Lyra's laugh, sharp and humorless, echoed in the grand drawing room before dying out, leaving a heavy, ringing silence in its wake. Anne stared at her, her defiant expression faltering for the first time, a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. She had expected anger, arguments, negotiation—but not this. Not mockery.
She pressed on, her voice regaining its hard, demanding edge. "Blood just can't be cut off so easily," she insisted, turning her gaze to Elena, the real authority in the room. "This baby, my baby, belongs to this family. You have a duty. You need to be responsible for it."
"That's rich, coming from you, Anne Ellington," Lyra said, her voice dripping with a cold, quiet contempt. The laughter was gone, replaced by a piercing stare. "Aren't you the one who cut off your own mother when she became of no help to you? You speak of duty and blood, but only when it serves you."
