Chapter 1 The Father's Identity is a Mystery
The pregnancy test stared back at me, two pink lines that felt like a death sentence. I blinked, hoping one would disappear. Neither did.
"Siena, are you okay in there?" My best friend Rachel's voice came through the bathroom door, laced with concern.
I couldn't answer. My throat had closed up, and the pristine white tiles of my bathroom seemed to be closing in on me. How could this happen? I was always careful. Always.
"I'm coming in," Rachel announced, pushing the door open to find me frozen, test in hand.
Her eyes widened. "Oh, honey."
"This can't be right," I whispered, my voice sounding foreign to my own ears. "I need to see a doctor."
---
Dr. Matthews' office smelled of antiseptic and artificial lavender. The combination made my stomach turn—or perhaps that was the morning sickness I'd been experiencing for the past week.
"Well, Ms. Crawford, the blood tests confirm it. You're approximately six weeks pregnant." Dr. Matthews smiled, as if delivering wonderful news rather than what felt like a life sentence.
Six weeks. I mentally calculated backward, trying to pinpoint the exact date. There was that charity gala for my mother's foundation, but I'd left early. Then the night at The Velvet Room with Rachel and her colleagues... most of which remained a blur.
"Six weeks?" I echoed, my mind racing through a fog of partial memories. "Are you absolutely certain?"
Dr. Matthews nodded. "The hormone levels indicate about six weeks, give or take a few days."
The problem wasn't just that I was pregnant. It was that I had no recollection of who the father could be. The night that would have aligned with the doctor's timeline was a complete blank in my memory—a night I'd apparently spent with someone whose face I couldn't even remember.
"Siena," Dr. Matthews' voice softened. "Given your... social standing, I understand this might be complicated. But you should consider your options carefully."
My social standing. Right. As the daughter of Juliette Crawford, one of Boston's elite socialites, a scandal like this would be front-page news. My mother would be mortified—her unmarried daughter pregnant by God knows who.
---
"We need to find out who the father is," Rachel declared as we left the clinic, her arm firmly around my waist. "There are private labs that can do anonymous paternity tests."
I nodded numbly. "How does that even work? I don't have DNA from potential... candidates." The word made me cringe.
"You just need your blood drawn. They keep it on file until you bring in potential matches. It's all anonymous, coded with numbers instead of names."
I leaned against her car, suddenly exhausted. "Rachel, I don't even know where to start. That night... I remember nothing. Absolutely nothing."
Rachel's expression shifted, concern deepening. "Siena, do you think someone might have..."
"Drugged me?" I finished her thought. "I've considered that. But why would someone target me specifically?"
She didn't answer, but I could see the wheels turning in her head. Rachel, always the protector, was already plotting.
"Let's do the blood draw tomorrow," she decided. "I know a place that's discreet."
---
The sun was setting by the time I returned home, casting long shadows across the manicured lawn of our estate. My mother's Mercedes was in the driveway, along with an unfamiliar black Bentley. Visitors at this hour usually meant business associates or charity planning.
I entered through the side door, hoping to slip upstairs unnoticed. My mind was still reeling from the day's revelations, and I wasn't in the mood for my mother's scrutiny.
"Siena, is that you?" My mother's voice rang out from the living room. "Come in here, darling. There's someone I'd like you to meet."
I froze, smoothing down my blouse and checking my reflection in the hallway mirror. My eyes were red-rimmed, but it wasn't obvious I'd been crying. Taking a deep breath, I plastered on my best society smile and entered the living room.
My mother, ever the picture of elegance in her tailored Chanel suit, sat perched on our white leather sofa. Beside her was a distinguished-looking man in his fifties—salt and pepper hair, sharp features, and the confident posture of someone accustomed to power.
"There she is," my mother beamed, though the smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "Siena, this is Desmond Doyle. Desmond, my daughter Siena."
The name registered immediately. Desmond Doyle, CEO of Doyle Industries and one of the wealthiest men in the Northeast. I'd seen him in business magazines and charity galas, but we'd never been formally introduced.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Doyle," I said, extending my hand.
He stood, taking my hand in both of his. "The pleasure is mine, Siena. Your mother speaks highly of you."
There was something in his eyes—an assessment, as if he were appraising a valuable acquisition.
"Siena, darling," my mother interjected, her voice unnaturally high. "Desmond and I have some news."
I looked between them, noticing for the first time how close they sat, the way her hand rested on his knee.
"We're getting married," she announced, flashing a massive diamond ring I hadn't noticed before. "Next month, at the Doyle estate."
The room tilted slightly. My mother, remarrying? She'd been a widow for over a decade, fiercely independent and, as far as I knew, uninterested in changing that status.
"That's... wonderful," I managed, the words sticking in my throat. "Congratulations to you both."
"There's more," Desmond said, his deep voice commanding attention. "We'd like you to meet my son. He'll be joining us for dinner."
As if on cue, footsteps sounded on the marble staircase in the foyer. I turned to see a tall figure descending—broad shoulders, dark hair styled with careful precision, and a face that seemed vaguely, disturbingly familiar.
He was handsome in a dangerous way, like a predator dressed in designer clothes. His eyes—piercing blue—locked onto mine as he reached the bottom of the stairs, and a slow, knowing smile spread across his face.
Something cold slithered down my spine. A flash of déjà vu hit me so hard I nearly gasped.
"Merrick," Desmond called, "come meet Juliette's daughter, Siena."
Merrick crossed the room with languid confidence, his eyes never leaving mine. When he reached us, he extended his hand, that unsettling smile still playing on his lips.
"Siena Crawford," he said, his voice smooth as velvet and just as suffocating. "How nice to finally meet you... officially."
I took his hand automatically, and a jolt ran through me at the contact. His grip tightened slightly, as if he'd felt it too.
"How do you do," I replied mechanically, struggling to place why he seemed so familiar. Had we met at a function? Through mutual friends?
Merrick tilted his head, studying my confusion with apparent amusement. Then he leaned closer, his voice dropping to a murmur that only I could hear.
"What's wrong? Can't recognize me?"
The blood drained from my face as fragmented memories suddenly tried to surface—a darkened room, the clink of ice in glasses, his eyes watching me across a crowded bar.
In that moment, as my mother chatted obliviously with her fiancé, as Merrick's knowing eyes held mine captive, one terrifying thought crystallized in my mind: The father of my child might be standing right in front of me, about to become my stepbrother.
