"I'll fix it!" Maeve raised her hand. "I'll put it in the washing machine. You can watch it wash. Okay?"

A faint smile touched Byron's eyes. "Sure."

The sharp pain in Maeve's heart vanished instantly. She smiled, relieved. "It's just...I won't have a home anymore. I can live on my own."

She no longer cared about her family, who constantly demanded money.

Byron frowned. "What are you talking about?"

Maeve looked up at him blankly from the towel.

"Maeve," Byron said, his eyebrows raised, his gaze sharp, "you seem to have forgotten something. We're not divorced yet."

Maeve's heart pounded. Her teary eyes widened, shining brightly. After a moment, she calmed down, realizing another meaning to his words. She barely suppressed her joy. Wiping her face, she said casually, "It's only a matter of time before we're divorced, right?"

Byron remained silent. He never made empty promises. Maeve's movements slowed; her energy was gone. Since he didn't deny it, she thought, he still wanted a divorce, just not now. Their marriage, she supposed, remained a temporary arrangement, ending at any time.

In the Reese family's bedroom, Horace stood by the window, his phone in hand, observing the neighborhood intersection. His phone rang; he answered immediately.

The caller's words were unclear, but Horace slammed the window frame in anger. He yelled, "There's a pile of waste paper in her bag? Where's the card? Where's the money? Doesn't she keep it in her bag? Search it carefully!"

"We've searched several times," the caller said, "her card isn't there. How are we supposed to get it? Seriously, you said your sister was rich, but there's only about $20 in her wallet."

Horace pulled his hair. "She definitely didn't bring her card. Damn it, I miscalculated. I thought she'd have it whenever she came home." He hadn't even gotten $40.

"Isn't your father an executive of a listed company?" the caller asked. "Go ask him for money!"

"My dad almost beat me up over $100,000," Horace complained. "If he finds out I owe money, he'll be furious." He wouldn't have relied on Maeve otherwise.

"That's your problem," the man said. "If you don't repay Mr. Craig this week, you'll suffer."

He hung up. Horace cursed and threw his phone to the floor. 'It's all Maeve's fault,' he thought, 'for not bringing her card. What a waste of my money paying two guys to rob her!'

He was about to stomp on the phone when another call came in—an unknown number. He spat in annoyance before answering. "Who is it? What? Booth? Who the hell are you...?"

The next morning, Maeve awoke to a faint floral scent. Peonies, with crystal-clear droplets on their petals, sat on the table. Harold's medicine was effective; her ankles were less painful. She could walk, albeit uncomfortably.

She noticed a box nestled in the bouquet. Inside was a brand-new phone. She knew who sent it. A bonus for the sticker, perhaps?

She smiled, then stopped. 'He treats his wife well,' she thought. 'Will he treat Karen so well?' She laughed at herself; the answer was obvious. She washed up.

Byron entered, impeccably dressed in a dark suit. Even models would be envious. Maeve, leaning on the wall, was stunned.

"I'll carry you down," Byron stated calmly, not asking, but informing.

"No, thanks. I can manage," Maeve refused. The discomfort was minor.

Byron frowned. "Breakfast will be cold."

He picked her up and carried her from the bedroom.

Maeve looked at his jawline. "I saw the bouquet and phone. Thank you," she whispered.

In the elevator, Byron asked, "Do you like them?"

"I don't think any woman wouldn't love such a surprise," Maeve replied.

"Is that so?" Byron glanced at her. "I can't tell how much you like them." He thought her troubled expression indicated otherwise.

Maeve was speechless. She did like them, but wished they weren't gifts solely because she was his wife.

After breakfast, Byron dropped her near Eternal Hope. "Are you sure you don't need a ride? Can you reach the office before dark?" He looked at her ankles.

"I'll be fine. I'll make it before dark," Maeve said, pushing open the car door and walking toward the building. The gown production was critical. As long as she wasn't bedridden, she had to be there. Walking slowly lessened the pain.

"Maeve." A voice called from behind.

She turned to see Alex. "Alex, good morning."

"Good morning," he replied, noticing her limp. "Are you still injured? You're walking with difficulty."

Maeve shook her head. "I fell last night, but it's fine. I'm just walking slowly."

Alex sighed. "You've been through a lot. Let me help."

Maeve, embarrassed to refuse, accepted his offer. They chatted and laughed as they entered the company, unaware of a dark, sharp gaze following them.