Unfortunately, those who needed his medical expertise dared not challenge him; they could only try to appease him. But Byron was clearly not the type to be swayed easily.

"Find out who he has recently offended, stir the pot, and force him back to the country," Byron smirked coldly. "Those guys in the Secret Sect have been idle long enough. It's time they got some exercise." Archer broke into a cold sweat.

After so many years, Byron was finally unleashing those madmen. He hoped Jaylen had the resilience to withstand the consequences.

The storage room on the third floor of the McDaniel residence was dim, lit only by a faint light filtering through a window. Maeve had been locked in there for three days. At first, someone brought her water and food, but that stopped abruptly last night.

The room was chilly at night, and nothing in the storage room could keep her warm. Maeve curled up as tightly as possible, trying to conserve body heat, but to no avail. After a full day without food, her blood sugar plummeted, her stomach problems flared up, her head spun, and her breathing grew shallow. She even felt a dull ache throbbing in her lower abdomen.

Maeve bit her lip. If this continued, she might lose her baby, even if her body could otherwise endure the ordeal.

"Knock, knock."

A faint knock came on the door. Maeve looked up and saw pieces of chocolate being slipped under the door, piling up in a small heap. Surprise flashed across her eyes. She wondered who it could be.

Maeve forced herself up, walked to the door, and tapped on it. "Thank you."

"Hehe," a giggle came from outside. Maeve thought the voice sounded familiar—it must be that silly little girl.

She wondered how the girl knew she was being held there. Doubt flickered in Maeve's mind, but the thought quickly faded as her weakness overwhelmed her. She unwrapped a piece of chocolate and began to eat it quickly. Halfway through, the storage room door suddenly flung open.

Maeve squinted at the bright light. Before she could see who it was, the chocolate was slapped from her hand.

"You have the nerve!" Alexis's voice dripped with contempt. "Thanks to you, Mr. McDaniel is still unconscious. How can you even have an appetite now?"

Maeve choked on the half-swallowed chocolate. She clenched her fists tightly and retorted in a hoarse voice, "I told you, I didn't hurt Mr. McDaniel. It wasn't me!"

"Hah, as if anyone would believe you! If you weren't still useful, I would have thrown you in jail already!"

Maeve furrowed her brows. "Useful?"

"Mr. McDaniel is in critical condition. Byron said that miracle doctor from the Chatterly family may be his last chance," Alexis's tone was cold. "You saved Mr. Chatterly before, and they owe you a favor. If you ask for help, they will definitely help."

Maeve heaved a sigh of relief. She didn't think Alexis was exploiting her; on the contrary, as long as she could help Gilbert, she would be more than willing.

The following noon arrived. At the Chatterly residence, Maeve was led into the fifth-floor study. Charles, wearing navy traditional clothes, was practicing painting at his desk.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Chatterly," Maeve greeted him with a polite smile. "I'm sorry to disturb you."

Charles didn't answer; he continued to examine his work and said casually, "Come and help me prepare the paint."

Maeve hesitated before nodding. "Okay."

She walked to the side of the desk, picked up the watercolors, and began working.

Nearly an hour passed, and Charles didn't say a word. Maeve's wrist began to ache, but she kept her expression calm and composed, maintaining a steady rhythm as she prepared the paint. She stole a glance at Charles's painting, and a trace of surprise flashed across her eyes. The painting was highly abstract; the paint danced wildly across the paper, making it nearly impossible to discern the subject.

"So, what do you think of this painting?" Charles straightened up and asked.

Maeve pondered briefly before responding tactfully, "Your style is quite unique."

"In what way?"

"I'd say it's on the level of an abstract master in the watercolor wash painting industry."

Charles's hand paused mid-stroke as he stroked his beard. "Is that a compliment or an insult?"

"Would you prefer the truth or a lie?"

Hearing this, Charles let out a dissatisfied grunt. He casually tossed aside the brush, walked around the desk, and went to the coffee table. Then, he began to order Maeve around.

"I'm thirsty. Come make me a pot of coffee," Charles said leisurely. "Let it steep for exactly six minutes, no more, no less, or I won't drink it."

He was clearly making things difficult for Maeve. However, Maeve had no intention of demanding anything in return. She was here to ask for help to save Gilbert's life, and she was prepared to be as humble as necessary.

Maeve lowered her gaze and picked up the ingredients on the table. She began preparing the coffee with graceful, practiced motions. Her slender hands moved fluidly, as if painting a picture themselves. A dark glint flickered in Charles's eyes.

"I heard you come from a modest background. How did your parents manage to teach you the art of coffee?"

Maeve smiled lightly. "I picked it up on my own." (Of course, her parents would never have taken the time to teach her such things. She had learned it while working a part-time cleaning job in college at a barista's house.)

When the coffee was done, Maeve poured a glass for Charles, filling it precisely to seventy percent. Charles tapped his fingers lightly on the table and took a sip. Maeve waited nervously for his judgment.

"It's just average," Charles frowned. After setting down the glass, he went straight to the point. "You came today to ask my grandson to help treat someone, right?"

"Yes. I'd be grateful if you could help."

"Well, you're probably aware my grandson has a rather particular temperament, along with his own strict rules about who he will and won't treat?"

Maeve nodded. "I know. As long as Dr. Chatterly is willing to help, I'm willing to pay any price."

Charles gave a dismissive chuckle. "I've heard that line countless times. It's hardly new." His tone was soft, and Maeve didn't catch what he said. "Pardon?"

"Anyone can claim they'd do whatever it takes, but very few can follow through," Charles's eyes carried a hint of arrogance, but it disappeared in an instant. "Words are cheap."

Understanding the sarcasm, Maeve clenched her fists. "Tell me what you'd like me to do. If it's within my power, I'll give it everything I've got."

Charles let out a mocking laugh. "I heard you're a designer."

"Yes, I am."

"In that case, give me one of your hands as the price," Charles replied as if it were the most casual request in the world.

Maeve's eyes widened. "You want... one of my hands?"

Charles looked at her, seemingly unsurprised by her reaction. "What's wrong? Didn't you just say you'd do anything?"

"It's not that. I just..."

Before Maeve could finish her sentence, Charles stood up and said coldly, "Never make things difficult for others. If you're unwilling, Ms. Reese, you may leave."