting me know," I said quietly, ending the call before my composure cracked completely.
"Mommy?" Isolde's weak voice came from the doorway. I turned to find her leaning against the frame, her small face flushed with fever. "Please don't be mad at Daddy. It wasn't his fault."
I crossed the room and knelt before her. "Sweetie, you should be in bed."
"Daddy has a lot of important things to do. I understand," she insisted, her eyes bright with fever and unshed tears. "Mommy, I just want you to be happy."
In that moment, I felt my world collapse. My four-year-old daughter was trying to comfort me, to protect me from disappointment, when it should have been the other way around.
Before I could respond, Isolde broke into a violent coughing fit. She doubled over, one small hand against her chest, the other covering her mouth. When she pulled her hand away, it was stained with bright red blood.
"Isolde!" I gasped, my voice breaking with terror.
Her face, already pale from fever, turned ghost-white. "I'm okay, Mommy," she whispered, even as more blood trickled from the corner of her mouth.
I scooped her up, my entire body trembling. "I'm taking you to the hospital," I said, grabbing my car keys. The sight of blood on my daughter's lips had turned my world into a nightmare.
The waiting room at Memorial Grace was mercifully quiet as we waited for Isolde's blood test results. She sat beside me, a small blanket wrapped around her shoulders, her body occasionally shaking with suppressed coughs.
"Mommy," she asked suddenly, her voice so small I had to lean closer to hear, "does Daddy hate me?"
The question pierced my heart. I found myself speechless, choking on the truths I couldn't bear to give her: No, baby. He doesn't hate you. He hates me, and you're just collateral damage. If you were Belladonna's child, you'd be the center of his world.
Instead, I swallowed hard and lied. "No, Isolde. Daddy doesn't hate you. He's just... very busy with work."
She gave me a weak smile that didn't reach her eyes. Her small hand reached up to touch my cheek. "Mommy, you need to be happy."
Those simple words nearly shattered me. I forced myself to smile back, though I knew it probably looked more like a grimace.
Suddenly, a familiar cold voice cut through the quiet: "Doctor!"
My spine stiffened instantly. I looked up to see Dorian striding through the emergency room entrance, carrying Belladonna in his arms.
"Daddy!" Isolde called out, her face lighting up despite everything.
Dorian's head turned at the sound, his eyes widening slightly when he spotted us. For a moment—just a fleeting second—something like recognition and perhaps even concern crossed his face.
Then Belladonna clutched his sleeve. "Dorian, it hurts," she whimpered, and just like that, his attention snapped back to her.
"The doctor will be here soon," he assured her, his voice gentler than I'd heard it in years.
A doctor hurried out, and after a brief exchange with Dorian, they disappeared down a hallway, not once looking back at us.