CHAPTER TWO: Cold Walls

The mansion was silent.

Lydia wandered through the grand halls, her bouquet discarded on the polished marble floor. The weight of the wedding—the ceremony, the forced smiles, the hollow congratulations—pressed on her chest. She felt as though she were walking through someone else’s life, a life carefully scripted by the Blackwood name, where she was only a prop.

She entered the library, a room lined with dark mahogany shelves and leather-bound books. The warm glow of the fireplace softened the shadows, but it did little to ease the chill in her heart. She sank into a velvet armchair and buried her face in her hands.

Ethan appeared at the doorway without a sound. She didn’t hear him approach. He looked at her, still dressed in his suit, hair slightly disheveled from the day’s events, and for a moment, she thought she might see something—remorse, regret, even the faintest hint of warmth. But it never came.

He spoke, his voice low and controlled. “You shouldn’t be sitting here like this.”

Lydia lifted her head slowly, meeting his gaze. “And what would you have me do? Dance around pretending everything is fine?” Her voice was soft, but it carried an edge she hadn’t meant to reveal.

Ethan stepped fully into the room, closing the distance but keeping his expression unreadable. “I’ve made my position clear. This marriage is… convenient. Nothing more.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Convenient? You mean it’s convenient for you. For your family. For your grandfather. And yet I am supposed to smile, play the perfect wife, and be grateful for this arrangement?”

He paused, almost imperceptibly. Then he said, “Yes.”

The bluntness of his answer cut deeper than she expected. Lydia’s chest tightened, but a small spark of defiance flared. “You will not dictate how I feel, Ethan. You may not want me, but I will not be invisible in my own life. Not even to you.”

His eyes darkened slightly, but he did not reply. Instead, he turned and walked to the fireplace, placing a hand on the mantle as if bracing himself. Lydia watched him, her anger simmering alongside the fear.

She had known this marriage would be difficult. She had prepared herself for cold nights, silent dinners, and the constant awareness that she was unwanted. But the reality was harsher than anything she had imagined. Ethan’s indifference was like a wall between them—impenetrable, unyielding, suffocating.

Yet beneath her fear, a quiet determination began to grow. She would survive this. She would endure, and she would find a way to assert herself, even if it was only in small ways at first.

Ethan’s gaze fell on her again, lingering. “I do not want a wife who expects… affection,” he said, the words measured, deliberate. “Do not mistake tolerance for love. You are my wife in name only. That is all.”

Lydia’s jaw tightened. “Then I will make sure you understand that a name does not give you power over my heart. I am more than a title, Ethan. And one day… you may realize that what you have rejected is what you could never replace.”

He blinked, just once, and for a fleeting moment, the mask of indifference faltered. Then it returned, cold and unyielding, as he turned away.

The room fell silent, broken only by the faint crackle of the fireplace. Lydia exhaled slowly, feeling a mix of fear, resolve, and something else she refused to name.

This marriage was a battlefield, and from this night onward, she would fight—quietly, patiently, and without fear.

And perhaps, just perhaps, the man who did not want her would one day wish he had.