Page 43 of Bound By Crimson

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—

Footsteps behind her.

Mrs. Thornwick .

“Isn’t it beautiful?” the woman asked casually, sipping from a delicate porcelain teacup. “Every Thornwick child deserves a proper welcome. A legacy.”

Lyric didn’t answer. Her hands trembled at her sides.

“You’re a lucky girl,” Mrs. Thornwick continued, stepping closer. “So many women would be grateful for help. Especially girls without mothers. Without family. Without… refinement. ”

Lyric turned slowly. Her voice cracked. “You’re not helping.”

Mrs. Thornwick blinked. “Pardon?”

“You’re not helping,” Lyric said again, louder this time. Her voice shook, but it didn’t stop. “You’re controlling. You’re rewriting everything I want. Everything that matters to me.”

Mrs. Thornwick raised an eyebrow. “Is that how you see it?”

Lyric’s fists clenched. Her heart pounded. Her body trembled with too many months of silence.

She threw her arms out wide, her voice rising. “See all this?! I don’t want this! I don’t want this room! My baby will not be staying in this room!”

Mrs. Thornwick’s expression didn’t change.

“I don’t want him named by you! And you don’t get to tell me whether I’ll have a natural birth or not! That’s none of your business!”

Mrs. Thornwick took another slow sip of tea, smiling with closed lips. The kind of smile that wasn’t a smile at all.

“I see,” she said softly.

And then—

She smashed the porcelain cup against the wall with a sharp, echoing crack.

Lyric flinched. The sound ricocheted through the room.

Before she could process what was happening, Mrs. Thornwick dragged the broken handle across her own cheek. Blood bloomed instantly, stark against her pale skin.

Lyric screamed—high-pitched and horrified.

“Help!” Mrs. Thornwick shrieked, falling dramatically to the floor. “She attacked me! She cut me!”

Lyric stood frozen. Breathless. Paralyzed .

The sound of footsteps thundered from the hall. Staff rushed in. Gasps. Shouts. One maid screamed.

Mrs. Thornwick lay trembling on the nursery floor, blood running down her face.

“She lost control,” she sobbed. “She snapped—she threw the teacup and then—she cut me! I tried to calm her down, but she…”

All eyes turned to Lyric.

She looked down at her own hands, half-expecting them to be covered in blood.

They weren’t.

“No,” she whispered. “No, I—I didn’t—”

The faces staring back didn’t believe her.

Something fractured inside her.

She turned and fled—down the hallway, to the west wing, into her room.

She slammed the door shut and locked it with shaking fingers.

Her body sank to the floor as sobs tore free from her chest.

She was trapped.

And now… she was the monster.