Forced To Marry My Cousin's Fiancé

Chapter 4: Chapter 4

The rain had stopped by the time Lane finally walked downstairs with her suitcase in hand, but the coldness lingering in the air remained heavy enough to settle deep beneath her skin.

The grand mansion looked quieter than usual tonight, almost as though the walls themselves understood that something irreversible had transpired within them.

Servants moved carefully around the sprawling entrance hall, deliberately avoiding eye contact while pretending not to notice the suffocating tension surrounding the newly married couple.

Lane tightened her fingers around the handle of her suitcase, descending the grand staircase with slow, heavy steps.

Exhaustion clung to her entire body like a physical weight; her head still ached from the force of her tears earlier, and the emotional numbness spreading through her chest made everything around her feel distant and entirely unreal.

At the bottom of the stairs, Eleanor immediately stepped into her path.

"Oh, Lane," her mother murmured softly, her features crumpling slightly as she noticed how ghost-pale her daughter looked. "You should be resting upstairs, sweetie."

"I’m okay," Lane whispered automatically, the phrase slipping out by default.

Eleanor sighed quietly, a heavy sound because both of them knew it was a blatant lie.

A few feet away, Richard stood speaking in clipped, brief sentences with Victor Blackwood, while Ethan waited near the heavy entrance doors in complete and utter silence. His expression remained as unreadable as ever.

One hand was tucked casually into his coat pocket, while the other held his car keys loosely, the metallic chime of the keychain the only sound in the tense room. He didn’t look like a man bringing his new wife home; he looked like an executive waiting to conclude another grueling business arrangement.

The brutal realization hurt more than Lane wanted to admit.

Eleanor gently cupped her daughter’s face, her hands warm against Lane’s cold skin, forcing her to meet her eyes. "Listen to me carefully, Lane."

Lane swallowed hard, her throat tight.

"You need to try taking care of yourself now," Eleanor continued, her voice dropping to a fierce, quiet whisper. "I know everything feels impossibly painful right now, but staying sad all the time isn’t healthy for you—or the baby."

At the explicit mention of the child, Lane instinctively lowered her gaze, her stomach twisting. Her mother’s expression softened immediately into deep empathy.

"I’m not telling you to pretend everything is fine," Eleanor whispered, brushing a stray thumb over Lane’s cheek. "I’m only asking you not to lose yourself completely in the dark."

Lane’s eyes burned with a fresh wave of unshed tears. She nodded weakly, her voice cracking. "I’ll try."

Without hesitation, Eleanor pulled her into a tight, protective embrace. Lane immediately melted into her mother’s arms, suddenly feeling younger, smaller, and more fragile than she ever had before. The familiar warmth nearly broke her remaining composure entirely.

"What if I can’t do this, Mom?" Lane whispered shakily against her shoulder.

"What if I’m not strong enough?"

"You can," Eleanor promised fiercely. "You will."

"But Ethan—"

Eleanor pulled back slightly, brushing a strand of hair away from Lane’s face with a gentle, sweeping motion. "Your marriage won’t stay like this forever, Lane."

Lane wasn’t sure she believed that. In fact, she was almost certain it would only get worse. Still, she gave a quiet nod because arguing would only serve to worry her mother more.

Richard approached them next, his posture rigid as he placed a large, grounding hand gently on Lane’s shoulder. Despite his usual calm, business-first demeanor, a profound sadness lingered visibly in his eyes tonight.

"You can come back home whenever you want," he told her firmly, his voice echoing off the high ceilings.

"This is still your home, Lane. No matter what changes out there."

Lane felt her chest tighten painfully. "Thank you, Dad."

Richard looked past her toward Ethan, his eyes narrowing into a sharp glare before returning his attention to his daughter. "And if he gives you any trouble, you call me immediately."

A few paces away, Victor let out a faint, exasperated sigh. "Richard, please."

"What?" Richard replied flatly, his tone entirely unyielding. "I’m reminding my daughter that she isn’t alone in this world."

