Page 53 of Bound By Crimson

Chapter Fifty-Three

Folded Napkins and Forked Tongues

There didn’t seem to be a point anymore.

Kai had said one week. Seven days. But this morning, when the maids opened her curtains like always, the light felt different. Harsher. Like it was mocking her.

It was Day 8.

Lyric sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the phone in her hand. It felt like a weight.

She’d already walked out to the garden three times that morning. She stood by the back wall, waiting. Hoping. But nothing had come through.

The first time, it had rung through to voicemail. The second hadn’t even rung. The third gave her nothing but silence—then that mechanical voice:

The person you are trying to reach is unavailable. Please try again later.

She didn’t know what stung more: the silence, or the sterile cheer of the voicemail.

She placed the phone down and stood, wincing slightly at the pressure in her lower back. Her body was swollen. Heavy. The baby had dropped lower in her belly, making everything feel like she was walking through water. She shuffled to the window and looked out toward the horizon.

No car.

No movement.

Just an empty long drive lined with trees that eventually led to large, locked gates.

She told herself he was just busy. Tied up. Maybe traffic. Maybe bad reception.

She told herself that again while she got dressed.

She also told herself that, while she walked into the breakfast room and saw Mrs. Thornwick already seated at the long table, sipping tea from a china cup rimmed in gold.

The morning light caught the thin scar on her cheek—a twisted souvenir from her teacup performance.

“Good morning,” Mrs. Thornwick said, her voice laced with sugar.

Lyric nodded quietly and took the seat at the far end of the table. Her phone sat in her pocket. She resisted the urge to check it again. Besides, she likely had no service.

Mrs. Thornwick smiled, folding her napkin gently in her lap.

“You’re looking very tired this morning. Didn’t sleep well?”

Lyric reached for her water.

“I was expecting Kai last night.”

“Oh, were you?”

Something in her tone crept across Lyric’s skin.

“Yes,” Lyric said. “He said he’d only be gone a week.”

Mrs. Thornwick lifted her tea to her lips and sipped. Then, casually, she said,

“He called me last night. Said he’s been delayed. Might be another few days.”

Lyric’s chest tightened.

“He—he called you?” she asked, trying to keep her voice even.

“Of course,” Mrs. Thornwick said, as if it were obvious. “He tells me everything.”

Lyric stared at the tablecloth. A slow dread unfurled inside her .

“Why didn’t he call me?” she whispered.

“Perhaps he didn’t want to worry you. Or perhaps he’s learned that you… overreact.”

Mrs. Thornwick’s smile widened.

Lyric blinked quickly, fighting off the sudden sting behind her eyes.

Mrs. Thornwick reached for a croissant, broke it in half, and buttered it slowly.

“You know, dear, the Thornwick men… they like to have their fun.”

The words hit like ice water.

Mrs. Thornwick continued, calm and measured, her knife scraping delicately against the toast.

“It’s a family trait, I’m afraid. They crave passion, mystery, indulgence. You can’t expect them to be… domestic. Not for long.”

Lyric swallowed. Her throat burned.

“He’s not like that,” she said quietly—though the note flashed into her mind like a cruel whisper she couldn’t unsee.

“Isn’t he?”

Mrs. Thornwick looked at her then—really looked—and there was something gleaming in her eyes. Hunger. Victory.

“Oh, sweet girl… how fun can you possibly be for him right now? Look at yourself. You’re waddling around here with swollen ankles and tangled hair, falling asleep before dinner. You think he looks at you and sees the same woman he brought home from New York?”

Lyric stiffened.

Mrs. Thornwick leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowed with interest.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d suspect you got yourself pregnant on purpose. To trap him. To get the Thornwick name.”

Lyric’s breath caught.

“No… no, that’s not true.”

Mrs. Thornwick smiled sweetly.

“Of course not, dear.”

But the way she sipped her tea after said otherwise.

Silence settled thick in the room .

Lyric could hear her own heartbeat, fast and panicked.

She pushed her chair back. Stood. Her breath was shallow. Her stomach felt tight—not from the baby—but from something deeper. Anger. Embarrassment. Fear.

“Excuse me,” she said, almost choking on the words.

Mrs. Thornwick nodded.

“Do be careful not to stress yourself. We wouldn’t want anything… premature, would we?”

Lyric fled the room before the tears came. She didn’t want Mrs. Thornwick to see them.

She didn’t want to give her the pleasure.