Page 133 of Bound By Crimson

“I sketch,” Lyric said, voice barely above a whisper. “Design work, mostly.”

“Ah yes,” another said. “You’re the one from the little boutique. I saw it once. Quaint.”

Another voice, soft as a scalpel: “I always say there’s a difference between designers and decorators. Professionals versus hobbyists.”

Lyric’s throat closed. Her hands curled into fists beneath the table.

By the time tea was over, her stomach ached more from tension than from the dainty sandwiches.

Mrs. Thornwick stood and brushed Lyric’s shoulder with a faux-sweet smile.

“You were lovely, dear. Just lovely. I think the ladies were quite taken with you.”

The women offered vague compliments and half-hearted goodbyes. One said, “You’re so brave, dear,” with a pitying pat on Lyric’s arm.

As the door closed behind them, Mrs. Thornwick turned back to the tea tray, humming softly.

Lyric sat frozen in her chair, hands clenched in her lap.

And for the first time, she saw it clearly—

The smile.

The way Mrs. Thornwick had watched.

She hadn’t just allowed the cruelty.

She had orchestrated it.

Every jab. Every humiliation.

Not just for control.

For pleasure.

She liked watching people suffer.

And Lyric was trapped inside her masterpiece.

Chapter Forty-Three

Porcelain Performance

The house was too quiet.

Lyric walked slowly down the long corridor toward the nursery, the silk of her blouse clinging to her back with sweat she hadn’t noticed until now. Her skin felt tight. Her breath came shallow and sharp.

The memory of tea still burned in her chest—every passive-aggressive jab, every insult disguised as conversation. Her mother’s locket still hung around her neck, but now it felt like a noose.

She stepped into the nursery.

It was pristine. Over-decorated. Smothered in blue and gold and ivory, like a baby was being born into royalty instead of reality. Velvet drapes. Carved furniture. A mobile that spun silently above the crib—its golden animals suspended in a mockery of innocence.

None of it was hers.

She hadn’t chosen a single item. She hadn’t been asked. Not once.

And then—