Throughout the entire exchange, Ethan remained perfectly silent, his expression never changing by even a fraction. Lane watched him out of the corner of her eye, noting the complete lack of reassurance, the utter absence of a reaction. There was nothing.

The emotional distance between them continued to stretch painfully wider with every passing hour.

A servant carefully wheeled Lane’s remaining luggage toward the entrance while another opened the heavy mansion doors, letting the cold evening air drift inside instantly.

"It’s getting late," Victor said finally, cutting through the heavy atmosphere. "We should let them leave."

Lane looked back at her parents one last time, and suddenly, a wave of pure terror hit her all at once. She didn’t want to leave.

Everything familiar was staying behind tonight—her bedroom, her family, her safe routines—the only places where she still felt emotionally secure. Now, she was going to live inside Ethan’s house. As his unwanted, forced wife.

The intrusive thought made anxiety tighten painfully inside her stomach.

Eleanor noticed her sudden hesitation immediately, squeezing her hands with a firm, grounding pressure. "Call me tomorrow morning, first thing."

"I will."

"And eat something tonight, please."

Lane forced the smallest smile she could manage. "Okay."

After one final, lingering embrace, Lane slowly walked out the door and toward the waiting black sedan parked in the driveway.

Residual rainwater still shimmered across the asphalt beneath the soft garden lights, and the biting wind brushed against her bare skin as she stepped outside.

Ethan entered the car first without speaking a word, sliding into the leather interior like a shadow. Lane followed quietly, pulling the door shut behind them with a soft, definitive click.

Then, the silence settled over them immediately.

The ride through the city felt symbols-long and unbearably heavy. Streetlights blurred past the windows in long, distorted streaks of yellow and white, while the quiet tension inside the car grew more suffocating with every passing mile.

Ethan sat perfectly still beside her, calmly scrolling through something on his phone, his sharp features illuminated faintly by the blue glow of the screen. Lane kept her hands folded tightly in her lap, her knuckles turning white.

Neither of them spoke. Not once.

The silence between them no longer felt awkward or temporary; it felt permanent, like a physical barrier built to last a lifetime.

Giving up on any hope of a conversation, Lane slowly turned her gaze toward the city outside.

The media chaos had already spread to every corner of the internet. Even without opening her phone, she could vividly imagine the articles continuing to flood the tabloids with her name plastered beside humiliating headlines.

*Homewrecker. Gold digger. Calculating mistress.* The cruel words still echoed painfully in her head, bouncing off the walls of her mind.

A sudden, aggressive wave of nausea twisted inside her stomach again, and Lane shut her eyes briefly, fighting it down. Beside her, Ethan didn’t even glance up from his device.

Forty minutes later, the car finally slowed down as it approached massive, black iron security gates. Lane opened her eyes and looked up slowly.

The Blackwood Estate stood beyond the gates like something pulled from a cinematic thriller—massive, beautiful, and terrifying. The modern mansion stretched across the manicured hill beneath glowing exterior spotlights, surrounded by perfectly trimmed maze gardens and enormous glass windows that reflected the dark, stormy sky above.

The architecture blended intimidating luxury with sharp, clean lines, creating an environment that was elegant yet entirely emotionally distant.

It was just like Ethan.

The security gates swung open automatically, and Lane felt herself shrinking smaller the closer they got to the front steps. The car eventually came to a smooth halt near the enormous entrance, where several staff members already stood in a neat, professional line beneath the covered portico.

The moment Ethan stepped out of the vehicle, the head staff bowed respectfully.

"Welcome home, Mr. Blackwood."

*Home.* The word tasted like ash in Lane’s mouth.

She exited the car more slowly, immediately feeling several pairs of analytical eyes shift toward her.

"Good evening, Mrs. Blackwood."

The title startled her slightly, sending a cold shiver down her spine. *Mrs. Blackwood.* The words felt entirely foreign. An older maid stepped forward first, a warm but intensely professional smile gracing her features.

"Welcome to the Blackwood Estate, Mrs. Blackwood. My name is Clara. I oversee the household staff."

