Chapter 32: Chapter 32
The exclusive VIP lounge sat high above the city’s concrete canopy, a dark-paneled fortress hidden behind heavy doors that opened only for names carrying generational weight.
Ethan sat deep within a recessed velvet booth, a low-ball glass of whiskey resting in his palm. Behind him, the midnight skyline glowed through massive floor-to-ceiling glass panels, a sprawling web of electric white and neon blue. Tonight, however, the grand view was nothing more than background glare. He wasn’t paying an ounce of attention to it.
His thoughts were entirely elsewhere.
Unfortunately.
They were with Lane. Again.
Brad sat directly across the low marble table, quietly tracking the rigid, dark line of his friend’s jaw before finally shaking his head in pity. "You look absolutely miserable, Ethan."
Ethan shot him a lethal, warning glare across the rim of his glass. "I’m perfectly fine."
Brad let out a short, mocking laugh. "No, you’re not. Not by a mile."
Instead of snapping back, Ethan simply lifted the glass and took another slow, burning swallow of the amber liquor. For once in his life, he didn’t even bother raising an argument to defend himself.
Because honestly—he wasn’t fine. He wasn’t even close to it.
The memory of yesterday’s disaster at the maternity clinic kept replaying inside his head like an unending loop, cruel and frustratingly persistent.
The worst part of the entire ordeal was that he had actually planned to go. For the first time since this forced arrangement began, he had genuinely cleared his executive schedule. He had canceled high-level meetings, pushed back international calls, and walked out of the Blackwood corporate tower early.
Then, the universe had intervened. A catastrophic multi-car accident on the main highway had completely paralyzed the grid, blocking every single exit route. By the time the police cleared a single lane and Ethan finally arrived at the hospital, nearly two hours had vanished.
And Lane was already gone.
Ethan vividly remembered walking through the sliding glass doors of the clinic, his coat trailing behind him as he approached the front desk.
"Mrs. Blackwood," he had demanded, his voice tight.
The receptionist had looked up, her eyes widening slightly as she recognized the prominent face. "Mr. Blackwood."
"Where is she? Is she still in examination?"
The woman had looked surprised, a flicker of hesitation crossing her features. "Oh. Sir, you just missed her."
Ethan’s brow had furrowed sharply. "When exactly did she leave?"
"About an hour ago, I believe."
Something about that timeline had immediately bothered him, a cold weight sinking into his stomach. An hour ago.
Which meant she hadn’t just given up and left when he was fifteen minutes late. She had waited.
Then, the receptionist had unknowingly twisted the knife deeper, adding a casual detail that made his chest tighten.
"She seemed to be waiting for someone specific. She kept insisting that we let the other patients go ahead of her in the queue."
Ethan remembered the sudden, incredibly uncomfortable sensation that had washed over him in that sterile lobby. "Waiting?"
The receptionist had nodded sympathetically. "Yes. She sat in the waiting area for a few hours, I think." She had offered him a gentle, pitying smile that felt like an insult.
"But whoever she was waiting for never showed up. She eventually went in alone."
Those words had followed Ethan like a shadow through the rest of the day, refusing to leave his psyche. Even now, hours later in a room full of luxury, they echoed in his ears.
Brad’s voice cut through the fog of his thoughts, breaking the silence.
"You’re doing it again."
Ethan blinked, looking up from his drink. "What?"
"Thinking about her," Brad said, gesturing toward Ethan’s tense posture. "You’ve been staring a hole through that ice for five minutes."
Ethan scoffed softly, leaning back. "I’m not thinking about her."
Brad laughed again, entirely unbothered by the denial. "You absolutely are."
Ethan remained silent, his lack of an insult giving him away.
Brad leaned back against the leather cushion, his expression turning serious. "So you actually missed the appointment?"
Ethan let out a rough sigh. "Traffic. There was a pileup near the interchange."
Brad raised an eyebrow, examining his friend’s face for any sign of a lie. "Actual traffic? Not a convenient board meeting?"
"Yes, Brad. Actual traffic."
Brad studied him for a moment longer, then nodded slowly, his tone softening. "Alright. I believe you."
