The doorbell resounded throughout the flat, prompting Elizabeth to answer. Standing there was Oliver, his arms laden with two overflowing bags containing necessities—body wash, sleepwear, and other items Elijah preferred.

With a warm grin that cut through the dreary evening rain, Oliver said, “The storm outside is relentless, and with the leak at Bayview Villa, staying there isn't an option. Would you, Mrs. James, be kind enough to let Mr. James stay here for the night? I'll collect him first thing tomorrow morning.”

Oliver's matchmaking attempt was transparent. Dismissing it as mere chance would have been naive. Elizabeth realized acquiescing might only strengthen Elijah's belief that she was playing hard to get. With their divorce imminent, prolonging contact would only complicate matters.

Maintaining a composed demeanor, she replied, “I’m sorry, but that won’t work. I don’t have a spare room.” Elijah, briefly hopeful due to their recent fragile reconciliation, felt a chill at her refusal. “Additionally, my agent may stop by later on business. It could be inconvenient. However, I can arrange a driver to take him back if you’re busy,” she added, her tone calm and detached.

This left Elijah stunned, his demeanor turning frosty. He had tried everything—offered peace, cooked meals, sought forgiveness—never had he displayed such humility. Yet, he was met with indifference.

The realization hit hard—perhaps he had been too quick to embrace Albin's romantic idealism about relationships requiring effort. Elijah slammed his cup onto the table with such force that the sound reverberated across the room. He strode over, a stern look on his face, and sharply reprimanded Oliver: “If you’re too overwhelmed to fulfill your duties, perhaps you should resign. I’m sure I can find a more efficient assistant.”