Chapter 7 A Mad Love Transaction

The garden house loomed before me, bathed in late afternoon sunlight that belied the darkness of my situation. I hesitated at the door, my hand trembling slightly as I reached for the knob. Inside, Merrick would be waiting—the man who had just systematically destroyed my reputation, who had turned my own scheme against me with ruthless efficiency.

When I finally entered, he was standing by the window, his back to me. He didn't turn when the door opened, though the slight stiffening of his shoulders indicated he knew I was there.

"Impressive press conference," I said, proud of how steady my voice sounded despite the fury churning inside me. "You should consider acting as a career if the whole corporate heir thing doesn't work out."

He turned then, his expression unreadable. "You left me little choice."

"Little choice?" I repeated incredulously. "You destroyed me publicly!"

"After you plotted to do the same to me." His voice remained calm, infuriatingly so. "Did you think I wouldn't find out about your meetings with Callum Harris? About the recordings you made specifically to incriminate me?"

I stepped further into the room, anger overriding caution. "How did you know?"

A slight smile touched his lips. "You're not the only one with resources, Siena. The moment you contacted a reporter, I was aware."

"So what now?" I demanded. "You've won. My reputation is ruined. The whole world thinks I'm some calculating gold-digger. What more could you possibly want from me?"

Merrick moved away from the window, closing some of the distance between us. "I want what I've always wanted—a secure future for our child."

"Our child," I scoffed. "You mean your inheritance security."

Something flashed in his eyes—anger or perhaps hurt. "You still don't understand, do you? Yes, the inheritance matters. But this isn't just about money."

"Then what is it about?" I challenged. "Enlighten me, Merrick. Because from where I'm standing, you've manipulated and used me from the beginning."

"As you used me," he countered. "Recording our intimate conversations, planning to expose me to the press. We're not so different, you and I."

The comparison stung because there was truth in it. I had become what I despised—calculating, manipulative, willing to use any means to achieve my ends.

"What do you want?" I asked again, suddenly exhausted. "Why am I here?"

Merrick's expression softened slightly. "I want to offer you a way out. A solution that benefits us both."

"Let me guess—marriage," I said flatly.

"Yes." He didn't bother denying it. "Marry me, and I'll use every resource at my disposal to rehabilitate your public image. We'll counter the narrative, present a united front. The scheming gold-digger will become the misunderstood mother-to-be, victim of media speculation and gossip."

I laughed bitterly. "You destroy my reputation and then offer to fix it if I marry you? That's extortion, not a proposal."

"Call it what you want," he replied with maddening calm. "But consider your alternatives. Your bank accounts are still frozen. Your mother is furious and embarrassed. The press is camped outside the gates, waiting for their next shot at you. What's your plan, Siena?"

The reality of my situation hit me like a physical blow. He was right—I had no resources, no allies except Rachel, nowhere to go. The pregnancy limited my options further; no reputable gallery would hire someone with my current notoriety, especially one who would need maternity leave in a few months.

"I hate you," I whispered, the words lacking conviction even to my own ears.

Merrick stepped closer, close enough that I could smell his cologne—the same scent that had lingered on my sheets after our night together. "No, you don't. You hate what I've done, what I represent. But you don't hate me."

I struck out without thinking, my palm connecting with his cheek in a sharp slap that echoed through the quiet room. His head turned with the impact, but he made no move to retaliate or retreat.

When he looked back at me, something had changed in his eyes—a fire kindled where cold calculation had been.

"Feel better?" he asked softly.

"No," I admitted, my hand stinging.

"What would make you feel better, Siena? Slapping me again? Screaming? Telling the world your version of the truth? Go ahead. I won't stop you."

His invitation, offered so calmly, deflated my anger somewhat. "Why are you doing this? Really? And don't tell me it's just about the inheritance."

Merrick was silent for a long moment, studying me with an intensity that made my skin prickle. Then he did something unexpected—he took my hand, the one I'd slapped him with, and placed it against his chest where I could feel his heartbeat, steady and strong.

