Chapter 3 You Have No Choice

The following morning, I woke with a resolution burning in my chest. I needed to leave this house—away from my mother's cold fury, away from Merrick's knowing eyes. The pregnancy was my burden to bear, and I would do it on my terms, not as a pawn in whatever game was being played around me.

I called my real estate agent, Caroline, before even getting out of bed.

"I need an apartment," I told her. "Something immediately available. Price isn't an issue, but privacy and security are paramount."

"I have a few properties that might work," Caroline replied, sounding surprised by my urgency. "I can show you this afternoon."

"Perfect." I hung up and began packing an overnight bag. My plan was simple: view apartments today, secure one immediately, and move my essentials by nightfall. I could deal with the rest of my belongings later.

As I packed, I drafted a mental list of what else I needed to do. Transfer money from my trust fund to my personal account. Contact the family lawyer about my inheritance. Perhaps even look into positions at art galleries in another city—my art history degree had to be useful for something.

I was so focused on planning my escape that I almost missed the notification from my banking app. Frowning, I opened it to find a message: Account access temporarily restricted. Please contact your financial institution.

"What the hell?" I muttered, immediately dialing the private banking number.

"Ms. Crawford, I'm afraid there's been a hold placed on your accounts," the banker explained after verifying my identity. "The request came through yesterday evening."

"A hold? By whom?" My voice rose sharply.

"The primary account holder, Ms. Juliette Crawford."

My mother. Of course.

"There must be some mistake," I insisted. "That's my trust fund. She can't just—"

"Actually, Ms. Crawford," the banker interrupted gently, "while you are the beneficiary, your mother remains the trustee until you turn thirty. She has full legal authority to restrict access."

I ended the call and sat heavily on my bed, the reality of my situation sinking in. My mother had anticipated my move and cut off my resources. But why? What was she so afraid I would do?

---

The apartment viewings that afternoon were a formality. Without access to my funds, I couldn't secure any of them. Caroline sensed something was wrong but didn't press when I explained I needed more time to decide.

I returned home dejected, only to find another surprise waiting: a moving truck in our driveway, workers carrying boxes into the house.

Inside, the foyer was lined with expensive luggage and crates. Desmond stood in the center of it all, directing movers with the practiced authority of a man accustomed to being obeyed.

"Ah, Siena," he greeted me with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Perfect timing. We're just getting settled."

"Settled?" I repeated, a sinking feeling in my stomach.

"Didn't Juliette tell you? We've decided to move in right away, rather than waiting until after the wedding. Makes the transition smoother."

My mother appeared from the kitchen, looking pleased with herself. "Darling, there you are. Desmond and Merrick will be staying with us until the wedding. Isn't that wonderful?"

Her eyes held a challenge, daring me to object. This wasn't a coincidence—it was a calculated move to keep me under surveillance.

"How... convenient," I managed, searching for Merrick among the activity. "And where will everyone be sleeping?"

"Merrick's taking the east wing guest suite," my mother replied smoothly. "The one next to your room."

Of course he was.

As if summoned by his name, Merrick descended the stairs, his sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular forearms. He'd been helping with the move, though I couldn't imagine him doing manual labor willingly.

"Siena," he acknowledged with a nod. "Settling back in after your apartment hunt?"

The fact that he knew where I'd been sent a chill down my spine. Had someone been following me?

"Just exploring options," I said carefully.

"Options are good." His smile was sharp. "Though some are more viable than others."

Before I could respond, Desmond clapped his hands together. "Merrick, why don't you show Siena what we've done with the garden terrace? Juliette and I need to discuss some wedding details."

It wasn't a suggestion. Merrick gestured toward the back of the house, and reluctantly, I followed.

The terrace had been transformed with new furniture and planters—a space clearly designed for entertaining. Merrick closed the glass doors behind us, instantly muffling the sounds from inside.

"Running away won't solve anything," he said without preamble.

I turned to face him, anger rising. "You don't know what I'm doing."

"Don't I?" He stepped closer. "Apartment hunting. Bank calls. You're planning an escape."

"How do you—" I stopped myself, realization dawning. "You're working with my mother."

Merrick laughed, the sound genuine but lacking warmth. "Your mother and I are hardly allies, Siena. She's as trapped in this situation as you are."

"What situation exactly?" I demanded. "What is happening here?"

