As she spoke, Felicia placed her hand on Maurice's knee and pressed lightly. Of course, he felt nothing. He'd recently consulted several top doctors at the renowned Harmony Medical Center, but they'd been unable to diagnose the problem with his legs. Felicia, however, had instantly recognized his condition. "You've been dealing with this for at least nine years," she stated. "Every winter, or in rainy, damp weather, it feels like needles stabbing your legs. The only relief you find is in a hot bath. Am I right?"

Maurice's expression shifted as he considered how she knew. Even the timeline was accurate.

Felicia straightened, rubbing her wrists where the rope had left angry red marks. With unwavering confidence, she declared, "Don't bother looking. Only I can fix this."

Leaning closer, a playful smirk touched her lips. "So, Mr. Glovers, will you ask me to heal your legs, or remain in that wheelchair?"

Her tone was light, almost teasing, yet her words held a sharp edge. The power dynamic had shifted; Felicia now held the cards. She wasn't merely seeking her release; she was compelling him to solicit her help.

Maurice laughed, clapping his hands in genuine amusement. "Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant."

She frowned. This wasn't the reaction she'd anticipated. Dealing with his unpredictability was exhausting; he consistently defied her expectations. Yet, she was certain he longed to walk again. Regardless of his demeanor, he wouldn't refuse this opportunity. And if she failed? Killing her was always an option.

Instantly, her treatment changed. The men who'd roughly handled her now escorted her with exaggerated politeness to a plush leather couch. Felicia wasn't one to miss an opportunity. If she healed him, her fee had to be astronomical.

Maurice didn't hesitate. "Name your price," he said simply.

"One hundred million," she declared boldly, offering an absurd figure.

His expression remained unchanged. "Agreed."

Surprised by his immediate acquiescence, she added a condition. "Payment upfront. No checks. Wire transfer only."

Maurice gave her an unreadable look before gesturing to a man, who produced a phone. Within moments, the transfer was complete. The private jet's network expedited the process. Felicia checked her phone, confirming the eye-popping deposit.

With a satisfied smile, she made her promise. "Seven days. In seven days, you'll be walking again."

Maurice's face remained calm, but the tightening of his hand on the wheelchair armrest betrayed his inner turmoil.

"Deal," he said quietly, his gaze intense.

Felicia met his stare with a cool smile. Their exchange appeared amicable, the tension seemingly dissipated. Yet, beneath the surface, both were plotting their next moves. Maurice intended to dispose of Felicia once she'd served her purpose, whether through killing her or inflicting suffering. And Felicia knew him well enough to anticipate this. That's why she'd played the arrogant negotiator, demanding an exorbitant fee and insisting on upfront payment. The more arrogant she seemed, the less seriously he would take her—giving her the advantage she required.