Chapter 8 Marriage = Cage
The wedding was nothing like I had imagined as a little girl. No white dress, no flower arrangements, no gathering of friends and family. Instead, I wore a simple cream-colored sheath dress, my hair loose around my shoulders, a small bouquet of white roses clutched in trembling hands. The ceremony took place in a private room at city hall, witnessed only by a court-appointed official and a photographer Merrick had hired to document the occasion.
No Rachel. No friends. Just Merrick and me, binding ourselves together in a union built on the most complex foundation imaginable.
"Do you, Siena Crawford, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?" the officiant asked, his voice monotone, as if he'd performed this ceremony a thousand times that day.
I hesitated, my eyes locked with Merrick's. In the three days since our conversation at the hospital, we'd barely had time to breathe, let alone reconsider. Desmond had been discharged, his "heart attack" diagnosed as stress-induced arrhythmia. My mother remained unreachable, though her financial maneuvers continued through proxies and attorneys. The press still camped outside the estate gates, hungry for the next chapter in our scandal.
Marriage had become our shield against the chaos—a legal bond that would complicate my mother's takeover plans and solidify Merrick's claim to the Doyle inheritance. Yet as I stood before him now, I couldn't help wondering if I was making the biggest mistake of my life.
"I do," I finally said, the words barely audible.
Something flickered in Merrick's eyes—relief? Triumph? Genuine emotion? I couldn't tell.
"I do," he echoed when his turn came, his voice steady and sure.
The exchange of rings was brief—simple platinum bands that Merrick had purchased yesterday. As he slid the cool metal onto my finger, his hands were warm and steady against mine.
"By the power vested in me by the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, I now pronounce you husband and wife," the officiant declared. "You may kiss the bride."
Merrick's kiss was gentle, almost hesitant—nothing like the passionate embraces we'd shared before. This felt ceremonial, a sealing of our contract rather than an expression of desire. Yet when he pulled back, his eyes held mine with an intensity that made my heart race.
"Mrs. Doyle," he murmured, his thumb brushing my cheek.
The name felt foreign, ill-fitting. I wasn't Mrs. Doyle. I was still Siena Crawford—pregnant, confused, trapped in a web of others' making yet somehow complicit in my own entanglement.
The photographer captured a few posed shots—Merrick and me signing the marriage certificate, exchanging rings, standing together as newly pronounced husband and wife. No smiling, no joy. Just documentation of a legal proceeding that would have far-reaching consequences.
"What now?" I asked as we left city hall, stepping into the waiting car that would take us back to the estate.
Merrick took my hand, his expression serious. "Now we finish what we started."
---
Back at the estate, Desmond waited in his study, looking remarkably recovered for someone recently hospitalized. When we entered, he rose from behind his desk, his sharp eyes immediately going to our joined hands, to the rings now adorning our fingers.
"So it's done," he stated rather than asked.
"It's done," Merrick confirmed. "We were married thirty minutes ago. The certificate has been filed."
A thin smile spread across Desmond's face. "Excellent. That should throw quite the wrench into Juliette's carefully laid plans." He gestured to a stack of documents on his desk. "Now for the next step. These need your signatures, Siena. They establish your joint control with Merrick over the Crawford assets that were transferred to your mother's control."
I hesitated, looking to Merrick. We hadn't discussed this part of the plan.
"You don't have to sign anything today," Merrick said quietly. "We can review the documents with an independent attorney first."
Desmond's expression hardened. "There's no time for that. Juliette's board maneuver is scheduled for tomorrow morning. We need these filed immediately."
"Then they'll have to wait," Merrick replied, his tone brooking no argument. "My wife will not be pressured into signing documents she hasn't reviewed."
My wife. The words sent an odd thrill through me despite the circumstances. There was something protective in the way he said it, something that felt genuine amidst all the calculation.
"This sentimentality will be your downfall," Desmond sneered. "I taught you better than this."
"You taught me to identify weakness and exploit it," Merrick countered. "You never taught me to recognize strength when I found it."
He turned to me, his expression softening. "Let's go. We'll have the documents sent to Rachel's cousin—the lawyer, not the journalist. He can review them for us."
