Page 149 of Bound By Crimson
She tilted her head back, eyes to the sky, and whispered,
“Why does it always feel like I’m losing something I just started to have?”
The wall said nothing.
It just stood there—unmoving.
Uncaring.
But she would return to it again—she always did.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Holding Her Breath
It had been six days since Kai left.
Lyric kept track by the little notes she scratched into the corner of her sketch book—just a simple tally mark each morning after the maids opened her curtains. The days were long. The house echoed. Her body felt heavier with every hour. A dull ache clung to her hips, and her ankles swelled no matter how much she propped them up. She was only a month from giving birth now, if she had her weeks right. She wasn't really sure.
Mrs. Thornwick had been… present.
Not cruel. Not kind. Just present. In every room. At every meal. With eyes that never blinked long enough to let Lyric breathe.
She had learned how to be polite. Learned how to smile just right. Say thank you, nod softly, excuse herself at just the right moment. It was a performance. Every day. Every word. But she did it—for Kai. For the baby. For the dream she had once believed in.
The sun had finally broken through the clouds that morning, so Mrs. Thornwick suggested they take their tea on the back veranda.
“You need fresh air,” she said. “You’re looking… puffy.”
Lyric said nothing. Just followed.
They sat in high-backed white chairs, iron scrollwork curling like vines beneath them. The cushion beneath Lyric was stiff and cracked in places, the fabric scratchy against the backs of her thighs. A maid brought out a silver tray of lemon tea and placed it between them before vanishing without a word.
Lyric folded her hands over her stomach, feeling the faint kick of life beneath her skin. Her skin felt hot, her breath tight in her chest.
Mrs. Thornwick poured tea without offering her any. Then, with the same delicacy, she reached into the pocket of her cardigan and pulled out a slim silver case. She opened it. Removed a cigarette and lit it with steady hands.
The first exhale came slow—purposeful.
The smoke was acrid. Thick. It clung to Lyric’s nose, sharp as burning cloth.
The second exhale came harder, and the smoke rolled deliberately across the table—into Lyric’s face.
She turned her head slightly, coughed into her shoulder, then offered a weak smile. “Do you mind if I… I think I’ll just step over here.”
She stood, bracing her back with one hand, moving just a few paces away toward the railing. Her hand trembled slightly.
“What are you doing?” Mrs. Thornwick asked. Her voice was flat, unreadable.
Lyric looked over her shoulder. “I’m sorry. I just don’t want the baby to be around cigarette smoke.”
Mrs. Thornwick took another drag. Then she smiled—cold and pressed tight. “You’ll come back and sit down.”
A pause.
“This is my home. I’ll smoke where I like. And you’ll sit with me like a civilized woman.”
Lyric froze. Her hand instinctively moved to her belly.
