Page 69 of Bound By Crimson

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Twist the Knife

She heard the key turn before she heard the knock.

A pointless gesture—they never waited for permission.

Lyric stood slowly, her body sore from too many nights on the same mattress, her back aching under the weight she carried. She braced herself, staring at the door, heart climbing toward her throat.

The handle slowly turned.

And there she was.

Editha Thornwick.

Framed by the doorway like a queen entering her throne room. Her arms were folded across her chest. Her hair was immaculately pinned. Her expression was casual—like she was simply stopping in for tea.

Lyric’s eyes flicked toward the doorway—just over Editha’s shoulder.

And like always, Charles stood there looming.

“Well,” she said, looking around the room. “Cozy, isn’t it?”

Lyric didn’t respond.

Editha’s gaze wandered the space, her lips twitching into a smirk. Then her eyes landed on the wall—the one with the misaligned wallpaper. Her smile deepened .

“Redecorating, I see,” she said lightly. “Bold choice. Upside-down roses. A little chaotic, but maybe that’s your style.”

Lyric’s stomach twisted.

She gritted her teeth. “You knew I was up there.”

Editha stepped further inside, ignoring the comment.

“I heard you made a mess in my study. Did you find what you were looking for?”

She tilted her head. “Did you enjoy playing detective?”

“Was it you?” Lyric spat. “Did you have them killed?”

Editha blinked, then smiled—too slowly. “You’ll have to be more specific, darling,” she said with a glint of amusement. “I’ve had a busy life.”

Lyric lunged toward her, rage crawling up her spine like wildfire—but the sudden, violent cramp in her abdomen stopped her mid-stride.

She gasped and doubled over, one hand bracing the bed, the other clutching her stomach.

Editha didn’t move to help. She didn’t even blink.

“You need to let me out,” Lyric hissed, teeth clenched.

Editha blinked slowly. “Let you out?”

She made a small sound in her throat—something between a laugh and a sigh.

“Oh, Lyric. That wouldn’t be safe.”

“For who?” Lyric snapped. “You? Him? Me?”

Editha’s smile faded just slightly. Just enough to show something colder underneath.

“For the baby,” she said.

Lyric’s chest seized. “I would never hurt him—”

“No?” Editha raised her eyebrows. “You ran out into the night. Rain pouring, hair soaked, screaming like a lunatic. I saw the marks you came home with. That wasn’t just reckless—it was dangerous.”

“I was scared,” Lyric whispered.

“And you should be,” Editha said softly. “Because it’s becoming very clear to me that you might not be ready to be a mother.”

Lyric flinched .

Editha walked to the table, picked up the untouched glass of water, and examined it like it belonged in a gallery.

“I had hoped you’d do better. Really, I did. But… some girls just don’t have the instincts.”

Outside, the wind howled against the estate walls, rattling the old windows like bones. Rain tapped softly on the glass like it was trying to remind Lyric of where she’d come from—and how far she was from escape.

The air felt stale and tight. The room smelled faintly of lavender and dust, like a place that had been preserved more than lived in.

Editha set the glass down gently.

“I think you should get some rest,” she said. “You’ll need your strength.”

Editha turned toward the door, her heels clicking softly on the hardwood.

But just before stepping out, she paused—

“Oh,” she said lightly, as if an afterthought had just occurred.

She plucked something from under her arm.

A glossy magazine.

She held it up between two fingers, then tossed it toward Lyric. It landed face up on the bed beside her.

“Thought you might enjoy some reading material.”

Then the door clicked shut behind her.

Lyric didn’t move at first. But her eyes drifted to the cover.

Kai.

On a red carpet.

And on his arm… a blonde woman.

Not just any blonde woman. The blonde woman. The one who wore the icy blue dress—with the sharp jaw and the smug, possessive stare from the Winter Gala.

Her.

The headline read:

"Heiress Hoax: Kai Thorn’s Mysterious Girlfriend Fakes Pregnancy, Vanishes—Spotted With Camilla Crawford in Paris."

Lyric’s breath caught in her throat .

The woman hadn’t just returned. She’d replaced her.

She stared at the cover.

Kai. There he was.

Smiling.

Confident.

With the woman from the Winter Gala happily on his arm.

The one who bumped into her with a sneer and whispered, “You must think he’s yours.” And “you’re just a phase.”

Lyric’s stomach turned.

Her eyes dropped to the caption again:

The name slammed into her like a fist.

Camilla Crawford.

Her breath caught.

Her pulse slowed, then surged.

C.C.

The note Kai hid in the nightstand weeks ago—scribbled in looping handwriting:

Thank you for last night - C.C.

She’d made herself believe it meant nothing.

But it meant everything.

This woman had been around all along.

Lyric stood frozen, one hand now bracing her lower back.

Her heart wrenched. She had to get out.

Her eyes went to the wall—to the upside-down wallpaper.

The secret she no longer had to hide.

“She already knows,” she whispered. “So why am I hiding it?”

She stepped toward the seam, her fingers curling as she reached for the edge of the paper—

But the next pain hit harder.

A deep, twisting clench that shot through her core and buckled her knees.

She cried out, staggering back toward the bed, one hand gripping the edge of the mattress, the other wrapped protectively around her stomach.

Not now .

Not yet.

She collapsed onto the bed, gasping for air, her eyes still locked on the flowers blooming the wrong way up the wall. Rain tapped harder now, like fingers drumming a warning.

Now I have nothing to lose.

But I can’t move.

Not yet .

She lay there, the scent of dust and old wood closing in around her, breathing through the pain—knowing what was coming, and knowing no one was coming to help her.