Chapter 5: Chapter 5
Lane barely slept. The unfamiliar guest room remained pitched in dark, absolute silence throughout most of the night while she lay awake staring blankly at the ceiling, her thoughts refusing to settle no matter how exhausted her body became.
Every time she closed her weary eyes, another painful memory surfaced immediately, vivid and unbidden: Olivia crying in sheer disbelief, the cold metal of the fountain pen, and Ethan’s detached expression beside her as they bound their lives together.
Worst of all was the memory of her new surname leaving people’s mouths, spoken with a heavy formality, as though her entire identity had been erased and rewritten overnight.
*Mrs. Blackwood.*
Even now, cloaked in the quiet of the early hours, the title felt like an ill-fitting garment that belonged to someone else entirely.
Around three in the morning, Lane had finally drifted into a fractured, uneasy sleep, only to wake up less than two hours later with a familiar, violent nausea twisting painfully inside her stomach. By sunrise, she gave up on the idea of rest altogether.
Soft golden light filtered through the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows of the guest room as Lane slowly sat up against the plush pillows, a heavy exhaustion weighing beneath her eyes. The sprawling mansion remained eerily quiet around her.
For several agonizing seconds, she simply sat there staring into the void of the room, trying to gather enough physical energy just to swing her legs out of bed.
Then, her stomach growled suddenly. Lane blinked slightly in surprise. It was hunger—actual hunger. It was likely the first real appetite she had felt since the scandal had first exploded and ruined her appetite for weeks.
Pushing the heavy blankets away, she stood up carefully. Her body still felt weak and sluggish from the baseline of stress she was carrying, but at least the morning sickness seemed calmer for the moment.
After changing into a loose, oversized cream sweater and soft trousers, Lane quietly stepped out into the hallway.
The vaulted corridors of the Blackwood Estate looked even larger and more intimidating during daylight. Pale morning sunlight reflected sharply across the polished black marble floors, while expensive, minimalist modern artwork decorated the walls with a cold, museum-like elegance.
Everything looked immaculate. Perfect. Untouched.
And completely empty.
Lane walked slowly downstairs, absentmindedly brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. A strange, tight nervousness settled inside her chest, a reminder that this clinical place was technically her home now. The thought still refused to feel real.
As she reached the lower floor, the faint murmur of voices drifted from somewhere near the state-of-the-art kitchen.
The moment two maids noticed her approaching, both women straightened their spines instantly, adjusting their uniform aprons.
"Good morning, Mrs. Blackwood."
The unfamiliar title made Lane pause mid-step, the words striking a discordant chord in her chest. *Mrs. Blackwood.* Again. Hearing it echoed inside the vast walls of his ancestral mansion made it feel even more surreal.
Forcing a small, polite smile despite the deep discomfort lingering inside her, Lane managed a quiet reply. "Good morning."
One of the younger maids quickly stepped forward, her posture rigid with professional deference.
"Would you like breakfast prepared, ma’am?"
"You don’t have to make anything complicated," Lane replied softly, her voice intentionally gentle to contrast the stiffness of the room. "I was just looking for something small."
"Mr. Blackwood already left for the office earlier this morning," the older maid informed her carefully, watching her reaction.
Lane’s fingers tightened slightly around the cuffs of her sweater sleeves. *Of course he had.* For some reason, a tiny, foolish part of her had still braced herself to accidentally run into him downstairs—perhaps because the entire marriage still felt like a dream she would wake up from, or perhaps because she secretly hoped he might acknowledge her existence like an actual husband.
Instead, Ethan had vanished into his corporate empire without a word.
The disappointment settled quietly in her chest before she firmly pushed it down. What did she honestly expect from him?
The maids continued watching her politely, waiting for instructions like sentries. Lane suddenly felt a wave of claustrophobia being addressed with such formal distance. The title sounded too heavy, a reminder of a contract rather than a union.
"You can just call me Lane," she said gently, looking between them.
The two maids exchanged startled, uneasy glances instantly. "Mrs. Blackwood, we couldn’t possibly—"
"It’s okay," Lane interrupted softly, offering a reassuring nod. "Really. Please."
