Byron impatiently shook Maeve's hand away, his face darkening with irritation. Maeve's cheeks burned with anger and embarrassment. "I just finished cooking and was about to call you to eat. I didn't know you'd fallen asleep and looked so pale. I was worried you had a fever, so I checked. That's all—no big deal," she said, perhaps realizing she'd overstepped. Byron obviously hated being touched, even on the forehead, especially since he was still recovering. Maeve decided it was best to back off and respect his space.

"You're making too much of it," Byron snapped, rising to his feet, though he winced slightly as a headache throbbed behind his eyes. Despite the discomfort, he refused to show weakness, especially after Maeve's concern. "Let's eat. You must be hungry too," Maeve suggested, trying to ease the tension.

At the dining table, a steaming pot of creamy chicken soup took center stage, surrounded by four other dishes. The rich aroma filled the room, making their mouths water. As Byron settled into his seat, a nagging feeling tugged at him—something felt off, but he couldn't place it.

Maeve quickly ladled out a bowl of soup and set it before him with a smile. "Try this. I added a ton of herbs—bet you'll love it." Byron took a sip of the chicken soup; the rich, warming flavor spread through him. Then his eyes narrowed as realization dawned. He shot Maeve a cold, suspicious look. "Did you sabotage my breakfast this morning on purpose?"

The soup was fantastic, a clear sign of Maeve's culinary skills. But that awful breakfast had been deliberate. Maeve froze, her mind going blank under Byron's icy stare. A chill ran down her spine as she stammered, "That was an accident. My cooking is hit or miss; sometimes things just don't turn out right."

"Don't push your luck," Byron warned, his expression turning icy.

Maeve looked up, her lashes fluttering slightly. "You were the one who insulted me first yesterday. I just played a little prank to get back at you. Compared to the people who've actually hurt you, all I did was serve you a bad breakfast. Is that really so unforgivable?" Her voice was calm, almost gentle, despite the sharpness of her words. Beneath the calm, however, simmered anger.

Byron's frustration, which had been boiling over, began to simmer down. The tension at the dinner table hung heavy in the air, only lifting when they finally rose to shower.

Maeve handed Byron a waterproof bandage, then retreated to the living room, giving him the bathroom first. She settled onto the carpet beside the sofa, finishing her resume on her laptop. Once done, she saved it and closed the lid. Her phone buzzed incessantly. She glanced at the screen and saw it was her father, Scott, calling. She ignored the call, noticing a series of texts instead:

14:39 Mon, Oct 14 Scott: [Come home tomorrow.] Scott: [Forget about Jeff for now. We need to know how you really feel.]

Maeve was surprised by Scott's uncharacteristically gentle tone. "Maybe now that I'm married to someone else, they're willing to set aside their anger and actually listen," she mused.

Maeve replied: [Fine].

She checked the time—Byron had been in the bathroom for nearly an hour. Worried that he was still recovering and might have a fever, she hesitated before walking to the bathroom door. She knocked softly. "Mr. McDaniel, are you okay in there?"

When she got no response after several knocks, her concern deepened. She knocked harder, and just as she was about to knock again, the door swung open.

Byron stood there, wrapped in a silk bathrobe. His damp brown hair clung to his forehead, and his tired eyes made him seem distant and unreachable. His face was pale, his expression pinched with irritation. "What the hell do you want?" he rasped, his voice rough and annoyed.

Maeve's eyes unintentionally drifted to his partially exposed chest, and she quickly looked away, her face flushing. She took a step back, stumbling over her words. "I—I thought you might have fainted or something."

Byron's temples throbbed, and his abdominal wound ached. His patience was wearing thin. When Maeve stepped closer, intentionally or not, he snapped. He grabbed her arm and pushed her against the wall, his brown eyes flashing with cold mockery. "So, you're saying this time it wasn't on purpose? You were actually worried about me?" A wave of panic surged through Maeve. "Mr. McDaniel..."

"What the hell are you so afraid of?" Byron's fingers tightened around her chin, his voice cold and mocking. "Isn't this what you wanted? Fine, I'll give it to you."

Before Maeve could pull away, Byron's lips crashed against hers with brutal force. He bit her lower lip; his kiss was harsh and punishing, as if determined to make her pay. The heat of his mouth burned against her skin, the sensation almost unbearable. Maeve winced at the pain, her hands balled into fists as she struggled to push him away, but he was immovable.

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