Forced To Marry My Cousin's Fiancé

Chapter 33: Chapter 33

The midnight air inside the master suite shattered without warning.

Lane woke abruptly, her eyelids flying open as a violent, acidic wave of nausea hit her so suddenly that her body reacted on sheer instinct. The peaceful stillness of her sleep vanished in an instant.

"Oh..." she gasped, a breathy, strangled sound escaping her throat.

She immediately threw the heavy blankets aside, ignoring the faint sting in her healing foot as she hurried blindly toward the master bathroom. The polished marble floor was freezing beneath her bare soles, but she barely registered the cold.

The moment she reached the sink, she bent over the porcelain basin, her fingers gripping the smoothed marble edges so tightly that her knuckles turned stark white. She closed her eyes, trying desperately to steady her ragged, shallow breathing, but her stomach twisted painfully, a brutal spasm that left her feeling entirely hollow and miserable.

The pregnancy had honestly become a little easier over the last week.

At least, it had compared to the agonizing, non-stop sickness of the first trimester. Which was precisely why this sudden, violent midnight attack caught her completely off guard, leaving her trembling and weak against the counter.

Through the roaring silence in her ears, she suddenly heard a subtle movement in the bedroom behind her. Then came the sound of deliberate, even footsteps moving across the hardwood.

Lane’s shoulders instinctively tensed. She immediately assumed Ethan would simply walk past the open bathroom door to grab something, or perhaps just close it to shut out the sound before returning to bed.

Instead—the space behind her narrowed.

A large, warm hand gently gathered the entire weight of her damp, dark hair, lifting it carefully away from her neck and face to keep it out of the basin.

Lane froze entirely. Her eyes widened in the gloom, her breath hitching in her throat as she stared directly ahead.

Ethan stood right behind her silhouette. His tall, imposing frame completely blocked out the dim light from the bedroom, his long fingers securely but gently holding her hair back. Neither of them spoke a single word. The silence in the bathroom became heavy, localized, and thick with an unspoken gravity.

For several agonizing seconds, Lane simply stared at their reflection in the mirror above the sink.

She tried to blink it away, certain she was dreaming, but the image remained unchanged. She wasn’t imagining this. Ethan was actually here. He was actually helping her.

Slowly, the violent wave of nausea began to recede, leaving only a dull, lingering ache in her abdomen. When she finally managed to straighten her spine, Ethan released his grip on her hair immediately, his hand dropping back to his side.

Lane kept her eyes locked on his reflection. His striking features remained perfectly unreadable, masked in the familiar corporate stoicism he wore like armor. But somehow... tonight, looking at him in the amber shadows, he looked distinctly less cold than usual.

"Sit down," Ethan commanded quietly.

Lane blinked softly, her voice a fragile murmur. "What?"

"The dizziness," he noted, his dark eyes briefly flicking down to her trembling hands before returning to her face. His voice was entirely calm, devoid of the sharp edge that usually cut through her. "Sit."

Without offering an argument, Lane obediently lowered herself onto the closed porcelain lid of the toilet seat nearby. She rested her palms on her knees, realizing he was right—her head was swimming slightly, her body feeling unsteadied by the sudden sickness.

Without another word or glance, Ethan turned and walked out of the bathroom.

Lane stared blankly at the empty doorway, a profound sense of surprise washing over her. A minute later, the sound of a running faucet echoed from the kitchenette downstairs, and Ethan returned, carrying a tall glass of crisp, clear water.

The simple sight of it caused a sharp, emotional lump to form instantly in Lane’s throat. Because this was Ethan Blackwood. The same unyielding man who had spent months barely acknowledging her existence within the walls of his home. The same husband who had treated her like an unwanted ghost. Yet, here he was, standing directly in front of her in the middle of the night, offering a glass of water.

Lane reached out, her fingers brushing against his warm skin as she accepted the glass with immense care. "Thank you," she whispered.

Ethan merely offered a single, curt nod of his head, stepping back to give her space.

She lifted the glass to her lips, taking several small, disciplined sips. The cool water soothed her raw throat immediately, grounding her senses against the lingering exhaustion. For a long while, neither of them broke the silence. It wasn’t the suffocating, hostile silence they usually weaponized against each other; it was just entirely unfamiliar.

Eventually, Ethan’s gaze settled on her face. "Better?"

Lane nodded softly, setting the glass down on the counter. "Yes. Thank you."

"Good." He turned toward the bedroom door, his broad shoulders shifting beneath his dark shirt. Then, he paused on the threshold, his head tilting back slightly. "Go back to sleep."

Lane stared at his retreating back, her heart performing a strange, unruly skip.

Something about the simple, uncomplicated concern caught her completely off guard. It wasn’t a grand gesture—it was just four quiet words. But Ethan had never been someone who factored her well-being or her rest into his calculations.