As we left Desmond's study, I could feel his cold fury radiating at our backs. Once we were safely upstairs in Merrick's suite—our suite now, I supposed—I turned to my new husband with questions burning in my throat.
"What just happened? I thought the plan was to sign whatever he needed to block my mother's takeover."
Merrick shook his head, loosening his tie with a weary gesture. "The plan was to get married, yes. But I never intended to let him pressure you into signing documents without proper review. Desmond's interests and ours aren't necessarily aligned."
"And what are our interests, exactly?" I asked, genuinely curious about how he viewed our situation.
He approached slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. "Our interests are protecting each other and our child. Building something neither of them can touch or manipulate."
The sincerity in his voice was compelling. I wanted to believe him—wanted to believe that in the midst of all this calculation and maneuvering, something genuine had developed between us.
"Why did you really marry me, Merrick?" I asked, needing to hear it again, here, away from witnesses and legal proceedings.
He was silent for a long moment, considering his answer. Then he reached out, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from my face with surprising tenderness.
"Because somewhere between targeting you as a strategic alliance and finding myself genuinely falling for you, I realized that you are the only person who sees me—the real me, not the construct Desmond created." His voice dropped lower. "And because when I'm with you, I remember what it's like to feel something real."
It was perhaps the most honest thing he'd ever said to me. I stepped closer, drawn by the vulnerability in his eyes.
"I'm still angry with you," I admitted. "For the manipulation, for the public humiliation, for all of it."
"I know." He didn't try to defend himself, didn't offer excuses.
"But I also..." The words caught in my throat, difficult to admit even to myself. "I also feel something for you that I can't explain. Something that makes no logical sense given our history."
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Perhaps we're both a little mad."
"Perhaps," I agreed, finding myself returning his smile despite everything.
The moment stretched between us, charged with possibility. Then Merrick stepped back, breaking the tension.
"You should rest," he said. "It's been an eventful day, and in your condition—"
"I'm pregnant, not invalid," I reminded him, though fatigue was indeed beginning to weigh on me.
"Of course." His smile widened slightly. "Stubborn as always."
I moved toward the adjoining bathroom, intending to change out of my wedding dress, when a thought occurred to me. "Where will you sleep tonight?"
The question hung in the air between us—laden with implication. We were married now, but our relationship remained complicated, our trust fragile.
"I can take one of the guest rooms," Merrick offered, giving me space to decide.
I considered this, then shook my head. "No. This is your room—our room now, I suppose. The bed is certainly big enough for both of us."
Something like relief flickered across his features. "If you're sure."
"I'm sure," I confirmed, though uncertainty fluttered in my stomach. "Just... no pressure for anything else. Not yet."
"Not yet," he echoed, a promise in the words that sent warmth spreading through me.
---
Later that night, lying beside Merrick in the darkness, I found myself studying his sleeping profile. In repose, his features softened, the calculating mask slipping away to reveal the man underneath—younger somehow, more vulnerable. His breathing was deep and even, his body radiating warmth that I found myself unconsciously moving toward.
How strange to be married to this man I barely knew yet was inexplicably drawn to. How strange to carry his child, to share his name and his bed, while still questioning his every motive. How strange to feel both trapped and protected by the same person.
As if sensing my thoughts, Merrick stirred, his eyes opening to find me watching him.
"Can't sleep?" he murmured, voice husky with drowsiness.
"Just thinking," I replied softly.
"About?"
"This. Us. How quickly everything has changed."
He shifted to face me fully, now fully awake. "Do you regret it? Marrying me?"
I considered the question seriously. "I don't know yet. Ask me in a year."
A smile touched his lips. "Fair enough."
We lay in silence for several moments, the darkness making it easier to be honest.
"I found your mother's location," Merrick said finally. "She's at a private villa in Lugano, Switzerland."
I tensed. "How long have you known?"
"I confirmed it this afternoon, while you were resting before the ceremony." His hand found mine under the covers, his thumb tracing circles on my palm. "We could go there, confront her directly."
The suggestion surprised me. "You'd do that? Risk leaving while Desmond is implementing whatever countermeasures he's planning?"
"If that's what you want." His eyes held mine in the dim light. "She's your mother, Siena. Despite everything, you deserve answers from her directly."
The consideration touched me deeply. "Thank you. But no—not yet. I need time to process everything I learned from her journal before I face her."
