Chapter 5 Who is the Real Madman?

A week passed in tense coexistence. Merrick made no further mention of marriage, though the knowledge of those prepared documents hung between us like an unspoken threat. I avoided him when possible, but the forced family dinners and wedding planning sessions made complete avoidance impossible.

My mother watched our interactions with hawk-like intensity, her disapproval evident whenever Merrick and I exchanged more than cursory words. Whatever game was being played, she clearly didn't approve of the direction it was taking.

Meanwhile, I began my own subtle campaign. If I couldn't escape Merrick's influence through distance, perhaps I could subvert it from within. I started by studying him—his habits, his preferences, the way he interacted with his father and my mother. I noted how he took his coffee (black, no sugar), which news sources he read (financial primarily, with a surprising interest in classical literature), and most importantly, how he reacted when things didn't go according to plan (with a barely perceptible tightening around his eyes that betrayed his otherwise perfect composure).

"What are you doing?" Rachel asked during one of her visits, watching me jot notes in a small leather-bound notebook.

"Research," I replied without looking up. "Know thy enemy."

"This is getting obsessive, Siena." Concern laced her voice. "Maybe you should consider—"

"Consider what? Surrendering?" I closed the notebook with a snap. "He's orchestrated this entire situation to back me into a corner. I'm not going to just roll over and accept defeat."

Rachel sighed. "That's not what I meant. But this pregnancy is real, regardless of how it happened. Have you even thought about what comes next? Doctor's appointments, prenatal care, birth plans?"

I hadn't, not really. I'd been so focused on the how and why of my situation that I'd barely considered the practical aspects of actually having a child.

"I'll figure it out," I said, less confidently than I intended.

"You don't have to do this alone," she reminded me gently. "Whatever you think of Merrick, he is the father."

"Biologically," I conceded. "But that doesn't mean he gets to control my life or my child's future."

Rachel's expression softened. "Just... be careful, okay? This game you're playing—it could backfire."

She didn't know how prophetic those words would prove to be.

---

That evening, I made a calculated decision to join Merrick for dinner. My mother and Desmond were attending a charity function, leaving us alone in the house for the first time since the paternity test results.

I dressed with careful consideration—a simple blue dress that flattered without being overtly seductive, my hair loose around my shoulders the way I'd noticed him watching it during family gatherings. The goal was to appear approachable, perhaps even vulnerable. To make him believe I was softening toward the idea of "us."

I found him in the dining room, surprisingly domestic as he arranged takeout containers on the table.

"I ordered Thai," he said without looking up. "You've been craving spicy food lately."

The observation unsettled me—had he been watching me that closely?

"Thank you," I said, taking the seat he pulled out for me. "That was... thoughtful."

A slight smile touched his lips. "I'm capable of thoughtfulness, Siena. When properly motivated."

We ate in surprisingly comfortable silence for several minutes before I initiated the next phase of my plan.

"I've been thinking about what you said," I began, keeping my tone casual. "About our options."

His eyes sharpened with interest, though he maintained his relaxed posture. "Have you reached any conclusions?"

"Not exactly. But I've realized that fighting you at every turn isn't productive." I toyed with my fork, a calculated show of uncertainty. "Maybe we should try to find some common ground."

"Common ground," he repeated, studying me. "What did you have in mind?"

I met his gaze with what I hoped was sincerity. "I want to understand you better. Your motivations, your plans for the future. If we're going to be co-parents, we should at least try to communicate."

Suspicion flickered across his features, quickly masked. "A reasonable approach. What would you like to know?"

"Why is this child so important to you?" I asked directly. "Is it just about continuing the Doyle name?"

Merrick set down his fork, considering his response. "The Doyle name carries significant weight in certain circles. But no, that's not the only reason."

"Then what?"

He studied me for a long moment. "Have you ever wanted something so desperately that you'd do anything to get it? Not just possess it, but make it intrinsically part of your life?"

"I'm not a thing to be possessed," I reminded him, fighting to keep my tone even.

"No, you're not." His gaze intensified. "You're much more complex and valuable than any possession could be. You're the mother of my child, Siena. That makes you irreplaceable."

The word sent an unexpected shiver through me. Irreplaceable. Not as an object of desire or a means to an end, but as something essential and unique.

"You speak as if you've wanted this—wanted me—for a long time," I ventured, genuinely curious now despite myself.

A strange smile curved his lips. "Longer than you might imagine."

The conversation shifted to safer topics after that—the upcoming wedding, plans for the nursery, mundane matters that allowed me to maintain the illusion of warming to him. By the time we finished dinner, I felt I'd made progress. He seemed more relaxed, perhaps even beginning to trust my apparent change of heart.

"Would you like to watch a movie?" I suggested, the picture of innocent companionship. "Since we have the house to ourselves."

Merrick agreed, though I caught the skepticism in his eyes. In the media room, I deliberately chose a seat close to him on the sofa, noting with satisfaction how his body tensed slightly at my proximity.