He studied me for a moment, then moved to the edge of the terrace, looking out over the manicured gardens. "Did you know this house isn't actually yours anymore?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Your mother transferred the deed to herself last month. Part of the prenuptial arrangement with my father."

I shook my head in disbelief. "That's impossible. This house has been in my father's family for generations. It's part of my inheritance."

"Check the property records if you don't believe me." His voice was matter-of-fact, devoid of mockery. "Everything that was once yours is being consolidated under their control."

"Why?" I whispered, though I was beginning to understand. "Why would she do this?"

Merrick turned to me, his expression unreadable. "Because Desmond Doyle doesn't marry for love. He marries for assets."

I backed away, my mind racing. "And my mother? What does she get out of this arrangement?"

"Security. Status. The Doyle name." He shrugged. "And perhaps protection from certain financial irregularities in her foundation that might otherwise come to light."

The pieces were falling into place—my mother's sudden engagement, her desperate attempts to keep me contained, the merging of our households.

"And what do you get, Merrick?" I asked, my voice steady despite my racing heart. "What's your role in all this?"

He moved with startling speed, backing me against the terrace railing. His hands gripped the rail on either side of me, caging me in without actually touching me.

"My role," he said softly, his face inches from mine, "is to ensure the Doyle legacy continues."

I pushed against his chest, but he didn't budge. "Let me go."

"You still don't understand, do you?" His eyes searched mine. "You think you can just walk away from this? From me?"

"Watch me," I hissed, ducking under his arm and making for the door.

His next words froze me in place.

"You can't escape, Siena. The child you're carrying will be a Doyle, whether you like it or not."

I turned slowly, fear and fury battling within me. "You don't know that for certain."

The smile that spread across his face was triumphant. "Don't I?"

From his pocket, he withdrew his phone and opened a video file. He held it out to me, and with trembling fingers, I took it.

The footage was dark, clearly taken in a dimly lit club. I recognized The Velvet Room's distinctive red booths in the background. And there I was, laughing, my head thrown back as I took a shot of something clear. Across from me sat Merrick, watching with those penetrating blue eyes.

The timestamp in the corner showed 1:37 AM, six weeks ago.

The video continued, showing me leaning across the table, whispering something in his ear. His expression remained controlled, but I saw his hand tighten around his glass. Then, unmistakably, I was the one who stood, the one who took his hand, the one who led him toward the back of the club.

"No," I whispered, handing the phone back as if it burned. "This doesn't prove anything. I was clearly drunk."

"You weren't drugged, if that's what you're implying," Merrick said, pocketing the phone. "You knew exactly what you were doing."

"I don't remember any of it!" The words tore from me, desperate and raw.

"That's not my fault." His voice softened, almost sympathetic. "You wanted me that night, Siena. You made that very clear."

Tears threatened, but I refused to let them fall. "You could have said no. You knew I wasn't in control."

"Weren't you?" He stepped closer again, his hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from my face. I flinched but didn't retreat. "Or were you finally free of the constraints you put on yourself? Finally acting on what you really wanted?"

"What I want," I said through gritted teeth, "is for you to leave me alone. Whatever happened that night was a mistake."

Something hardened in his expression. "A mistake that created a child. My child."

"You don't know that," I insisted, though the evidence was becoming overwhelming.

"I do." His certainty was unnerving. "And deep down, so do you."

I pushed past him, desperate to escape his presence, his words, the truth he represented. At the door, I turned back, unable to contain my fury.

"You set me up," I accused. "This whole thing—you planned it."

Merrick's smile was enigmatic, neither confirming nor denying. "I simply saw an opportunity and took it. Just as you did that night."

"I was drunk!"

"And I was there." He crossed the terrace toward me, stopping just short of where I stood. "I didn't force you into anything, Siena. I merely... facilitated what you already wanted."

"You're twisting everything," I whispered, tears finally breaking free.

His expression softened unexpectedly, his hand coming up to brush away a tear with his thumb. The gentle touch was more devastating than his words had been.

"No, Siena," he murmured. "I'm not the villain you need me to be. I didn't trap you. I freed you."

The tenderness in his voice was so convincing that for a moment—just a moment—I almost believed him. Then I remembered the cold calculation in his eyes when he'd shown me the video, the way he'd orchestrated this entire situation.

"Stay away from me," I warned, backing through the doorway. "And stay away from my child."

As I fled, his final words followed me, soft but carrying an unmistakable promise:

"Our child, Siena. And you'll never be free of me now."