"Because somehow, despite everything—the manipulation, the schemes, the betrayals on both sides—I find myself unable to imagine a future without you in it," he said, voice low and urgent. "Call it obsession, call it madness, call it whatever you like. But it's real."

I tried to pull my hand away, but he held it firm against his chest. "That's not love," I protested. "That's possession."

"Perhaps," he conceded. "I was never taught the difference."

The raw honesty in his admission caught me off guard. Before I could respond, my phone chimed with a text message. Reluctantly, Merrick released my hand so I could check it.

It was from Rachel: "Your mother's gone missing. Desmond's having some kind of health crisis. Come back to the house NOW."

"What is it?" Merrick asked, noting my expression.

I showed him the message, watching his face carefully for any sign of prior knowledge. His surprise seemed genuine as he read it.

"We need to go," he said, already moving toward the door. "This isn't part of any plan I'm aware of."

I followed, questions multiplying in my mind. What was happening? Was this another manipulation, or something truly unexpected?

---

The scene at the main house was chaos. Paramedics wheeled Desmond out on a stretcher, his face ashen, an oxygen mask covering his mouth and nose. My mother was nowhere to be seen, but Desmond's assistant, a pinch-faced woman named Margaret, was directing the medical team with brisk efficiency.

"What happened?" Merrick demanded, intercepting Margaret as the paramedics loaded his father into the ambulance.

"Apparent heart attack," she replied tersely. "Found him collapsed in his study about thirty minutes ago."

"And my mother?" I asked. "Where is she?"

Margaret gave me a cold look. "Ms. Crawford left the property shortly after Mr. Doyle was found. She took her passport and several suitcases. Security footage shows her leaving in a taxi."

My mother had fled? In the middle of a crisis? It made no sense—unless she knew something we didn't.

Merrick turned to me, his expression grim. "This isn't a coincidence."

"You think they planned this?" I asked, struggling to keep up.

"Not together," he replied. "Come with me."

He led me to Desmond's study, which was now empty, the paramedics having taken their patient away. Without hesitation, Merrick went to his father's computer and began typing.

"What are you doing?" I asked, glancing nervously at the door.

"Looking for answers." His fingers moved rapidly across the keyboard. "My father doesn't have heart problems. Something else is happening here."

After several minutes of searching, he sat back, his expression troubled. "The Doyle Industries stock has been quietly shifting ownership over the past week. Small percentages, nothing that would trigger regulatory oversight, but significant amounts nonetheless."

"To whom?" I asked, moving to look over his shoulder.

"Shell companies, mostly. But if I had to guess..." He trailed off, typing more commands into the computer. "As I suspected. Your mother has been acquiring controlling interest in Doyle Industries through proxies."

I stared at the screen in disbelief. "That's impossible. She doesn't have that kind of money."

"No," Merrick agreed. "But she has access to yours. Your trust fund, your inheritance—it's all been liquidated and redirected."

The betrayal struck like a physical blow. "She stole my inheritance to take over your father's company? Why?"

"Revenge, perhaps." Merrick's voice was distant as he continued scanning through files. "Or insurance. Your mother and my father have history—history I'm only beginning to understand."

Before he could elaborate, his phone rang. He answered, listened briefly, then ended the call with a curt "I'll be right there."

"That was the hospital," he explained, standing. "Desmond is asking for me."

"I'll come with you," I said automatically.

Merrick shook his head. "No. You need to find your mother. This is just the beginning of whatever they've set in motion, and we need to understand all the pieces."

"Where would I even start looking?"

"Check her email," he suggested. "People are creatures of habit, especially when acting under stress. She might have left clues."

---

After Merrick left for the hospital, I made my way to my mother's wing of the house. Her study door was unlocked—unusual for someone so private. Inside, everything looked normal at first glance, but closer inspection revealed subtle signs of hasty departure: a drawer not fully closed, a chair slightly askew.

Her computer was still on, locked but not shut down. I tried the password she always used—my birth date—with no success. After several more attempts, I recalled the significance of today's date: it was the anniversary of my father's death.

