Chapter 2 He Knows, But I Don't Remember
The dinner that followed was excruciating. I pushed food around my plate, bile rising in my throat every time I caught Merrick's gaze from across the table. His eyes never left me for long—calculating, amused, as if watching a mouse realize it was trapped.
"Siena barely touched her salmon," my mother observed with a frown. "Are you feeling well, darling?"
"Just tired," I managed, forcing a smile. "It's been a long day."
"You do look a bit pale," Desmond agreed, his concern seemingly genuine. "Perhaps you should rest."
Merrick took a slow sip of his wine. "You know what they say—too many late nights catch up with you eventually."
The double meaning wasn't lost on me. My fingers tightened around my water glass.
"How did you two meet?" I asked, desperate to redirect the conversation away from myself.
As my mother launched into their "serendipitous" encounter at a charity auction six months ago, I stole another glance at Merrick. He was already watching me, one corner of his mouth quirked up in a half-smile that made my skin crawl.
I excused myself as soon as decorum allowed, escaping to my room where I immediately called Rachel.
"I think I found him," I whispered when she answered.
"The father? Who?" Her voice was sharp with concern.
"My mother's fiancé's son." The words sounded absurd even as I said them. "Merrick Doyle. Rachel, he's going to be my stepbrother."
"Doyle? As in Desmond Doyle's son?" Rachel's shock was palpable. "How do you know it's him?"
"I don't, not for certain. But the way he looked at me... he said something that implied we've met before. And I felt... I don't know, like my body remembered something my mind doesn't."
"Jesus, Siena." Rachel exhaled heavily. "We need that paternity test ASAP. I'll pick you up tomorrow at 9."
---
Sleep evaded me. I tossed and turned, fragments of memories teasing at the edges of my consciousness—a hand on the small of my back, the scent of expensive cologne, blue eyes watching me through the darkness.
At 3 AM, I gave up. Wrapping myself in a silk robe, I crept downstairs for water, only to freeze at the sight of a silhouette on the patio. Merrick stood with his back to the house, smoking a cigarette, moonlight silvering his profile.
I should have retreated, but something compelled me forward. I slid open the glass door, the soft sound making him turn.
"Trouble sleeping?" he asked, not seeming surprised to see me.
"I need to ask you something." My voice was steadier than I expected. "Do we know each other?"
Merrick took a long drag of his cigarette, then exhaled slowly, the smoke curling between us like a specter. "That depends on how you define 'know.'"
"Stop playing games," I snapped, frustration overriding my caution. "Were we together? At some point about six weeks ago?"
His eyes narrowed slightly, something darkening in their depths. "Why six weeks specifically, Siena?"
The way he said my name—like he'd tasted it before—sent a shiver through me. Before I could respond, he stepped closer, close enough that I could smell the whiskey on his breath mingling with tobacco.
"Are you asking if I'm the reason you've been throwing up every morning?" he murmured, his voice so low I almost missed it.
My blood turned to ice. "How do you—"
"The walls in this house are thin." He shrugged, but his casual demeanor couldn't mask the intensity in his eyes. "And your bathroom window was open this morning."
"That doesn't answer my question," I persisted, wrapping my arms around myself.
Merrick studied me for a long moment, then dropped his cigarette, crushing it under his heel. "Yes, we've met before. At The Velvet Room. You were... quite enthusiastic about getting to know me better."
Heat flooded my face as fragmented images flickered through my mind—dark corners, his hands in my hair, my back against a wall.
"I don't remember," I whispered, more to myself than to him.
"No," he agreed, something like disappointment flashing across his features. "You wouldn't. You were quite... intoxicated."
The implication hung between us, ugly and accusatory. "Did you... take advantage of that?"
His expression hardened. "Is that what you think of me already? That I'd need to drug a woman to get her into bed?"
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to." He stepped back, his face closing off. "Believe what you want, Siena. It changes nothing."
As he turned to leave, I grabbed his arm. "Wait. I need to know—"
"What you need," he said quietly, removing my hand from his arm with deliberate care, "is to consider what happens next. Because our parents are getting married in four weeks, and this little... situation... isn't going away."
"It's not a 'situation,'" I hissed. "It's a child. Possibly your child."