Halfway through the film, I let my head rest against his shoulder, as if tired. His arm came around me after a moment's hesitation, his fingers tracing light patterns on my arm. The touch was unexpectedly pleasant, sending warmth through me that I struggled to ignore.

"You're very convincing," he murmured into my hair.

I stiffened. "What do you mean?"

"This act." His fingers continued their gentle exploration of my arm. "The sudden acceptance, the physical closeness. You're trying to lull me into complacency so you can gather information to use against me."

I pulled away, embarrassment heating my cheeks. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Merrick's laugh was soft but devoid of humor. "I've been watching you watch me, Siena. The little notebook where you record my habits. The way you test my reactions with carefully chosen words. You're studying me like a specimen."

My heart raced. I hadn't been nearly as subtle as I'd thought.

"You can't blame me for trying to understand the man who's upended my entire life," I said defensively.

"No, I can't." His expression softened unexpectedly. "In fact, I admire your strategy. It's exactly what I would do in your position."

The comparison disturbed me more than his awareness of my plan. "I'm nothing like you."

"Aren't you?" His eyes held mine, searching. "Intelligent, strategic, willing to use whatever tools necessary to achieve your goals. We're more alike than you care to admit."

I stood abruptly, needing distance. "I should go to bed."

"Of course." He remained seated, entirely at ease. "We'll continue this game tomorrow."

"It's not a game to me," I insisted.

"No?" He raised an eyebrow. "Then what would you call it?"

"Survival," I answered honestly.

Something shifted in his expression—a flicker of genuine emotion breaking through his controlled facade. "I've never intended you harm, Siena. Quite the opposite."

"Your intentions don't change the reality of what you've done," I countered, moving toward the door.

I was nearly there when he spoke again, his voice low and commanding. "Before you go upstairs to plot your next move against me, there's something you should know."

I turned reluctantly. "What?"

"I'm not the villain you've cast me as." He stood, closing the distance between us with deliberate steps. "And this game you're playing—you're not the only one who can change the rules."

Before I could respond, he grasped my wrists, pulling me against him in one fluid motion. I gasped, caught off guard by the sudden closeness, by the heat of his body against mine.

"What are you doing?" I demanded, though I made no move to pull away.

"Changing the game," he murmured, his eyes darkening as they dropped to my lips.

The kiss, when it came, was nothing like I expected. Not forceful or dominating, but achingly tender—a question rather than a demand. His lips moved against mine with careful precision, as if memorizing their shape, their texture. Despite every rational thought screaming at me to resist, my body responded, melting against him as dormant memories flickered at the edges of my consciousness.

When he finally pulled back, I was breathing hard, confusion and unwanted desire warring within me.

"Why did you do that?" I whispered.

"To remind you," he said softly, "that there are forces at play here beyond calculation and strategy. Chemistry. Connection." His fingers traced my jawline. "The same forces that brought us together that night six weeks ago."

I stepped back, shaken by how easily he'd disrupted my carefully constructed defenses. "That was alcohol, not chemistry."

"Was it?" He didn't move to follow me. "Then why did you just kiss me back?"

I had no answer for that—at least none I was willing to admit. Instead, I fled, retreating to my room where I could regroup and reconsider my approach.

But sleep proved elusive that night. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt Merrick's lips on mine, heard his voice murmuring that we were alike, remembered the electricity that had sparked between us despite all my determination to remain immune to his charm.

I woke the next morning resolved to maintain my distance, to recalibrate my strategy. But when I opened my bedroom door to head downstairs for breakfast, I found myself face to face with Merrick, his expression uncharacteristically serious.

"We need to talk," he said without preamble. "In private."

Something in his tone made me hesitate. This wasn't the calculating manipulator I'd come to expect, but someone different—almost urgent.

"What's happened?" I asked, sensing that something had shifted overnight.

"Not here." He glanced down the hallway. "Meet me in the garden house in fifteen minutes. Come alone, and don't tell anyone where you're going."

Before I could question him further, he was gone, leaving me with a sense of foreboding that only grew as I dressed quickly and made my way through the garden to the small guest house at its edge.

Merrick was waiting, pacing the small sitting room with uncharacteristic agitation. When he saw me, relief briefly flashed across his features.

"Thank you for coming," he said, gesturing for me to sit.

I remained standing. "What's this about, Merrick?"

He ran a hand through his hair—another uncharacteristic gesture that heightened my unease. "There are things you need to know. About me, about this situation. Things I should have told you from the beginning."

"Such as?" I prompted when he paused.

"I'm not Desmond's biological son." The words came out in a rush. "I'm adopted. There's no blood relation between us."

I stared at him, struggling to process this revelation. "What? But everyone knows you as his son. The heir to Doyle Industries."

"A carefully constructed narrative," he confirmed. "Desmond adopted me when I was twelve, after my parents died in an accident. He had no children of his own, and I was... suitable for his purposes."

"What purposes?" I asked, though a cold feeling in my stomach suggested I already knew.

Merrick's smile was bitter. "To be molded into the perfect heir. The perfect tool for expanding his empire." He moved to the window, looking out at the main house. "Your pregnancy wasn't my plan, Siena. But it does solve a problem I've been facing."