Lane offered a polite, fragile smile despite the anxiety twisting violently inside her chest. "Thank you, Clara."

The other servants greeted her respectfully afterward, their voices low, polite, and calm. Yet, Lane still noticed it—the subtle, burning curiosity lingering behind their eyes, the silent judgment masked by perfect etiquette. It wasn’t overt cruelty or open disrespect, but rather a sharp curiosity mixed with high-society gossip.

Of course they knew. Everyone in the city knew. The maids had likely spent the entire afternoon reading scandalous articles about the quiet woman who had suddenly become their employer’s wife overnight.

Lane lowered her gaze slightly, suddenly feeling painfully, embarrassingly out of place in the grand foyer.

Clara noticed her discomfort immediately, her expression softening into something more maternal as she lowered her tone.

"Dinner can be prepared and brought to you whenever you’d like, Mrs. Blackwood."

"You don’t need to trouble yourselves tonight," Lane replied quietly, her voice echoing slightly in the vast space. "I’m not very hungry."

"It’s our responsibility, ma’am."

Ethan finally spoke, his voice cutting through the pleasantries after several long minutes of detachment.

"Take her luggage upstairs."

One of the staff members immediately nodded, reaching for Lane’s suitcase. Lane instinctively followed behind the maid toward the grand spiral staircase, assuming she was bringing her belongings to the master suite.

Her heartbeat quickened slightly at the thought, a sudden spike of panic hitting her chest. The reality of sharing a bedroom with Ethan suddenly felt terrifying; she couldn’t even begin to imagine sleeping in the same bed with a man who could barely tolerate her presence.

Still, she followed silently through the massive, cavernous hallways while Ethan disappeared into the shadows of the lower floor without a single word of explanation.

The mansion’s interior was stunningly luxurious. Towering ceilings, custom modern chandeliers, and polished black marble floors reflected the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the distant city lights. Yet, despite its objective beauty, the house felt completely hollow.

It was empty, as though nobody truly lived inside it emotionally.

The servant reached the second floor before turning down a quieter, more secluded hallway. Lane frowned slightly, her steps slowing. This wasn’t the direction of the master suite.

She had visited the estate years ago alongside Olivia and vaguely remembered Ethan’s private wing being located on the opposite side of the estate, in the west wing.

The servant eventually stopped before a large, heavy wooden door at the end of the corridor.

Lane blinked in confusion.

The maid opened the door politely, gesturing inside. "This will be your room, Mrs. Blackwood."

A heavy silence followed. For a long second, Lane simply stared into the space. A guest room. Not Ethan’s room—a guest room in a completely separate wing of the house. Something deep inside her chest sank quietly, turning to ice. *Of course.* What else had she honestly expected?

The room itself was beautiful, decorated with elegant cream furniture, soft recessed lighting, massive windows overlooking the dark gardens, and an adjoining master bathroom larger than most city apartments. Yet, the emotional rejection behind the arrangement cut deep regardless. She was legally his wife, but she was not truly welcome in his life.

The servant placed her luggage quietly near the foot of the bed before bowing her head to leave alongside the others. "Please let us know if you need anything at all, ma’am," Clara said gently, before pulling the heavy door shut behind them.

Then, Lane was entirely alone.

The silence wrapping around the room felt sudden and unbearable. Lane stood motionless near the center of the plush carpet while the reality of her situation slowly washed over her again.

A guest room. Not even the same bedroom, and not even the same wing. A humorless, self-deprecating smile tugged briefly at her lips. She should have expected this from the very beginning. Ethan had never wanted this marriage, and now, every single corner of this massive mansion would quietly, relentlessly remind her of that reality.

Lane slowly walked toward the massive glass windows, looking out at the dark, sprawling gardens below.

The estate looked peaceful beneath the night sky, but inside her chest, everything felt painfully, violently unsettled. Her hand drifted unconsciously toward her stomach again, her fingers pressing lightly against her skin.

"Just you and me," she whispered softly into the empty room, addressing the tiny life growing inside her. Because right now, in this massive, freezing house, that was all she truly had.

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