Forced To Marry My Cousin's Fiancé

Chapter 10: Chapter 10

Another week passed slowly inside the suffocating expanse of the Blackwood Estate.

By now, Lane had memorized the exact rhythm of her loneliness. She woke up early, prepared breakfast in the quiet of dawn, and packed Ethan’s lunch with meticulous care—even though she already knew, with a sickening certainty, what would happen to it.

She waited until his car cleared the iron gates, ate her own small portions alone afterward, and spent the remainder of the day wandering silently through enormous, echoing rooms that never truly felt warm.

The routine should have numbed her by now. It should have built a protective layer of callousness over her heart. Instead, somehow, the rejection cut deeper and hurt more with each passing day.

That morning, Lane woke even earlier than usual after another completely restless night. The heavy, exhausting fog of early pregnancy was becoming more pronounced lately, but she still forced her aching body out of bed before sunrise. She moved through the familiar motions with practiced quiet, preparing breakfast downstairs while the kitchen maids watched her from the periphery with a growing, heavy sympathy they tried desperately not to show openly.

Lane pretended not to notice their looks. She also pretended not to notice the way Ethan never touched a single thing she made. Even when she already knew the outcome. Even when, deep down, she understood the futility of it. Some stubborn, foolishly hopeful part of her still continued trying anyway.

After placing the hot food and the insulated lunch container neatly on the long dining table, Lane returned upstairs briefly to freshen up before Ethan came down.

A little later, when she heard the faint movement below signaling he was likely preparing to leave for the office, she slowly descended the grand staircase again. Halfway down the marble steps, muffled voices drifted up from the nearby kitchen corridor.

The maids were talking. Lane paused unconsciously, her hand freezing on the mahogany railing when she distinctly heard her own name.

"She’s genuinely too sweet for this house," one junior maid whispered, her tone laced with genuine sadness.

Another sighed quietly, the sound of silverware clinking softly. "I feel terrible every single morning watching her stand over that stove preparing all that food."

"She wakes up earlier than all of us just to make sure he has something fresh."

"And Mr. Blackwood still throws everything straight into the trash."

Lane froze. Her breath caught painfully, expanding like shards of glass in her chest.

The older maid lowered her voice further, though the words still carried perfectly through the quiet hallway. "The worst part of it is he knows she’s the one making it."

A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the kitchen.

Then another maid whispered softly, "She really doesn’t deserve to be treated like that."

Lane’s fingers tightened instinctively around the staircase railing until her knuckles turned entirely white. For a moment, she couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe properly.

He knew.

The realization shattered whatever fragile, naive composure she had left inside her chest. Every single morning. Ethan knew exactly she was the one preparing breakfast and packing lunch for him. And he still deliberately threw it away.

Not because he didn’t know. Not because he assumed the hired staff had prepared it. He knew it was her, and he rejected it explicitly because it came from her hands.

Lane suddenly felt incredibly, embarrassingly stupid. All this time, she had kept trying for the baby’s sake, desperately convincing herself that maybe he simply disliked feeling forced into this arrangement, maybe he just needed time to adjust, maybe eventually the ice between them would begin to thaw.

But Ethan had already made his feelings painfully clear. He didn’t want her efforts. He didn’t want her care. And judging by the absolute cruelty of the gesture, he didn’t want the child she was carrying either.

A sharp, physical ache radiated through her chest.

Suddenly, one of the maids stepped out from the kitchen doorway and looked up. Her eyes widened in immediate horror upon noticing Lane standing completely motionless on the stairs.

The entire corridor fell dead silent.

"Lane—"

The older maid immediately stepped forward, her face turning pale. "We’re so sorry, we didn’t mean to—"

Lane forced a small, hollow smile onto her face despite the fact that her heart was actively breaking. "It’s okay," she interrupted softly, cutting off the apology.

But her voice sounded incredibly thin, fragile even to her own ears. The maids looked absolutely devastated, their faces filled with guilt. Lane lowered her gaze quickly, refusing to let the burning tears form in front of the staff.

"I just... I forgot something upstairs," she whispered quietly, her voice cracking slightly.

Then she turned around and walked back up the steps before anyone could say another word to stop her.

The walk back to her room felt miles long, her legs heavy and numb. The moment the heavy bedroom door closed securely behind her, Lane’s composure finally cracked completely.

Tears slipped silently down her cheeks as she pressed a trembling hand against her mouth to stifle the sound of her own breathing.

He knew.

The thought repeated itself endlessly, like a cruel mantra inside her mind. Every kind thing she had tried to do to make this house a home had been knowingly, systematically discarded.

The humiliation of the act hurt almost as much as the rejection itself. Lane sat down slowly on the edge of the mattress, wiping at her eyes quickly, but the tears kept falling, hot and unbidden.

For the first time since moving into the Blackwood Estate, she didn’t just feel isolated. She felt entirely unwanted.

The profound silence inside the bedroom suddenly became completely unbearable. Lane looked toward her phone instinctively, picking it up before she could second-guess her own desperation.

Noah answered after the very second ring. "Lane?"

The moment she heard his familiar, grounding voice, her fragile restraint fractured further.

Noah noticed the shift instantly. "What happened?"

Lane shut her eyes tightly, leaning her head back. "Are you busy today, Noah?"

A brief pause stretched over the line. Then his tone changed completely, turning sharper, alert, and intensely focused. "What happened, Lane?"