The younger maid smiled nervously, lowering her voice. "Mr. Blackwood prefers strict, formal professionalism inside the household, ma’am."
Lane looked down quietly at the polished floor at that. Of course he did. Everything about Ethan Blackwood was built on form, protocol, and emotional distance. Still, the older maid’s expression softened slightly with a touch of maternal sympathy.
"We’ll try, Mrs... Lane."
The small, awkward hesitation almost made Lane smile faintly. "I’d appreciate it."
A few minutes later, Lane sat alone at the massive, empty dining table while the kitchen staff quietly prepared a light breakfast nearby.
The table itself looked absurdly large for a single person, stretching endlessly beneath grand, minimalist hanging lights that illuminated nothing but empty chairs. The silence surrounding her felt almost oppressive.
This mansion wasn’t built for warmth or family life; it was built for appearances and legacy.
Lane wrapped both of her hands around a warm mug of herbal tea, staring quietly at the untouched plate the staff had placed in front of her. Toast, fresh fruit, and scrambled eggs. It was simple, yet somehow, the act of eating entirely alone inside this cavernous room made a profound loneliness settle deeper into her chest.
She found herself imagining a future of this—of Ethan sitting across from her in icy silence every morning before leaving for work without speaking a single word to her. The mental image felt painfully, terrifyingly realistic.
A soft, sharp vibration broke the silence.
Lane looked down at her phone immediately, seeing Noah’s name flashing on the screen. For the first time since waking up, a genuine flicker of relief passed through her chest.
She answered quickly, pressing the phone to her ear. "Hello?"
"You’re awake." His familiar voice carried its usual calm, analytical sharpness, instantly grounding her more than the cold mansion ever could.
"Barely," Lane admitted softly, leaning over her tea.
"You sound completely exhausted."
"I didn’t sleep much. The room is... different."
Noah exhaled quietly on the other end, the sound heavy with understanding. "I figured as much."
Lane leaned slightly back in the grand dining chair, absentmindedly stirring her tea with a silver spoon. "What time is it anyway?"
"Almost nine."
She blinked slightly, glancing at the bright light outside. "You’re already awake and calling?"
"I’ve been awake for hours, Lane."
That sounded exactly like Noah. Work-obsessed, always moving, always calculating his next professional move. Yet, despite his relentless schedule, he had still carved out time to call her first thing in the morning.
Lane glanced briefly toward the kitchen threshold, where the maids respectfully pretended not to listen while organizing polished crystal dishes.
"How are you feeling?" Noah asked, his tone dropping into a quieter, more protective register.
Lane hesitated, wanting to be strong but finding the lie too heavy to carry to him. "I don’t know, Noah. Honestly."
"That bad?"
"I think reality is just finally starting to sink in."
A heavy silence lingered briefly between them over the cellular line. Then, Noah asked carefully, "How is the Blackwood fortress?"
Lane looked around the vast, silent dining hall, taking in the towering ceilings and the cold stone accents. "Beautiful," she answered after a long moment. "But freezing."
Noah let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "Sounds exactly like the man who owns it."
Lane didn’t respond, primarily because she knew he wasn’t wrong.
Noah’s tone sharpened slightly, the protective instinct rising.
"Did he at least speak to you before he left for the city?"
Lane stared silently into the swirling amber depths of her tea, the lack of an answer speaking volumes. Another painful pause followed before Noah muttered a flat, disgusted, "Unbelievable."
"He probably just left early for a major meeting," Lane said softly, though the excuse sounded incredibly weak and pathetic even to her own ears.
"And? He couldn’t knock on your door for thirty seconds?" Noah rubbed his temples, his frustration simmering clearly through the line now.
"Lane, you’re carrying his child while living alone in that massive mausoleum, and he can’t even pretend to show basic human decency?"
Lane instinctively defended Ethan anyway, the habit too deeply ingrained to break. "He’s probably just incredibly angry, Noah."
"At *you*?"
Neither of them answered immediately, because the truth was a jagged pill to swallow. Yes, Ethan was angry at her. Lane knew it with every fiber of her being. His wrath wasn’t loud or explosive; it was silent, calculated, and sharp.
It was present in the way he avoided her completely, in the heavy silences, and in an emotional distance so severe it felt like a physical wall between them.
