Forced To Marry My Cousin's Fiancé

Chapter 23: Chapter 23

The rich, savory aroma of roasted herbs and rich broth filled the vast kitchen, casting a rare, genuine warmth through the stark lines of the Blackwood mansion. By the time Lane and Catherine finally finished preparing dinner, the space felt transformed, almost alive.

The sprawling marble island was crowded with vibrant serving platters while a soft, lazy steam rose from the copper soup pot simmering near the commercial stove. Lane reached for a linen towel hanging near the basin, wiping her hands with quiet, deliberate movements before letting out a long, slow exhale.

Cooking had always been her sanctuary.

It was a physical rhythm that forced her mind to focus on measurements, temperatures, and timing, leaving very little room for her own intrusive thoughts. Tonight, more than any other night, she desperately needed that anchor.

After returning to the estate earlier that afternoon following her lunch with Noah and Ava, Lane had spent hours pacing her bedroom, trying with everything inside her not to dissect every heavy, protective word Noah had thrown across the restaurant table.

Because the truly painful thing—the reality that made her throat tighten with unshed tears—was that Noah wasn’t wrong. He had simply given a name to the ghost that haunted her every day.

Still, Lane didn’t want pity. Not from her childhood friends, not from the staff, and certainly not from the family she had married into. She refused to be a tragic figure in her own life.

Catherine, entirely oblivious to Lane’s internal storm, seemed completely satisfied as she swept a critical eye over the sheer volume of food they had produced.

"Perfect," the matriarch declared proudly, smoothing down her elegant blouse as she inspected the layout. "Absolutely perfect."

Lane forced a faint, soft smile to her lips, trying to match her energy. "We made far too much food, Aunt Catherine."

"Nonsense. There is no such thing as too much food when a growing child is involved."

Lane let out a quiet, genuine laugh under her breath, the tension in her shoulders dipping just a fraction.

One of the senior maids approached the island then, her hands clasped respectfully. "Mrs. Blackwood, the table is fully set. Should I go upstairs and call Mr. Ethan down?"

Catherine nodded immediately, her tone brooking no argument. "Yes, please do. Tell him dinner is served and we are waiting."

As the maid slipped away toward the grand staircase, Lane began carrying the final, heavy porcelain dishes toward the formal dining room. By the time she carefully placed the last bowl of glazed vegetables onto the linen runner, she leaned back against the edge of the table, letting out a soft, tired sigh.

"All done."

Catherine followed her in, smiling warmly as she adjusted a floral arrangement. "You worked incredibly hard tonight, dear."

Lane tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her gaze dropping to the polished silverware. "It really wasn’t much. I enjoyed it."

A few moments later, the heavy, rhythmic echo of footsteps resonated from the upper landing, moving steadily down the grand staircase.

Lane’s entire body went rigid. She immediately lowered her gaze, her eyes fixing intently on the patterned rug beneath her feet. It was an instinctive, almost chemical reaction. Even now, after months of sharing this massive estate, her physical body reacted to Ethan’s presence long before her mind could rationalize it. The air in the room simply grew heavier, thinner.

Ethan entered the dining room calmly. He had changed out of his formal suit, now wearing structured dark slacks and a black silk-blend shirt with the long sleeves rolled precisely up his forearms, exposing the lean, powerful lines of his wrists.

As usual, his handsome face was a masterpiece of absolute unreadability. Cold. Composed. Utterly distant.

Lane kept her focus strictly on a slightly misaligned salad fork, adjusting it by a millimeter rather than looking up to meet his dark eyes.

Ethan moved toward his designated place at the head of the table. Catherine stood back, observing the distinct, icy barrier between the young couple with a sharp, knowing glint in her eyes.

Lane quietly stepped toward her own chair, her fingers wrapping around the carved wood, fully intending to pull it out herself.

But before her fingers could even shift the weight—

"Ethan."

His mother’s voice cut through the silence like a snapped twig.

Ethan paused, his hand hovering over his own chair as his eyes cut lazily toward his mother.

Catherine met his gaze head-on, giving him a pointed, unyielding look that carried decades of maternal authority. "Be a gentleman and pull out the chair for your wife."

Lane froze, her heart leaping into her throat. An intense, fiery heat crept faintly into her cheeks, coloring her pale skin. "Aunt Catherine, please, it’s really okay—I can—"

"No," Catherine interrupted, her tone entirely calm but dripping with steel. "It is basic manners, Ethan. Sit your wife first."

The atmosphere in the grand dining room became painfully awkward in an instant. Lane lowered her eyes toward the floor, her cheeks burning, while Ethan remained perfectly still, staring silently at his mother for several agonizing seconds. The silent battle of wills stretched until Lane felt like she might suffocate from the tension.