"What problem?"

He turned back to me, his expression more open than I'd ever seen it. "Desmond's will includes a trust that can only be inherited by his blood relatives or their descendants. As his adopted son, I have no claim to it—unless..."

"Unless you have a child with someone who does have a blood connection," I finished, realization dawning. "Like the stepdaughter of his new wife."

Merrick nodded, watching me carefully. "The trust is substantial—nearly half of Doyle Industries' total worth. Without it, my position as heir is precarious at best."

The calculated nature of it all made my head spin. "So our child is just a means to secure your inheritance? A pawn in your financial strategy?"

"Initially, yes," he admitted, surprising me with his honesty. "But things have... changed."

"Changed how?" I challenged, anger rising. "You manipulated me, orchestrated this entire situation—"

"I didn't plan the pregnancy," he interrupted, his voice hardening. "That night at The Velvet Room—I went there to meet you, yes. To begin laying groundwork for a potential relationship that might eventually lead to marriage and children. But what happened between us wasn't planned. You were the one who approached me, who suggested we leave together."

"Because I was drunk!"

"You weren't that drunk when we arrived," he countered. "The drinking came later, after we'd talked for hours. After you'd kissed me for the first time."

Fragmented memories stirred—laughter, the clink of glasses, his hand warm on mine across the table. Had it really happened that way?

"I don't remember," I whispered, confused and conflicted.

"I know." His expression softened. "And that's partly my fault. I should have stopped you from drinking so much. Should have taken you home instead of to my apartment. But by then, I was caught up in it too—in you."

I sank onto the sofa, trying to reconcile this new information with the narrative I'd constructed. "Why are you telling me this now?"

Merrick sat beside me, careful to maintain some distance between us. "Because you deserve to know the truth before you decide what happens next. And because I need you to understand that while this may have started as strategy, it's become something... more."

"More?" I echoed skeptically.

His eyes met mine, startlingly sincere. "I find myself wanting this child—wanting you—for reasons that have nothing to do with inheritance or the Doyle name."

I wanted to believe him. Despite everything, despite all the manipulation and calculation, some part of me wanted to believe that genuine feeling had developed between us.

"How can I trust anything you say?" I asked, voicing the question that stood between us like a wall.

"You can't," he answered simply. "Not yet. But I'm hoping you'll give me the chance to earn your trust."

Before I could respond, the door to the garden house burst open. Desmond stood there, his face tight with controlled fury.

"So this is where you've been hiding," he said, his cold gaze moving between us. "How convenient to find you together."

Merrick stood, positioning himself slightly in front of me in what seemed like a protective gesture. "Father. We were just talking."

"Talking." Desmond's smile didn't reach his eyes. "About what, I wonder? Perhaps about how you've been undermining my plans with your... attachment to Juliette's daughter?"

The tension in the room was suddenly suffocating. I stood as well, refusing to be intimidated. "What plans would those be, Mr. Doyle?"

Desmond ignored me, his attention fixed on Merrick. "I raised you better than this. Sentiment has no place in business."

"This isn't business," Merrick replied, his voice steady. "This is my child. My future."

"Your future," Desmond repeated with a cold laugh. "Your future is whatever I decide it is. Remember who made you, boy."

The exchange sent chills down my spine. There was something deeply wrong in the relationship between these two men—something twisted and manipulative that went beyond normal family dynamics.

"I think you should leave," I said to Desmond, surprising myself with my boldness. "This conversation doesn't concern you."

Desmond turned to me then, his expression calculating. "On the contrary, Ms. Crawford. Everything that happens in this family concerns me. Especially when it threatens what I've spent decades building."

He stepped closer, and Merrick tensed beside me. "Stay away from her," he warned, a dangerous edge to his voice I'd never heard before.

"Or what?" Desmond challenged. "You'll defy me? After everything I've done for you?"

The stand-off crackled with tension. I placed a hand on Merrick's arm, feeling the rigid muscles beneath his shirt. "It's okay," I murmured. "Let's just go."

For a moment, I thought he might refuse. Then he nodded once, taking my hand and guiding me toward the door. As we passed Desmond, the older man caught my arm, his grip painfully tight.

"He'll disappoint you," he said quietly. "It's what he was trained to do."

Merrick pulled me free, his expression murderous. "Don't touch her again."

We left Desmond standing in the garden house, his cold laughter following us across the lawn. Once we were out of earshot, I turned to Merrick.

"What did he mean, 'trained to do'?"

Merrick's face was grim. "Another conversation for another time. Right now, we need to focus on keeping you and the baby safe."

"Safe from what?" Alarm shot through me. "From your father?"

His eyes met mine, deadly serious. "From everyone who would use our child as a pawn in their games—including Desmond, including your mother. Perhaps even including me."

"And how do I do that?" I asked, suddenly feeling the weight of my vulnerability.

Merrick's answer was simple and devastating in its implications: "By trusting me, even though you have every reason not to."