As she stood up and walked back into the bedroom, Lane found a faint, wistful smile touching her lips in the dark. "Okay."

Ethan returned to his side of the bed first, sliding beneath the heavy duvet. A few quiet moments later, Lane followed his lead, carefully slipping under the blankets on her own side before reaching over to click off the small bedside lamp.

Total darkness settled around them once more.

Unfortunately for Lane... sleep refused to come.

The lingering adrenaline from the sickness kept her mind racing. She shifted slightly to the left, trying to find a comfortable position. Then, after a few minutes, she shifted back to the right. And then again. No matter how she arranged the pillows or smoothed out the sheets, her body couldn’t seem to find peace.

Eventually, giving up on the illusion of rest, she slowly turned her head toward Ethan’s side of the mattress.

His dark eyes were closed, his broad chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. He looked completely asleep. Lane studied his profile quietly, the soft moonlight filtering through the sheer curtains and casting elegant, silvery lines across his sharp jawline and high cheekbones. Without the cold, cynical expression he usually directed at her, Ethan looked remarkably younger.

Less intimidating. Almost entirely peaceful.

A sharp, familiar pain squeezed Lane’s heart. *I really need to stop loving him,* she thought to herself, the realization bittersweet and heavy. *I know I need to let it go.*

But apparently, her heart hadn’t received the memo.

Driven by a quiet, desperate need for closeness that she couldn’t suppress, Lane shifted her body slightly across the mattress, closing a fraction of the distance between them. Just a little.

The moment she settled, his distinct scent reached her—a clean blend of fresh soap, premium shampoo, and something deeply, uniquely Ethan. Oddly enough, the scent acted like an anchor for her troubled mind. Lane closed her eyes, letting the familiarity of it wash over her, and for the very first time that night—a deep, undisturbed sleep finally claimed her.

The next morning, Lane woke up long before the sun had fully cleared the horizon.

The master suite remained dim, painted in shades of quiet slate gray. Moving with extreme caution, she climbed out of the bed, ensuring she didn’t disturb the sleeping man beside her. After washing up and refreshing her face, she stepped into the massive, pristine walk-in closet.

Like every single morning lately, she walked over to his executive section and began selecting his wardrobe for the day. It had become a silent, private ritual. Today, she chose a tailored navy blue suit, a crisp, pressed white cotton shirt, and a silk tie. She matched them with his classic silver watch, placing the entire ensemble neatly on the valet stand where he would easily find it upon waking.

Simple. Professional. Perfect.

Once the task was finished, she quietly slipped out of the bedroom and descended the grand stairs. Downstairs, the massive kitchen was already beginning to wake up, the soft hum of the appliances breaking the morning quiet. Lane walked over to the refrigerator, pouring herself a tall glass of whole milk before taking a seat at the marble island counter.

A few minutes later, the soft rustle of silk signaled Aunt Catherine’s arrival. The older woman stepped into the kitchen, her elegant features immediately breaking into a warm, maternal smile the moment she spotted Lane.

"Good morning, " Catherine greeted softly.

"Morning, Aunt Catherine."

Catherine walked over, pressing a gentle, affectionate kiss to Lane’s cheek before joining her behind the counter. Within minutes, without needing to exchange words, the two women naturally fell into their routine of preparing breakfast together. It had become a comfortable, steady anchor in Lane’s week.

While carefully chopping fresh vegetables for an omelet, Catherine’s sharp eyes glanced sideways toward Lane. "How did the checkup go at the clinic yesterday, dear?"

Lane’s hands paused briefly over the cutting board, the knife hovering in the air. The painful memory of sitting entirely alone in that crowded waiting room, watching happy couples while the clock ticked away, rushed back with a sickening clarity. She quickly forced the memory back down into the dark, tightening her grip on the handle.

"It went well," Lane replied, keeping her voice completely level. "The baby is healthy. Everything is right on track."

Catherine studied her profile carefully, noting the way Lane’s eyes remained fixed strictly on the vegetables, deliberately avoiding any direct eye contact.

"That’s wonderful to hear, darling," Catherine murmured softly.

Lane nodded quietly, resuming her rhythmic chopping.

A few moments later, Catherine set down the small knife she was using to slice fruit. She wiped her hands on a linen towel, her expression shifting into something intensely focused as she looked directly at the younger woman.

"Lane? Can I tell you something important?"

Lane paused again, offering a soft, curious smile. "Of course, Aunt Catherine. What is it?"

Catherine reached across the marble counter, her warm, manicured fingers squeezing Lane’s hand with immense strength. "I am a woman, Lane."

Lane blinked, a bit bewildered by the sudden statement. "What?"

Catherine let out a soft, melodic laugh, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "You’d be surprised how much that simple fact matters in a world built by men like my nephew." Her laughter slowly faded, replaced by an expression of deep, unyielding earnestness. "Fight for your house, Lane."

