Page 119 of Bound By Crimson

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Back in her room, Lyric sat at the vanity and stared at herself. Her eyes were red, her face flushed with frustration. She tried to stay composed, tried to keep her posture poised, but a tear escaped and slipped down her cheek.

She wiped it away.

Don’t let her see you cry.

But it wasn’t just the nursery. It was everything—the way the house breathed at night, the way Kai hadn’t called, the way she didn’t feel like herself anymore. She was floating in someone else’s life.

And now they wanted her baby, too.

She dressed quietly for dinner, smoothing her hands over her gown as if that might flatten the chaos in her chest.

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Mrs. Thornwick was already seated when she arrived, sipping a glass of red wine like it was part of a ritual.

Lyric sat down, her voice soft. “I wanted to say again... I really think it would be better if the nursery was closer to me. I won’t be able to hear the baby cry from that far away.”

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Thornwick said, waving her hand. “Stop being difficult. Every new mother thinks she’ll be alert all night, but exhaustion changes everything. It’s better this way.”

Lyric dropped it. There was no point.

Dinner dragged.

About halfway through the meal, Mrs. Thornwick tilted her head and looked her over.

“You’ve filled out quite a bit,” she said casually.

Lyric blinked. “I—excuse me?”

“Your face is rounder. It’s the pregnancy, I suppose. But do be careful. Some women never lose it. And Malachai does like his women slim.”

Lyric swallowed hard, her appetite vanishing.

Mrs. Thornwick dabbed her lips with her napkin. “He always preferred elegance. Soft, yes, but refined. He used to say I had the perfect figure.”

She glanced across the table, her eyes cold and sharp. “Maybe he wouldn’t have left if you hadn’t let yourself go so early. Five months in and already…”

Lyric couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. Her hands trembled in her lap, but she gritted her teeth and said nothing.

She would cry later. Not here. Not in front of her.

But deep down, a crack widened.

Not just in her heart—but in the illusion.

Something wasn’t right.

And it was getting harder to pretend otherwise.

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That night, the silence felt different. Not like peace. Like a warning.

Lyric lay in bed, staring up at the ornate ceiling. Every creak in the walls, every whisper of wind against the glass sounded louder—closer. The shadows stretched long and sharp across the wallpaper. That same floral pattern seemed to move in the moonlight.

She told herself it was just her nerves, the house, the loneliness. But after the conversation with Mrs. Thornwick earlier, everything felt darker.

Then—

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