Merrick nodded, his fingers still gently caressing my hand. "Whatever you need."
The tenderness in his voice, the gentleness of his touch—it was so at odds with the calculating manipulator I'd first believed him to be. Yet perhaps both versions were true: the strategic mind Desmond had cultivated and the man struggling to break free of that conditioning.
On impulse, I leaned forward and pressed my lips to his—a soft, questioning kiss that he returned with equal gentleness. When I pulled back, his eyes remained closed for a moment, as if savoring the contact.
"What was that for?" he asked when he finally looked at me again.
"For giving me a choice," I said simply. "For not being like them."
Something shifted in his expression—a flicker of emotion too complex to name. Then he was pulling me closer, his kiss deeper this time but still careful, still giving me space to retreat if I wished.
I didn't wish to. Instead, I moved into his embrace, allowing the heat building between us to wash away, temporarily at least, the complications of our situation. His hands were reverent as they explored my body, as if mapping territory both familiar and new.
This time, there was no deception between us, no hidden agendas or recording devices. Just two people finding connection in the midst of chaos, creating something genuine in a relationship built on manipulation and strategy.
Afterward, cradled in his arms, I felt a peace that had eluded me for weeks. Not complete trust—we weren't there yet—but perhaps the beginning of something that could eventually grow into it.
"We should sleep," Merrick murmured against my hair. "Tomorrow will bring its own challenges."
He was right, of course. Our marriage was merely the opening move in a game still being played out between powerful forces. Yet as I drifted toward sleep, I found myself hoping that what we'd built tonight—this fragile connection—might survive whatever came next.
---
I woke alone, sunlight streaming through curtains that hadn't been closed. A note lay on Merrick's pillow: "Meeting with attorneys. Back by noon. M."
The digital clock showed 9:17 AM. I stretched, feeling oddly rested despite the emotional whirlwind of the previous day. As I rose to shower, I caught sight of myself in the mirror—hair tousled, lips slightly swollen from Merrick's kisses, a small mark on my collarbone where his mouth had lingered. Mrs. Doyle, I thought wryly. What would my former self think of this development?
After showering, I dressed in comfortable clothes and made my way downstairs, hoping to find coffee and perhaps something to settle my queasy stomach. The morning sickness had begun to ease, but certain smells still triggered it unpredictably.
I was surprised to find Margaret, Desmond's assistant, in the kitchen, typing rapidly on a laptop.
"Good morning, Mrs. Doyle," she said without looking up, her tone professionally neutral. "There's fresh coffee in the carafe. Decaf, as Mr. Merrick requested."
The thoughtfulness of that detail—Merrick remembering that caffeine wasn't good for the baby—caught me off guard. "Thank you. Is Mr. Doyle—Desmond—at home?"
"Mr. Doyle senior left for the office at seven," she replied, finally glancing up. "He asked me to inform you that the board meeting has been moved to three o'clock today. Your presence is requested."
My presence? At a Doyle Industries board meeting? "I don't understand. I have no official role at the company."
Margaret's expression remained impassive. "I'm merely relaying the message, Mrs. Doyle. I believe your husband can explain further when he returns."
I nodded, pouring myself coffee and retreating to the solarium to gather my thoughts. Whatever Desmond was planning, it clearly involved using me in some capacity. The question was whether Merrick was complicit or being manipulated himself.
As I sipped my coffee, I pulled out my phone and called Rachel. She answered on the first ring.
"Mrs. Doyle," she greeted me, a hint of teasing in her voice despite the tension of recent days. "How's married life?"
"Complicated," I replied honestly. "Have you heard anything from your cousin about those documents we sent over?"
"Callum says they're standard asset protection agreements, but with some concerning clauses buried in the legalese. He's drafting a summary for you."
"And what about my mother? Any news?"
Rachel hesitated. "Actually, yes. She called me this morning, looking for you."
I nearly dropped my coffee. "She called you? What did she say?"
"She wanted to make sure you were okay. Said she had to leave suddenly but that it was for your protection. She sounded... afraid, Siena."
Afraid? My mother, who had orchestrated a decade-long revenge scheme against Desmond Doyle, who had manipulated financial systems and corporate structures with cold precision—afraid?