Lane’s smile faded slightly, a wave of uncertainty hitting her. "Aunt Catherine... it’s complicated..."

"Fight for your family," Catherine interrupted gently, her voice dropping into a fierce, protective whisper. "For your baby. Do you understand me?"

Lane lowered her gaze, her eyes burning slightly as she stared at their joined hands.

"That child deserves a complete, unbroken family, Lane," Catherine continued quietly, her words cutting straight to the core of Lane’s deepest fears. "And so do you."

A thick, painful lump formed in Lane’s throat. Because more than anything else in this world, more than wealth or status, a complete family was exactly what she wanted. A father who stayed. A mother who loved. A real home. The exact kind of beautiful, secure childhood she herself had been lucky enough to experience before everything fell apart.

Catherine stepped around the counter, wrapping her elegant arms around Lane’s shoulders in a tight, fiercely supportive embrace. Lane didn’t hesitate; she immediately hugged the older woman back, burying her face in Catherine’s shoulder for a brief second.

"I’ve got your back in this house," Catherine whispered against her hair.

The sheer weight of those words nearly made Lane cry, but she swallowed the emotion down, simply nodding against her shoulder. "Thank you. Truly."

An hour later, breakfast was finished, and the executive lunch Lane had prepared was packed securely away. Everything was arranged with mathematical precision on the long dining table—the plated breakfast for Ethan, and the sleek, insulated lunch box sitting right beside his briefcase.

Lane stood near the edge of the kitchen, looking at the lunch box quietly. A part of her still vividly remembered the early days of their marriage, when she would leave food out only to find it completely untouched, or worse, thrown directly into the trash by a cold, resentful Ethan. The phantom pain of that rejection still carried a dull ache.

But recently... things felt different. Not fixed, certainly not cured, but... different.

After ensuring everything was in its proper place, Lane retreated back into the kitchen. She busied herself by washing the remaining mixing bowls, scrubbing the counters, and reorganizing the spice rack—doing absolutely anything to avoid standing in the dining room to watch him leave.

Because she knew that if Ethan ignored the food or left the box behind today, her fragile heart wouldn’t be able to handle the rejection.

Several agonizing minutes passed. Then ten. Then fifteen.

Eventually, hearing the distant sound of the front door clicking shut, Lane slowly stepped out of the kitchen and back into the dining area.

The sight waiting for her caused her to freeze completely on the threshold.

The breakfast plate was entirely empty, a crumpled napkin resting beside it. And the insulated lunch box—

It was completely gone.

For a long, breathless second, Lane simply stood in the center of the room, staring at the empty space on the mahogany table as if waiting for it to be an illusion. Then, her eyes slowly widened, a brilliant, uncontrollable flutter erupting deep inside her chest. It was small, fragile, and incredibly dangerous—but it was utterly impossible to ignore.

Lane found herself smiling—a real, radiant smile that broke through the exhaustion of the past few weeks, a genuine spark of happiness lighting up her entire face. *He took it,* she thought. *Ethan actually took it.*

Days began to pass in a steady, predictable blur.

The daily routine continued without interruption. The early morning wake-ups. The carefully selected suits left in the closet. The prepared breakfast. The packed executive lunch box. The occasional, comforting kitchen conversations with Aunt Catherine.

It was just enough for a tiny, dangerous shred of hope to begin creeping its way back into her guarded heart. It was a perilous kind of hope—the specific kind that possessed the power to completely break her if she wasn’t careful. Still... no matter how much she warned herself, she couldn’t seem to stop it from growing.

Several days later, the evening darkness had fully fallen over the estate.

Lane had just finished taking a long, steaming shower, letting the hot water wash away the physical tension of the day. Warm droplets of water still clung to her porcelain skin as she stepped out of the fogged bathroom, wearing a pair of comfortable, loose-fitting silk sleep clothes.

She rubbed a thick towel through the lengths of her damp, dark hair, the cascading waves falling over her shoulders as she entered the master bedroom.

Suddenly, the heavy bedroom door was pushed open with a quiet click.

Lane stopped dead in her tracks, the towel freezing in her hands.

Ethan had returned.

For one brief, suspended moment in time, neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke a single word. Ethan’s sharp, dark eyes landed directly on her silhouette the exact second he crossed the threshold—and they stayed there, unyielding and intense.

Lane froze under the weight of his gaze. Her damp, wild hair framing her face. Her entirely bare, makeup-free complexion.

The loose, soft clothing draping over her changing body. The sheer, intoxicatingly domestic intimacy of the moment in the dim twilight suddenly became painfully, overwhelmingly obvious to both of them.

A fierce heat crept rapidly into Lane’s cheeks, her pulse beginning to thud against her ribs.

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