Maeve's beautiful eyes, brimming with tears, welled up. Sniffling, she reacted to Byron's words: "Why don't you try it and see if it hurts?"
She had been dragged quite a distance by the motorcycle. The wounds now throbbed intensely, threatening to render her unconscious. She stifled a scream.
Byron fixed his gaze on her pained face, his lips pursed slightly. "Take a shortcut back to Nightfall Manor. Archer, call Dr. Harold Foster and tell him to wait there," he instructed seriously.
"Okay, Mr. McDaniel," Archer, the chauffeur in the front seat, replied immediately.
Byron slightly lowered his head and used scissors to cut away Maeve's bloodstained socks, preventing further adhesion of blood and flesh, which would hinder wound cleaning. Removing the socks caused the already-stagnant bleeding to resume.
Maeve’s lips remained tightly pressed together throughout the process, her only soundless protest a death grip on her sleeves, which paled under the pressure.
Byron pressed gauze against the bleeding wounds, looking at her in surprise. "You can scream if it hurts. No one will laugh at you."
"It doesn't hurt that much," Maeve softly exhaled. "It's still bearable."
Seeing her feigned composure, Byron didn't expose her. He asked casually, "Why did your parents ask you to go home?"
"How do you know I didn't go home voluntarily?" Maeve couldn't help but be curious.
"You wouldn't look for trouble for no reason," Byron said casually, pressing a fresh piece of gauze onto her wounds. Maeve shifted her ankles uncomfortably, but he held them firm. "Stop moving."
His warm fingers pressed against her cold ankles. The intense contact gradually numbed her, and she forgot to pull away.
Maeve took a deep breath, composing herself before answering. "Yes, they did ask me to go home."
"For what?" Byron asked.
Maeve pursed her lips, silent. Lately, she hadn't forgotten the chasm between them, though she hadn't dwelt on it often. Horace's and her parents' words had starkly reminded her of their differing social classes. He was the sole heir to a prominent, wealthy family. She, on the other hand, was about to lose her home.
Perhaps Maeve's prolonged silence intensified Byron's gaze, though he remained quiet.
Upon arriving at the manor, Harold was already waiting. After examining and treating Maeve's wounds, he respectfully addressed Byron: "Ms. Reese only needs to apply medicine to the injured areas for a few days, and she'll be fine. Keep the abrasions dry for three days to prevent infection, and apply the medicine as directed."
"Okay. Thank you," Byron nodded slightly. "Put down the medicine and leave us."
"Alright," Dr. Foster left with the first-aid kit.
Silence descended upon the master bedroom.
Maeve looked down at the graze on her palm and said self-deprecatingly, "It seems Ms. Mason was right. I really should work on my luck." She'd been injured several times...
"That's superstition," Byron said, returning from a phone call and handing her an ice pack. "Press it on your wrist."
Maeve complied, the pain in her swollen, hot wrist easing slightly.
The silence grew uncomfortable. Maeve wanted to break the tension, but remembering recent events, she hesitated. She was grateful for Byron's help, but wouldn't forget his prior actions. Before she could speak, Byron said, "Maeve, have you been avoiding me recently?"
Maeve froze, subconsciously shaking her head. "No. You're thinking too much."
Byron noted her evasive gaze and sneered. "Do I look that gullible?"
Maeve avoided his sharp gaze, looking down.
"Previously, you asked if the destruction of the evidence was related to me," Byron said seriously. "Alex has been investigating; what did he tell you?"
"Nothing..." Maeve replied.
"Nothing?" Byron interrupted harshly. "Why are you suspecting me now? I want to hear how ridiculous the reason is."
Maeve slowly frowned. "I'm not suspecting you."
It was true. She thought, Byron knows Karen poisoned me, almost ruining my face, yet he sided with her without hesitation. Of course he'd destroy the evidence and protect her. That's the truth. There's no need for me to doubt it.
Byron pursed his lips, staring at her gloomily. "Then why are you avoiding me? Hmm?"
"Aren't you avoiding me too?" Maeve countered. "Other than eating together, you're never around. How can you say I'm avoiding you?"
Byron's expression froze, his Adam's apple bobbing. "I've been busy."
The end of the year was a busy time for the company, yet Byron still managed to eat with her.
"I've also been very busy," Maeve said. "Working on a major client's order, and finding time to think about your suit design. How could I avoid you?" She stated the last sentence emphatically.
Byron raised an eyebrow. "Is that so? Then where's your design? Let me see it."
Maeve's expression turned guilty. "It's not done yet. Wait a little longer..." Byron nearly laughed in anger. So long, and still not done? Is she trying to fool me?
Before he could speak, Maeve clutched her stomach. "My stomach hurts! I need the bathroom. Please carry me!"
Running away seemed her best option. Otherwise, if he discovered her lack of progress, he'd likely dismiss her.
Byron saw through her clumsy act, his cheeks tightening.
"Show me the blueprint the day after tomorrow," he said.
Hearing this deadline, Maeve's expression soured. If I work hard, I can make it… right?
In the bathroom, still contemplating the design, she felt the hem of her shirt lift.
She snapped to attention, grabbing Byron's arm with her uninjured hand. "What are you doing?" She wondered why he'd lift her shirt.
Byron looked up, indifferent. "Aren't you in a hurry? Can you take off your pants now?"
His bluntness made Maeve blush. "I-I'm not crippled! Why can't I do it?"
"Then do it," Byron said calmly.
Maeve was exasperated. "How can I take off my pants with you here?"
Byron assessed her. "Are you sure you can stand steadily if I let go?"
Her severely injured right ankle and numerous abrasions on her left foot made standing, or even leaning, difficult.
Maeve realized her foolish excuse. She regretted it instantly.