Something shifted in his expression—a flicker of something almost vulnerable before his mask slid back into place. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a folded piece of paper, pressing it into my palm.
"When you get your answer," he said, turning away, "you'll want to kill me."
I unfolded the note after he disappeared inside, reading it by moonlight: "Wait for your paternity report. You'll want to strangle me."
---
The private lab was located in a nondescript medical building downtown. Rachel waited in the car while I gave my blood sample, providing only a case number rather than my name.
"How long until we know?" I asked the technician, rolling down my sleeve.
"We'll keep your sample on file. Once you bring in a comparison sample, results take about three days." She smiled professionally. "Though without a sample from the potential father, we can't proceed further."
That was the problem. How was I supposed to get Merrick's DNA without him knowing? And did I even want confirmation of what I already suspected?
Rachel drove us to her apartment afterward, insisting I stay for lunch. "You look like you haven't slept in days," she observed, setting a salad in front of me.
"I haven't," I admitted, pushing lettuce around my plate. "Every time I close my eyes, I see his face."
"You still don't remember that night?"
I shook my head. "Just... fragments. Enough to know something happened, not enough to know what exactly."
Rachel's expression darkened. "Siena, if he took advantage of you—"
"I don't think so," I interrupted, surprising myself with the certainty. "There's something else going on here. He's... playing some kind of game."
"What kind of game involves getting your stepsister-to-be pregnant?" Rachel's disgust was evident.
"I don't know," I sighed. "But I intend to find out."
---
When I returned home that evening, the house was quiet. A note on the kitchen counter informed me that my mother and Desmond had gone to dinner with wedding planners. No mention of Merrick.
Taking advantage of the solitude, I slipped into my mother's wing of the house. If anyone knew what was happening, it would be her. My mother kept meticulous records of everything—surely she'd have information on the Doyles, on Merrick.
Her study door was unlocked. I hesitated only briefly before entering, guilt overwhelmed by necessity. The room was immaculate as always—organized bookshelves, pristine desk, everything in its place. I started with her filing cabinet, carefully rifling through folders labeled with various business and social matters.
Nothing on the Doyles.
Next, her desk drawers. Bills, correspondence, charity paperwork—and then, in the bottom drawer, a manila folder with no label. Inside was a stack of medical documents.
My medical documents. From Dr. Matthews' office.
My hands trembled as I flipped through the pages—blood test results confirming my pregnancy, dated three days ago.
"Find what you're looking for?"
I whirled around to find my mother standing in the doorway, her face a mask of cold fury.
"You knew," I whispered, holding up the papers. "How long have you known?"
"Longer than you, apparently." She stepped into the room, closing the door behind her. "Dr. Matthews called me immediately. I'm still listed as your emergency contact."
"And you didn't think to tell me?" My voice rose despite my effort to stay calm.
"I was hoping it wasn't true." My mother's voice was ice. "That perhaps there was a mistake."
"There's no mistake," I said, my hand instinctively moving to my stomach. "I'm pregnant."
My mother's eyes followed the gesture, her expression hardening further. "And the father? Do you even know who he is?"
The question hit like a slap. "I'm trying to figure that out."
"Is it him?" she demanded. "Is it Merrick?"
The directness of her question caught me off guard. "I... I don't know for certain."
My mother's laugh was bitter, entirely devoid of humor. "Of course it is. Why else would Desmond suddenly be so eager to blend our families?"
"What are you talking about?"
She moved closer, her eyes never leaving mine. "Think, Siena. The timing is too perfect. They've orchestrated this whole thing."
"That's paranoid," I said, but doubt had already taken root.
My mother's smile was cold enough to burn. "Is it? Then let me tell you something, daughter. I would rather your child be fathered by a complete stranger than by Merrick Doyle."
I stared at her, stunned by the venom in her voice. "Why? What do you know about him?"
Instead of answering, she took the medical papers from my hand and returned them to the drawer. "Get out of my study, Siena. And stay away from Merrick."
"He might be the father of my child," I protested.
My mother turned to me, her face suddenly tired beyond her years. "For your sake, pray that he's not. Because if he is, you've given him exactly what he wants."
She left me standing there, confused and more frightened than before. As I slipped back to my room, one thought kept circling in my mind: What game was Merrick playing, and why did my mother seem to already know the rules?