"I just..." Her voice trembled slightly. "I don’t want to stay here alone right now. Please."

That was all Noah needed to hear. "I’m coming to get you."

"You don’t have to cancel your work—"

"I said I’m coming," he cut in, leaving absolutely no room for argument. "Wait for me."

Less than forty minutes later, Lane was sitting in the passenger seat of Noah’s car while soft, low-fi music played quietly in the background. Neither of them spoke much at first. Noah didn’t pressure her, nor did he demand an immediate explanation.

He simply drove calmly away from the estate and into the heart of the city, occasionally glancing toward her pale profile with quiet, intense concern.

Eventually, he broke the silence, his voice dropping to a softer register. "Do you want to tell me what happened back there?"

Lane stared out the window for a long moment, watching the city buildings blur past, before finally whispering, "Ethan knew."

Noah frowned slightly, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. "Knew what?"

"That I was the one making breakfast for him," Lane continued quietly, her eyes fixed on the glass. "The maids were talking about it this morning. Ethan knew the whole time."

Noah’s jaw tightened visibly, a muscle leaping in his cheek. "And he still ordered them to throw it away?"

Lane nodded weakly, looking down at her lap.

For several agonizing seconds, Noah said absolutely nothing. The silence inside the vehicle felt incredibly dangerous—far more intense than an outright outburst of anger would have been.

Finally, he exhaled slowly through his nose, his voice tight. "Lane."

She looked down silently, tracing the seam of her cardigan.

"You need to stop hurting yourself trying to earn affection from someone who is actively determined not to give it to you," he said bluntly.

The words stung because they were entirely, undeniably true. Lane rubbed at her tired eyes. "I wasn’t trying to make him love me, Noah."

"Then what exactly were you trying to do?"

She hesitated, her throat tightening, before answering honestly. "I just wanted things to feel a little less broken between us."

Noah’s hard expression softened slightly upon hearing that. Without another word, he signaled and changed directions sharply at the next major intersection.

Lane blinked, looking around at the unfamiliar streets. "Where are we going?"

"To get some actual food into you."

Despite the crushing weight of the morning, a tiny, involuntary smile almost appeared on her face. Noah noticed it immediately. "There it is."

"What?"

"A normal human expression."

Lane rolled her eyes faintly for the first time in days, the heavy tension in her shoulders loosening just a fraction.

An hour later, they were tucked away inside a cozy, dimly lit restaurant. Lane sat quietly eating a bowl of spicy noodles that she had randomly, intensely started craving over the last few days.

Noah watched her with a look of clear satisfaction every time she actually managed to finish several consecutive bites.

"You’ve been eating a bit better recently," he observed calmly, leaning back in his chair.

Lane looked up from her bowl. "How would you know that?"

"You look significantly less pale than you did last week."

She stared at him briefly, caught off guard, before looking back down at her food. Sometimes Noah noticed things entirely too carefully, but today, she appreciated that attentiveness more than she wanted to admit.

They spent hours together after lunch—talking, walking through a quiet park, and consciously avoiding any heavy, painful topics. For the first time in weeks, the suffocating pressure crushing Lane’s chest loosened significantly.

Around late afternoon, Noah insisted on taking her to a nearby shopping district after noticing that most of her structured clothes were becoming visibly uncomfortable around her waist.

"You’re going to need more comfortable, looser things very soon anyway," he reasoned flatly. "Don’t argue with me on this."

Lane initially tried to refuse, but eventually, she gave in to his stubbornness.

The upscale shopping center was quiet and largely uncrowded, utilizing the private, restricted security entrances that wealthy families often used to avoid the public. Noah walked beside her casually, easily carrying several shopping bags that she had repeatedly insisted she could manage herself.

"You’re pregnant," he reminded her flatly every single time she reached for a bag. "Drop it."

At one point, while they were moving between boutiques, Noah instinctively reached out and caught her hand after noticing that the floor near a central escalator was slick from recent cleaning. Lane didn’t think much of the casual gesture—it was just Noah being protective, as he always was.

Not until she looked across the wide, marble corridor.

Ethan.

He was standing near the entrance of a luxury storefront, a sales associate holding several high-end shopping bags beside him while two of his personal security staff remained a respectful distance behind.

His dark, piercing eyes landed immediately on their joined hands.

Then, slowly, his gaze shifted upward to lock onto Noah.

The atmosphere in the corridor changed instantly, turning volatile and freezing. Lane’s heartbeat stumbled painfully against her ribs, a wave of cold panic washing over her.

Noah noticed him too, his posture instantly straightening, his grip on her hand turning deliberate.

Neither man spoke a single word.

The sheer animosity between them felt sharp enough to cut through the crowded mall air. Ethan’s facial expression remained entirely unreadable—cold, aristocratic, and detached. But something dark, sharp, and deeply dangerous flickered briefly in the depths of his eyes as he took in how closely Noah was standing beside her.

Lane instinctively pulled her hand back out of Noah’s grasp, her face burning. Ethan noticed that small, defensive movement too.

For one long, agonizing second, a suffocating silence stretched heavily between all three of them.

Then, Ethan calmly turned back to the cashier, taking his black card from the counter without saying a word. No greeting. No acknowledgment of his wife. Nothing. He simply looked at Lane one final time, his eyes boring into hers with a look of absolute, icy contempt, before turning away completely.

He walked off down the corridor without another glance, leaving behind a silence that felt infinitely heavier than any shouting match could have ever been

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