When I entered that date, the computer unlocked immediately.

My mother's email opened automatically, revealing dozens of recent exchanges with names I didn't recognize and one I did: Julian Mercer, my father's former business partner. The most recent email from Julian contained only an address in Switzerland and the message: "Everything is prepared as discussed. Funds transferred. Arrival confirmed for tomorrow evening."

So she was fleeing to Switzerland. But why now? What had triggered this sudden exodus?

I continued searching, opening folders and documents until I found something that made my blood run cold: a journal, meticulously maintained over years, documenting my mother's relationship with Desmond Doyle—a relationship that had apparently begun long before their official engagement, before even my father's death.

The entries painted a disturbing picture: Desmond, obsessed with expanding his empire, had identified my father's company as a prime acquisition target. When my father refused to sell, other methods were employed. The journal never explicitly stated that Desmond was responsible for my father's "accident," but the implication was clear.

More disturbing were the entries about Merrick. From the time of his adoption, Desmond had subjected him to a systematic program of psychological conditioning—reward and punishment, isolation and privilege—designed to create the perfect corporate successor. My mother had witnessed this process, had even participated in it at times, grooming the boy who would eventually become the man now entangled with her daughter.

The final entry, dated just two days ago, was chilling in its clarity:

"Desmond believes he has won, that our marriage will consolidate his hold on both our families' assets. He doesn't suspect that I've been planning this moment for fifteen years—the moment when I take everything from him, as he took everything from me. The irony that his carefully-molded heir has fallen for my daughter is almost too perfect. Merrick was created as a tool for Desmond's ambitions; how fitting that he will instead be instrumental in Desmond's downfall. When the dust settles, both Doyle men will be left with nothing but the knowledge that they were outplayed at their own game."

I sat back, my mind reeling. My mother had been playing a long con against Desmond, using me—and now my pregnancy—as pawns in her revenge scheme. And Merrick...

Merrick had been molded from childhood into the perfect corporate soldier, taught to prioritize strategy over emotion, gain over connection. His obsession with me, with our child—was it genuine feeling breaking through his conditioning, or just another layer of manipulation he'd been trained to deploy?

My phone rang, startling me from my thoughts. It was Merrick.

"Desmond's stabilized," he said without preamble. "But he's refusing treatment until he sees both of us. How quickly can you get to Boston General?"

"I found something," I replied, my voice tight with emotion. "About my mother, about you. About all of this."

A brief silence. "What kind of something?"

"The kind that explains why you are the way you are," I said quietly. "Why you see people as pieces to be moved around a board. Why you think love and possession are the same thing."

Another silence, longer this time. "Bring whatever you found," he finally said. "We'll deal with it after we see my father."

---

The hospital room was private and luxurious, more like a hotel suite than a medical facility. Desmond lay against white pillows, his usual commanding presence diminished by illness but his eyes as sharp as ever.

"So kind of you both to come," he said, his voice raspy but strong. "The prodigal son and his pregnant paramour."

Merrick's jaw tightened, but he maintained his composure. "You wanted to see us. Here we are."

Desmond's gaze shifted to me. "She knows, doesn't she? I can see it in her eyes. Your mother always was careless with her secrets, Siena."

"I know enough," I replied steadily. "About what you did to my father. About what you did to Merrick."

A dry chuckle escaped him. "What I did to Merrick was create a man worthy of the Doyle name. Strong. Strategic. Unhampered by sentimentality." His eyes moved to Merrick. "Or so I thought, until he allowed himself to be distracted by a pretty face and a convenient womb."

Merrick's hand found mine, squeezing tightly—whether in warning or support, I couldn't tell. "Why are we here, Father? What do you want?"

"To offer a choice." Desmond shifted, wincing slightly. "Your mother has orchestrated quite the coup, Siena. Within days, she'll control enough Doyle Industries stock to force a board reorganization. Unless..."

"Unless what?" I prompted when he paused.