Then, finally—without breaking eye contact with Catherine—Ethan stepped away from his own seat. He moved behind Lane, his large frame casting a long shadow over her, and pulled the heavy chair out with smooth, effortless grace.

The simple, domestic gesture somehow made Lane infinitely more nervous than any of his cold rejections ever had. Her chest heaved slightly as she carefully sat down, her skirt rustling against the leather.

"Thank you," she whispered to the space ahead of her, unable to look back at him.

Ethan gave a single, microscopic nod of acknowledgment before walking back to his side of the table and taking his seat directly across from her.

Dinner began in a dense, suffocating quiet. For the first ten minutes, the only sounds piercing the room were the sharp clink of silver utensils against porcelain and the quiet rustle of linen napkins. Catherine occasionally offered a critique or a compliment on the specific flavor profiles of the soup, keeping the conversation alive through sheer force of will.

Lane focused entirely on her plate, forcing herself to chew and swallow slowly. Lately, Catherine had become hyper-vigilant about her nutrition, constantly reminding her that she looked too frail.

Tonight was no exception.

"Lane," Catherine said gently, pausing with her wine glass halfway to her lips. "Please eat properly. You are barely moving the food around."

Lane looked up, her expression soft and apologetic. "I am eating, Aunt Catherine."

"You have barely touched the chicken we spent an hour roasting."

Lane glanced down at the largely undisturbed meat on her plate, a familiar wave of mild nausea threatening to return at the sight of it. "I’m trying. Truly."

Catherine’s sharp expression softened, a look of genuine maternal concern bleeding into her eyes. "You need to keep your strength up, dear. For yourself, and for the baby. You are far too pale."

Lane nodded quietly, swallowing the lump in her throat before taking another obedient, forced bite of the chicken.

Then, without a single beat of hesitation, Catherine turned her sharp gaze directly toward her son. "And you. Eat."

Ethan looked up from his plate, his dark eyes perfectly calm, completely unfazed by the command.

For a split second, looking at the contrast between them, Lane almost smiled. It was a bizarre, fascinating sight to see someone order the formidable Ethan Blackwood around without a single shred of fear.

And surprisingly—he actually listened. Without a word of protest, Ethan picked up his fork and continued eating.

Gradually, the oppressive weight in the room began to lift, turning into something resembling a normal family dinner. Catherine simply refused to let the silence settle long enough to become uncomfortable again.

At some point, as she sampled a side dish, she looked across the table at Lane with warm, genuine admiration. "You truly cook beautifully, Lane. The seasoning is exquisite."

Lane blinked softly, caught off guard by the praise. "Thank you. That’s very kind."

"I am entirely serious," Catherine continued, leaning forward slightly. "The balance of flavors is professional. Everything tastes perfect."

Lane’s smile became a little more real this time, a fond memory softening her sharp edges. "My mom taught me when I was younger. She was incredibly strict about the kitchen."

"Well, she taught you exceptionally well."

Lane lowered her gaze shyly, the compliments warming her from the inside out. "Actually... I used to work in a professional restaurant kitchen, too. For a little while."

That revelation caught Catherine’s attention immediately, her eyebrows arching in surprise. "You did? A commercial kitchen?"

Lane nodded softly, her mind drifting back to the high-energy, chaotic environment of her past life. "Before. Before everything changed."

Catherine looked genuinely fascinated. "You never mentioned that to me."

Lane smiled lightly, trying to downplay it. "It wasn’t anything special. I was just a line cook."

"What restaurant was it?"

Lane mentioned the name of the high-end establishment quietly, almost under her breath.

Catherine’s eyes widened slightly. "That place is world-renowned, Lane. Getting a position there is notoriously difficult."

Lane’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment at the sudden spotlight. "I only worked in the back. Preparing prep work, mostly."

"You say that as if it’s a small achievement, dear—"

Before Lane could offer another self-deprecating excuse, Ethan suddenly spoke, his deep, resonant voice cutting through the dialogue for the first time in several minutes.

"She quit because of me."

The heavy, blunt words instantly caused the entire atmosphere in the room to shift. The warmth evaporated in a heartbeat.

Lane’s head snapped up in profound surprise, her heart stuttering.

Catherine frowned immediately, her eyes narrowing as she looked at her son. "Ethan."

His tone hadn’t actually sounded cruel or mocking. It was flat. Matter-of-fact. A cold recitation of a timeline. Yet, delivered in his deep baritone, it felt incredibly heavy.

