Aldric rushed to Lorraine's side. Emma was quicker.
She shoved past him with surprising force, falling to her knees beside Lorraine. Sylvia hovered just behind, arms half-raised, ready to catch her if she swayed. But Lorraine didn't move. She didn't speak. She simply stared at the diagonal slash across her painted mouth.
Of course, Elyse loved her most when she was silent.
Elyse had always won when Lorraine had stayed quiet; back in their father's house, back when silence meant survival, and back when Elyse's smiles held approval only if Lorraine stayed small.
But even then, had Elyse ever truly won?
Lorraine's heart twisted. The painting wasn't just a portrait—it was the only one ever made of her. Even as a child, no one had cared enough. Elyse had portraits done twice a year: one alone in her finery, another with the family, always in the center. Lorraine had stood in corners, out of frame, unnoticed, forgotten.
This had been the exception.