"Unless you marry my son—immediately—and sign certain legal agreements that would protect the company's current structure." His smile was cold. "Your mother's plan hinges on you remaining unattached to the Doyle family in any formal way. A marriage would complicate things significantly."

I looked at Merrick, whose expression revealed nothing. "You knew about this?"

"Not until today," he answered, meeting my gaze. "But it explains much."

Turning back to Desmond, I asked the question that had been burning in my mind since reading my mother's journal: "Did you have my father killed?"

The room fell silent, the only sound the steady beeping of Desmond's heart monitor. Finally, he spoke, his voice matter-of-fact.

"Your father's death was... convenient for my plans. I neither confirmed nor denied any involvement when Juliette raised the same question years ago."

"You monster," I whispered.

"Business," he corrected. "Now, about my proposal—"

"No," I interrupted. "No more proposals, no more deals, no more manipulation. I'm done being a pawn in your games—both of you."

I turned to leave, but Merrick caught my arm. "Siena, wait. Please."

Something in his voice—a vulnerability I'd never heard before—made me pause.

"I know you have no reason to trust me," he said quietly. "But I'm asking you for five minutes. Outside. Just the two of us."

Against my better judgment, I nodded. As we left Desmond's room, I heard him call after us:

"Remember, boy—sentiment is weakness. Don't disappoint me again."

In the hallway, Merrick led me to a small waiting area, empty at this late hour. For several moments, he said nothing, just paced the small space like a caged animal. Finally, he turned to me.

"I won't pretend I'm not who they made me," he began. "I was molded by Desmond, shaped into his image of the perfect heir. Every instinct I have has been carefully cultivated to prioritize advantage over emotion, strategy over connection."

"I know," I said softly. "I read the journal."

He nodded, continuing as if I hadn't spoken. "But something happened that neither of them accounted for. Something they couldn't control or manipulate."

"What?"

Merrick stepped closer, his eyes intense with an emotion I couldn't name. "I fell in love with you. Not as part of any plan, not as a strategic move. Genuinely, catastrophically in love."

I stared at him, searching his face for signs of deception and finding none. "How can I believe that? After everything?"

"You can't," he acknowledged. "I've given you no reason to trust me. But I'm asking you to anyway." He took my hands in his, his touch gentle despite the urgency in his voice. "Marry me, Siena. Not for Desmond, not for the inheritance, not even to counter your mother's schemes. Marry me because despite everything, there's something real between us—something neither of us planned for."

Tears welled in my eyes, confusion and longing warring within me. "I don't know what's real anymore," I confessed. "I don't know who to trust, what to believe."

Merrick's hand moved to my face, cradling my cheek with surprising tenderness. "Then trust this," he murmured, leaning down to kiss me with such heartbreaking gentleness that a sob caught in my throat.

When he pulled back, his eyes were suspiciously bright. "I love you," he said simply. "God help me, I love you to the point of madness. I love you enough to walk away from everything—the company, the inheritance, the Doyle name—if that's what you want."

"And our child?" I asked, my hand moving instinctively to my stomach.

His expression softened further. "Our child is the only proof of our mad love. The one true thing in this web of lies and manipulation." His hand covered mine over my barely-there bump. "Do you feel that? That's real. Whatever happens between us, that will always be real."

I closed my eyes, overwhelmed by the sincerity in his voice, by the warmth of his hand over mine, by the impossible choice before me.

"I need time," I whispered.

"Time is the one thing we don't have," he replied gently. "Your mother's plan is already in motion. Desmond's counterattack will follow quickly. We need to decide—now—whether we face what's coming together or apart."

I opened my eyes to find him watching me with an intensity that stole my breath. In that moment, standing in a sterile hospital waiting room with the father of my child—this man who had been both villain and savior in my story—I made the most irrational decision of my life.

"Together," I said, the word both surrender and declaration of war. "But on my terms, not Desmond's. Not my mother's. Ours."

The smile that spread across Merrick's face was like sunrise breaking through storm clouds—radiant with genuine joy, yet tinged with the shadows of all we had endured and all that still lay ahead.

"Together," he echoed, sealing the promise with another kiss.