Ethan rubbed his forehead, the skin hot against his palm. "The receptionist said she waited. She kept pushing her slot back."
Brad immediately understood the weight of that detail, wincing slightly. "Ouch."
Ethan let out a slow, heavy breath, his voice dropping into a low murmur. "I got there only to find out she’d been sitting in that room alone for hours. Letting everyone else go ahead of her because she thought I was coming."
Brad let out a breath through his teeth. "That’s brutal, Ethan. That’s really bad."
"I know," Ethan muttered.
"And she drove back alone?"
Ethan gave a single, stiff nod.
Brad looked genuinely disappointed in his friend, his shoulders dropping. "You’re really messing this up, man. Step by step."
Ethan looked away, his eyes tracking the tiny cars moving like ants on the streets below. The absolute worst part about Brad’s critique was that his friend wasn’t wrong.
And then, of course, there was his mother’s infuriating lecture from this morning. Ethan groaned internally just remembering the sheer awkwardness of it.
Catherine had spent almost thirty minutes systematically tearing into his character after Noah had arrived at the mansion bearing boxes of pastries. Apparently, according to his aunt and every unwritten rule of marriage in existence, a husband was supposed to anticipate and fulfill the cravings of his pregnant wife.
And according to Catherine’s sharp commentary—Ethan was failing spectacularly as a man.
Brad noticed the dark shift in his expression. "Now what? You look like you want to fire an entire board of directors."
"My mother," Ethan growled softly.
Brad immediately let out a loud laugh, leaning over the table. "What did Aunt Catherine do now?"
"She spent half the morning publicly asking me why another man is currently buying cravings for my wife inside my own house."
Brad nearly choked on the sip of liquor he had just taken, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter. "I mean... if you think about it..."
Ethan glared at him, his eyes narrowing into slits. "Don’t finish that sentence."
"I’m just saying," Brad chuckled, a massive smirk spreading across his face. "From an outside perspective, it sounds pretty reasonable. The tech billionaire is doing your job."
Ethan rubbed his temple, a dull ache beginning to form behind his eyes. "You’re supposed to be on my side in this, Brad."
"I am on your side," Brad pointed an index finger at him, his smirk fading into something strictly honest. "Which is exactly why I’m the only person in your circle who will tell you straight to your face that you’re being an absolute idiot right now."
Ethan stared at him, cold and unmoving.
Brad shrugged unapologetically, refusing to back down from the intimidation. "Look, Ethan, maybe it’s finally time."
"Time for what?"
"To start acknowledging Lane. Truly acknowledging her as a person in your life."
Ethan looked away immediately, his eyes fixing back on the window.
Brad continued anyway, his voice steady. "You don’t have to magically fall in love with her by tomorrow morning. Nobody is asking for a fairytale."
Ethan said nothing, his fingers tightening around his glass.
"You don’t even have to forgive whatever game you think her family played to get her here," Brad added.
Still, absolute silence from the other side of the booth.
"But she’s carrying your child, Ethan."
That specific sentence landed entirely differently than the rest. It carried a strange, heavy resonance that echoed deep in Ethan’s chest. Because no matter how much he tried to deny the reality of this marriage, no matter how much he hid behind his corporate walls—that single, undeniable part mattered.
Brad leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the marble. "Missing that appointment wasn’t a good look."
"I know," Ethan muttered, his voice rough.
"But you didn’t do it on purpose. You tried."
Ethan stared down at the amber liquid swirling in his glass, watching the way the light fractured through the crystal. "No. I didn’t do it on purpose."
"Then make up for it. Fix it."
Ethan frowned, his eyes lifting. "How am I supposed to do that?"
Brad shrugged, offering zero concrete solutions. "You’re the genius. Figure it out."
*Helpful,* Ethan thought bitterly. *Extremely helpful.*
He raised his hand and finished the rest of his drink in one heavy swallow, letting the alcohol burn its way down his throat.
A while later, after another glass and several more circular conversations that led nowhere, Brad finally called it a night and left. Ethan remained in the private booth for another twenty minutes, sitting alone in the dim light before finally deciding to head back to the estate.