Noah sighed heavily, his anger melting into pity. "You always make excuses for the people who hurt you the most, Lane."
Lane looked down quietly at the polished wood of the table, unable to argue. Perhaps she did.
The younger maid approached carefully, breaking her concentration as she placed a small bowl of fresh berries beside Lane’s plate.
"Would you like anything else, Lane?"
Lane offered a grateful, tight smile. "No, thank you. This is perfect."
The maid hesitated briefly, adjusting her notepad before asking softly, "Should we prepare lunch for one later this afternoon?"
The question caught Lane off guard, the words tasting bitter. "For one?"
"Mr. Blackwood rarely returns home before late evening, ma’am. He usually dines in the city or at his club during intense quarters."
Lane felt something sink quietly and heavily inside her chest. *Of course.* The maid immediately seemed to realize the accidental cruelty of her words, her eyes widening. "I apologize, I didn’t mean to imply—"
"It’s okay," Lane interrupted gently, waving it away.
But it wasn’t okay. Not really. Because suddenly, the bleak reality of her new existence became painfully, undeniably clear. She would spend the vast majority of her days entirely alone inside this hollow fortress. Waiting. Avoiding him. Existing like a ghost around a man who didn’t want her in his space.
Noah’s voice pulled her attention back to the phone. "Lane? What happened? Who was that?"
"Nothing."
"You went completely quiet on me."
Lane forced her voice to sound calmer, smoothing over the cracks. "The staff was just asking about the lunch schedule."
Noah remained silent for a second, letting her composure settle before speaking with immense gravity. "Lane."
"Hm?"
"You don’t have to stay emotionally miserable just because you love him." When she didn’t reply, her fingers tightening around the warm ceramic of her mug, Noah continued quietly, "If he keeps treating you like a corporate burden, eventually you need to stop shrinking yourself to fit into his world."
Lane swallowed hard, a lump forming in her throat. She understood exactly what Noah meant. Even yesterday during the move, she had already found herself adjusting her posture and habits unconsciously around Ethan’s cold aura—speaking softly, walking carefully on the marble, trying her absolute best not to inconvenience his routine. She was behaving as though her very existence were an annoyance to him.
"I just don’t know how to act around him anymore," she admitted quietly, her voice cracking.
"Then stop trying so hard." Noah’s voice softened, the anger fading into a gentle plea.
"You don’t owe him silence just because he refuses to give you his voice."
The words settled heavily inside her chest, striking a chord of painful truth.
Before Lane could formulate a response, the older maid re-entered the dining room, holding a sleek security tablet in her hands. Her expression was tense as she approached the table, stopping a few feet away.
"Lane," she said gently, trying out the first name awkwardly for the very first time. "I think you should see this. There are telephoto lenses and reporters gathered outside the front security gates again."
Lane froze instantly, the piece of toast she was holding dropping back onto the plate. Her stomach tightened into a painful knot.
"Again?" the younger maid whispered worriedly, looking toward the high windows.
The older woman nodded quietly, adjusting the tablet view.
"They’ve been setting up tripods since the early morning hours."
Lane immediately lost whatever meager appetite remained. Of course the media hadn’t moved on from a scandal of this magnitude.
People like her, Ethan, and Olivia existed purely as high-society entertainment to the public now. Every movement would be turned into gossip, every public appearance would be analyzed for cracks, and every past mistake would be exposed to the highest bidder.
Noah’s voice sharpened to a lethal edge on the line, picking up the sudden shift in the room’s atmosphere. "Lane? Tell me what’s happening right now."
"There are reporters outside the security gates," she whispered.
A dangerous, protective pause followed on Noah’s end. "You are not going outside today. Do you hear me?"
"I wasn’t planning to leave the house anyway."
"Good."
Lane hung up after a few more quiet assurances, suddenly feeling a bone-deep exhaustion settle over her all over again. She stared blankly at the luxurious, cold dining room around her while the bleak reality of her situation pressed heavily against her chest.
Married to a ghost.
Pregnant by a stranger. Publicly hated by the elite. And living inside a gilded cage with a husband who could barely tolerate the sound of her breathing.
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