Chapter 11
Chapter 11:
A whimper sliced through the stale air of the hotel room.
It was a small sound, fragile.
Isolde was awake before her eyes even opened. The maternal instinct honed over five years of sleepless nights needed only the distress of her child.
She sat up.
“Effie?” Isolde whispered.
She reached across the gap between the two queen beds. Her hand brushed Effie’s forehead.
She recoiled.
It wasn’t just warm. It was radiating heat, a dry, terrifying burn that seemed to scorch Isolde’s fingertips.
Isolde scrambled out of bed. She flicked on the bedside lamp. The yellow light flooded the room, revealing Effie’s face. It was flushed a deep, unnatural crimson. Her small chest was heaving, rising and falling in short, shallow gasps.
“Mommy…” Effie moaned, her eyes squeezing shut. “Cold. So cold p>
𝗥еa𝖽 𝗐it𝗁𝘰𝗎t iո𝘵𝗲r𝗿up𝘁𝘪𝘰𝗇𝘀 𝗈n ѕ.𝘤𝗈𝘮
Isolde grabbed the thermometer from her bag. She jammed it under Effie’s arm, counting the seconds. Her own hands were shaking so badly she almost dropped it.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
104.2°F.
Isolde felt the blood drain from her face. This wasn’t a cold. This wasn’t the flu. Effie had a history of respiratory issues, weak lungs from a premature birth that Grayson had always dismissed as “coddling p>
She ran to the suitcase, tearing through the zippers. Tylenol. Motrin. Anything.
Empty.
She had packed clothes. She had packed toys. She had packed the damn engineering textbooks. But in her haste to escape the suffocating toxicity of the penthouse, she had left the medicine cabinet untouched.
“Stupid,” she hissed at herself. “Stupid, stupid p>
Effie started to thrash, her voice rising in a delirious mumble. “Daddy… don’t go. Daddy, look at me p>
The words were a physical blow. Even in her delirium, Effie was begging for the man who hadn’t looked at her in three years.
Isolde ran to the bathroom, soaking a washcloth in cold water. She wrung it out and pressed it to Effie’s burning forehead. Steam seemed to rise from the contact.
She needed a hospital. She needed insurance information. She needed the pediatric specialist on retainer for the Lancaster family.
She grabbed her phone. The screen was bright in the dim room.
Grayson.
She didn’t want to call him. But Effie’s breathing was turning into a rattle. Pride was a luxury she couldn’t afford.
She hit dial.
It rang once. Twice.
Click.
The call ended. Sent straight to voicemail.
Isolde stared at the screen, her vision blurring. He had declined it. He had looked at his phone, seen her name, and pressed the red button.
She dialed again. Desperation clawed at her throat.
Pick up. Just pick up, you bastard.
“You have reached the voicemail of Grayson Lancaster. Please leave a message after the p>
Isolde threw the phone onto the bed. She didn’t leave a message. He wouldn’t listen to it anyway. He would assume she was calling to complain about money, or to beg to come home.
She looked at Effie. Her daughter’s lips were turning a pale shade of blue.
Isolde moved.