The alcohol had left a pleasant, dull warmth spreading through his limbs. It wasn’t nearly enough to impair his movements or make him drunk; it was just enough to mute the constant, roaring noise of corporate demands and personal guilt inside his head.
Outside the exclusive venue, his personal driver immediately stepped forward and opened the heavy passenger door of the luxury sedan.
The ride home was completely silent. For once, Ethan didn’t pull his phone from his pocket to scan the global markets. He didn’t check his emails, he didn’t review contracts, and he didn’t work. He simply leaned his head back against the leather seat and stared out the window at the passing city lights, lost in thought.
When the car finally pulled into the grand, sweeping driveway of the Blackwood mansion, the entire facade of the estate was dark. Everyone had long since gone to bed.
The silence inside the grand foyer felt strangely peaceful as he stepped across the threshold. Ethan entered quietly, his boots making no sound on the heavy rugs as he reached up to loosen his tie. No voices. No scurrying footsteps of maids. Nothing. Just an absolute, heavy stillness.
Slowly, his legs carrying a weight that felt entirely physical, he climbed the grand staircase and entered the master bedroom.
The space was dark, save for the soft, amber glow of a single bedside lamp on the far side of the room.
Lane was already fast asleep. She was curled slightly on her side, her back facing the door, her form almost hidden beneath the massive silk duvet. One of her hands was resting protectively against the round curve of her stomach, even in the depths of her slumber.
Ethan stopped walking entirely, his boots freezing near the edge of the rug.
For some unexplainable reason—he found himself just staring at her.
She looked significantly smaller when she was asleep, stripped of the quiet defiance she usually used as armor against him. More vulnerable. Infinitely more fragile.
After a long, suspended moment, he forced his gaze away and headed into the master bathroom. He turned the faucet, splashing freezing cold water across his face. He gripped the edges of the marble sink and stared at his reflection in the mirror for several seconds. He looked tired. Confused. Entirely restless.
Eventually, he stripped out of his tailored suit and changed into comfortable, dark lounge clothes before returning to the dim bedroom.
As he walked past Lane’s side of the space to get to his own, a small detail caught his attention. A piece of glossy paper was sticking slightly out from between the pages of one of the novels stacked on her nightstand bookshelf.
Ethan paused, his chest tightening unexpectedly as a sudden memory flashed through his mind. He slowly reached out, his long fingers carefully pulling the paper free from the book.
It was the ultrasound photograph.
The moment his eyes registered the grainy image, a sharp wave of recollection hit him, and he remembered that day vividly. The day he had come home to find her groceries spilling all over the kitchen floor.
He remembered how radiant and genuinely excited Lane had looked, holding this exact picture out to him, before he had completely ruined the moment with his cold words.
*Pick up your trash.*
God. He closed his eyes briefly, a phantom pain hitting his chest. Even now, weeks later, the memory of his own cruelty felt incredibly ugly.
Carefully, Ethan lowered his hands, looking back down at the tiny, grainy white shape captured in the center of the dark film. The baby. His baby. Their baby.
For several silent moments, he simply stood there in the dim light of the lamp, staring at the physical proof of his changing world. Then, without really understanding the underlying impulse driving him, he folded the photograph with immense care and tucked it securely inside the hidden compartment of his leather wallet.
Close to him. Safe. Something tangible he could carry with him into the corporate world.
Afterward, he walked around to his side of the mattress and approached the bed. The moment he lifted the covers, Lane’s scent reached his senses immediately—a soft, sweet combination of vanilla and lavender that felt entirely familiar now.
Ethan’s chest felt strangely tight again, the warmth of the room suddenly suffocating. He climbed into the bed, carefully settling onto the mattress before deliberately turning his back toward her silhouette.
Because facing her was rapidly becoming dangerous. Because lately, looking at Lane for too long caused questions he didn’t know how to answer.
And because for the very first time in months—Ethan found himself considering a path he never thought he would tread. Maybe Brad was right. Maybe his mother was right, too. Maybe he didn’t have to tear down his pride for Lane’s sake just yet. Maybe he could start with something much smaller. Something simpler.
For the baby. Just for the baby.
Maybe he could actually try a little. Just a little.
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