Lane, seeing the rising storm in Catherine’s expression, immediately shook her head softly, wanting to defuse the situation before it erupted. "No. No, it wasn’t because of him. Not directly."

Both Ethan and Catherine turned their attention entirely toward her, waiting.

Lane continued quietly, her voice steady but low as her fingers tightened faintly around the silver fork in her hand.

"The morning sickness... it became too difficult to manage in a professional environment. I couldn’t stand certain smells anymore. The heavy oils, the raw fish... it made me violently ill."

The chaotic, high-heat kitchen environment had eventually become physically impossible for her pregnant body to handle. Lane had tried enduring it at first, pushing through the dizziness and the vomiting because she needed the independence, but eventually, the sheer physical exhaustion had broken her resolve.

Catherine’s expression melted into deep empathy, her eyes softening completely. "Oh, sweetheart. You should have rested much earlier than you did."

Lane smiled faintly, a bittersweet edge to her lips. "I tried to hold out."

Catherine let out a soft sigh, turning her head back toward her son, her tone laced with disapproval. "You really need to learn how to speak properly, Ethan. Your phrasing is atrocious."

Ethan remained entirely silent, taking a slow drink from his water glass, seemingly unaffected by his mother’s scolding.

Then, Catherine looked across the table at Lane, her expression apologetic. "Forgive my son’s absolute lack of tact, dear."

Lane immediately shook her head, a strange sense of relief washing over her. "It’s okay. Really."

And honestly—it was. Because for the first time, Lane realized that Ethan hadn’t actually meant the comment cruelly. He had simply stated a fact, devoid of emotion. At least... she didn’t think he meant to hurt her.

The remainder of the dinner passed in relative peace. By the time everyone finished their meals, the heavy fog of pregnancy fatigue had settled deep into Lane’s bones once again, making her eyelids heavy.

As she stood up, instinctively reaching down to help clear the empty platters, Catherine’s voice stopped her.

"Ethan."

He looked toward his mother, his posture shifting.

"I want to talk to you privately in the study," Catherine said, her tone shifting into something strictly business. Then, she turned a wonderfully gentle smile toward Lane. "You look exhausted, dear. You should head upstairs immediately and get some rest."

Lane paused, looking between the two of them, before nodding quietly. "Okay. Thank you for dinner, Aunt Catherine."

Without questioning them further, she excused herself softly, slipping away from the dining room and heading up the grand, quiet staircase.

The master bedroom was blissfully calm and dimly lit when she stepped inside. Lane closed the heavy mahogany door quietly behind herself, leaning her back against the wood as she let out a long, shuddering exhale.

Tonight had actually felt... nice. Strange, and layered with unspoken tension, but nice. Even Ethan had seemed a fraction less cold during the meal. The mere thought of his slight softening made Lane’s chest ache with a faint, dangerous yearning.

Before she could let her mind dwell on things that would only break her heart later, she grabbed a fresh set of silk pajamas and headed into the master bathroom.

The spray of warm water relaxed her tight muscles instantly. For several long minutes, Lane simply stood beneath the showerhead, closing her eyes and letting herself just breathe without the weight of the Blackwood name pressing down on her.

Eventually, she turned the water off, drying herself carefully before wrapping her body securely in a plush, oversized white towel.

Then, she paused, her hand freezing on the bathroom door handle.

Suddenly, a wave of anxiety hit her as she remembered—Ethan and Catherine’s meeting could have ended by now. Ethan could come upstairs at any given moment.

Lane bit her lower lip softly, pressing her ear against the cool wood of the door, listening intently to the bedroom outside.

Silence. No heavy footsteps. No sound of the main door opening.

Relieved, she quickly gathered her folded clothes in one arm, cracking the bathroom door open just a fraction of an inch to peer out. Still entirely quiet.

Lane stepped out carefully, her bare feet making no sound on the hardwood floor as she clutched the top of the towel tighter around her chest, keeping it secure. She began to move quickly, efficiently across the open space toward the walk-in closet to change—

And at that exact, terrifying millisecond—

The heavy brass handle of the main bedroom door turned, and the door swung wide open.

Lane froze instantly, her breath catching violently in her throat.

Ethan stepped into the room at the exact same moment, his shoulder broad against the frame.

Both of them stopped dead in their tracks. For one long, suspended, breathless second, neither of them moved a single inch. The air in the room instantly turned to liquid fire.

Lane’s heartbeat stopped completely, her fingers tightening into the fabric of the towel until her nails dug into her skin.

Because Ethan’s eyes, initially scanning the room, slowly lifted—and locked directly, fiercely onto her.

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