"Wait!" Maeve called out hurriedly as Charles turned to leave. "One hand, right? I'll do it!"

Charles paused, his eyes narrowing as he looked at the pale-faced Maeve, who feigned calm. He smiled suddenly. Pointing to the fruit knife on the table, he asked, "Are you sure?"

Maeve bit her lip, silent for a moment. Her mind raced before she finally grabbed the knife. Her right hand, still sore from preparing paint, trembled slightly as she held it. In one swift, decisive motion, she closed her eyes, ready to slice her left hand.

But no pain came. A cool hand gripped her wrist. Maeve opened her eyes in shock to see Charles standing before her. "You..." he said, confused.

"Ms. Reese," Charles' voice was hoarse and cold, "if I'm not mistaken, you're doing this for someone else. You're giving up your hand to save someone? Are you out of your mind?" Maeve barely registered the harshness; she felt emotionally numb, perhaps from hunger. She lacked the strength to think further, remaining calm when she replied, "Doctors save lives—sometimes for money, sometimes for something more valuable. I believe this is a fair trade, and I'm willing to pay whatever it takes. The result matters, not who it's for."

Maeve might not have realized it, but her words sounded ruthless. It was unsettling to see such ruthlessness in someone so composed. Charles' eyes darkened. Perhaps convinced, or perhaps for his own reasons, he released her wrist, muttering indifferently, "Fine, you pass."

Maeve was stunned. "You mean... I don't have to give up my hand?"

Charles sneered. "Why would I need your hand? To make soup? Then, are you willing to help me?"

"Yes, I'll visit Mr. McDaniel tomorrow." Charles returned to his desk, picked up his brush, and continued painting. "As for the price, I'll decide that later."

Joy filled Maeve's eyes. Her hand relaxed, and the knife clattered to the floor. She picked it up, placed it back on the table, and said to Charles, "Thank you."

He gave no response. Reaching the study door, Maeve paused. Turning back, she asked, "If you never planned to take my hand, why make that demand? It was as if you wanted to watch me squirm."

Charles glanced at her. "Anyone too afraid of death isn't worth my time."

Maeve wasn't surprised. Realization dawned. She smiled faintly. "Mr. Chatterly, you indeed have quite the character."

A trace of surprise flickered across Charles' calm face. After a long silence, his voice, suddenly younger and more distant, said, "You've only met my grandfather once. How can you tell?"

Maeve observed his slender figure. A strange blend of cynicism and detachment emanated from him. His light brown eyes were indifferent; he seemed to see right through the world. He didn't look like a doctor, but more like a demon accustomed to killing.

Maeve pursed her lips. "You spent thirty minutes painting without bending your back or showing any strain. I suspected you weren't Mr. Chatterly. And when you asked for my hand, I knew I was facing the miracle doctor himself."

Charles' eyes grew gloomy. "So, you were just putting on a show?"

"Not at all," Maeve replied. "I figured out who you were, but I had no idea what you were thinking. Even knowing from the beginning, I would have made the same choice." Charles studied her calm face for a long time before smiling. "Get out."

Maeve nodded and left. After the door clicked shut, Charles put down his brush and ran a finger along his jaw, peeling away a thin, almost translucent layer of skin. He removed a silver wig. His pale skin, dark, willow-leaf brows, starlight eyes, and a single red mole under his left eye, gave him a dangerously alluring air. His long hair reached his waist, yet he didn't look feminine; he had the air of an ancient, carefree poet. He casually tossed the mask into the trash and resumed painting. He paused, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Interesting," he murmured. "I like interesting people. They make life less dull."

After the Chatterly family matter was settled, Alexis brought Maeve back to the McDaniels. She was surprised to see Byron there. A sharp pang hit her chest.

"Byron, you're back?" Alexis asked. "How is your grandfather? The Chatterlys agreed to help; they'll go to the hospital tomorrow."

"Nothing much changed," Byron said, walking past Alexis to Maeve. He held her wrist. "I need to talk to her. You should get some rest."

Alexis frowned. "No, she needs to stay in the storage room. What if she..."

"Once the police finish their investigation, you can punish her however you like," Byron said coldly, leading Maeve to the dining room. Alexis fumed. She was doing this for Byron! What if Maeve injured him?

Maeve's feelings were even more complex. She expected Byron to question her about the day's events and the assault on Gilbert, but he surprised her. The chef had prepared a meal. Glancing at his watch, he said, "You have thirty minutes."

Unsure of his intentions, Maeve asked, "Didn't you want to talk?"

"We'll talk after you eat."

"Why not now? I'm too nervous to eat with you staring at me like that."

Byron narrowed his eyes. "Look who's found her backbone. Funny, considering you didn't seem so tough when she locked you up. You were fine going hungry for a day."

Maeve choked back a retort. "Of course, I'd stand up for myself if I could. But when your mother snaps her fingers, plenty of people back her up. I'm hardly a match for any of them, am I?"