"Did she say of what?" I asked, a chill running down my spine.
"Not specifically. But she mentioned something about Desmond's 'contingency plan' and said to warn you not to sign anything, no matter what."
The warning came too late—I was already married to Merrick. But I hadn't yet signed any financial documents. Was that what my mother feared?
"Thanks for telling me," I said, mind racing. "I'll be careful."
After hanging up, I sat in troubled silence, the peaceful feeling of the morning evaporating under new waves of suspicion. What was Desmond planning? What did my mother know that had sent her fleeing in apparent fear? And where did Merrick stand in all this?
As if summoned by my thoughts, the solarium door opened and my husband—still so strange to think of him that way—entered. He looked tired but focused, a folder tucked under his arm.
"You're up," he observed, his expression softening as he took me in. "How are you feeling?"
"Confused," I answered honestly. "Margaret says Desmond wants me at a board meeting this afternoon. And my mother called Rachel this morning, warning me not to sign anything."
Merrick's eyes narrowed. "Your mother contacted Rachel? When?"
"This morning. She sounded afraid, according to Rachel. Mentioned something about Desmond's contingency plan."
He set down his folder and came to sit beside me, taking my hand. "Siena, I need you to listen carefully. Whatever happens at that board meeting today, whatever documents they put in front of you—don't sign anything. Not without me reviewing it first."
The urgency in his voice alarmed me. "What's happening, Merrick? What aren't you telling me?"
He seemed to be weighing his words carefully. "Desmond is making a move I didn't anticipate. He's accelerating the timeline, using our marriage as leverage in ways I didn't foresee."
"What ways?" I pressed.
Merrick's grip on my hand tightened. "He's transferring control of all Doyle assets to a new holding company—one that would be jointly controlled by us, bypassing the blood relative clause of the trust entirely. It's brilliant, legally speaking, but..."
"But what?" I prompted when he trailed off.
His eyes met mine, serious and intent. "But it would give him effective control over both our shares as trustee until the child is born. For 'protection' in case anything happens to either of us."
The implications sank in slowly. "He'd control everything—the Doyle fortune, my inheritance, everything—for months."
"Yes." Merrick's voice was grim. "Plenty of time to restructure, hide assets, establish irrevocable controls."
"And you just found this out?" I searched his face for any sign of deception.
"This morning, from our attorney." His expression was open, readable. "Siena, you have to believe me—this wasn't my plan. I married you because I want a future with you, not as part of some elaborate financial scheme."
I wanted to believe him. After last night, after the tenderness and connection we'd shared, I desperately wanted to believe that at least one person in this mess wasn't manipulating me.
"What do we do?" I asked finally.
Merrick's answer was immediate and unexpected: "We leave. Today. Now."
"Leave? And go where?"
"Anywhere that isn't under Desmond's control." He stood, suddenly decisive. "Pack what you need—essentials only. I'll make arrangements."
The urgency in his voice convinced me more than his words. Whatever was happening, Merrick was genuinely concerned—not calculating, not manipulating, but afraid for me. For us.
"Okay," I agreed, standing as well. "I'll be ready in twenty minutes."
As I turned to go, he caught my arm, pulling me back for a brief, intense kiss. "I'm sorry," he murmured against my lips. "For bringing you into this madness."
"I'm already in it," I reminded him. "We both are."
His smile was sad. "Yes, we are. But perhaps we can find our way out—together."
I nodded, then hurried to pack, my mind racing with possibilities. Were we really doing this—fleeing the elaborate trap that had been set for us? And if so, where would we go? What would we do?
The questions swirled as I threw essentials into a small bag—clothes, toiletries, prenatal vitamins, my passport. As I zipped the bag closed, my eyes fell on the wedding ring adorning my left hand—a symbol of a union formed under duress yet somehow evolving into something I wasn't ready to name.
I was married. Pregnant. About to go on the run with a man I still didn't fully trust but found myself increasingly drawn to. My life had become unrecognizable in the span of mere weeks.
With one last look around the room that had witnessed so many revelations, I picked up my bag and headed downstairs to meet my husband. Whatever came next, we would face it together—two people caught in a storm of others' making, clinging to each other not just for survival, but for something that felt dangerously like love.
