Byron's voice turned icy. "Neville McDaniel," he spat. His jaw clenched as he thought. "Using Grandpa to check if I'm actually hurt—nice try. You really think I'll go easy on you just for Grandpa's sake? Not a chance."

"Archer," Byron's voice cut through the room, sharp and commanding.

"Yes, sir." Archer promptly entered, ready for orders.

"Get rid of all of Neville's belongings from his office," Byron ordered, his voice cold enough to freeze. "Then turn it into a public restroom."

Archer almost lost his composure, barely stifling a laugh. Before Byron's return, Neville had been the General Manager of the McDaniel Group, practically a heartbeat away from the CEO title. But now, even converting his office into a restroom wouldn't budge Byron's authority. It was a brutal slap in the face—more humiliating than any outright confrontation, turning Neville into an office punchline. "And find out who tipped Neville off about my injury," Byron's eyes gleamed dangerously. "When you do, deal with them. However you see fit."

Archer nodded. "Understood, sir."

Silence fell over the office. Byron rubbed his temple, trying to ease a dull ache, when his phone rang. It was Ray.

He answered casually, "Yeah, what's up?"

"Byron, we've known each other for over a decade. We're like brothers. And you're hiding a girl from me? What the hell, man?" Ray's voice dripped with playful sarcasm.

Byron's face went blank. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"I saw her today—a cute little thing with a photo of your injury, coming to the hospital to get it checked," Ray teased. "Where'd you find her? Can you set me up with someone like that too?"

Byron sprang from his chair. "She had a photo of my injury? What did she look like?"

"You want me to describe your own woman?" Ray quipped, but proceeded to describe Maeve's features.

Byron's expression darkened. He'd suspected someone on his team, but never thought Maeve would dare sneak a picture of him.

"We'll talk later," Byron snapped, cutting Ray off before storming out.

Ray was left mid-sentence, bewildered. He muttered, "What's with the sudden rage? I didn't even get to tell him that the girl seemed really worried about him—like she's head over heels…" But Byron was gone, leaving Ray's words hanging in the air.

At Pinehurst Apartments, Maeve was tasting soup in the kitchen when the door slammed. Rushing out, she froze at Byron's stormy expression. "Why do you look so…"

"Did you take a photo of my injury?" Byron cut her off, his voice as cold as ice. "And then take it to the hospital to show the doctor, didn't you?"

Maeve was taken aback but nodded. "Yes, I noticed your wound wasn't healing well. I thought the medication might help…"

Before she could finish, Byron's expression hardened. He snapped, "Who gave you the right to meddle? Do you think you're important to me?" He glared, his tone frighteningly harsh. "Do I need to remind you? Apart from the marriage license, we have nothing between us?"

Maeve stood frozen. "I wasn't trying to meddle," she said, her voice trembling. "I was just trying to help you…"

"I don't need your help," Byron interrupted, his brow furrowed. His voice dripped with disdain. "If you're so desperate to play the caring wife, we can get divorced right now. And delete those photos you took. Don't make me repeat myself!"

Maeve had never seen him like this—cold and terrifying. The man who had been so gentle applying ointment the night before felt like a stranger. She barely managed to delete the photo, her hands trembling. Tears stung her eyes.

Maeve held up her phone. "It's deleted. I only took one photo while you were asleep. I didn't mean any harm. If it caused trouble, I'm really sorry."

If Byron had been calmer, he might have noticed the tremor in her voice. But his anger clouded his judgment. He had always suspected Maeve had hidden motives. He'd watched her patiently, intrigued. But he hadn't expected her to reveal her hand so soon. Her actions had nearly derailed his plans. Byron shot Maeve a look of disdain before leaving without another word. Maeve sank to the floor, weeping. She wondered, "Had I really overstepped? Is everything I've done wrong? I wasn't trying to be intrusive—I just wanted his wound to heal faster. Why is he treating me like this?"

Byron didn't return. Maeve sat alone, staring at the untouched soup. She couldn't taste a thing. Her mind was blank.

She slept little that night. The next morning, she forced herself to make breakfast. Afterward, she tried to work on her webcomic but kept getting distracted. Then it hit her: her marriage to Byron was never about love, only about avoiding marrying Jell. Now that she had the marriage license, she didn't need anything else. "If Byron wants a divorce, fine. I will move on," she thought. Lately, things had made her think they might work, but Byron's words snapped her back to reality. She wasn't built to catch feelings. A weight lifted from her shoulders.

Three days passed without Byron. Maeve settled back into her routine. During the day, she searched for design positions. In the evenings, she went to Starlight Pub. That night, she wore an off-shoulder dress, stepping outside her comfort zone. She spoke with the bartender, inquiring about job openings.

"Interested in learning to mix drinks?" the bartender asked, offering her a cocktail. "Next time I see the boss, I can put in a good word for you. But with a pretty face like yours, I'd be happy to mix drinks for you forever." Maeve laughed awkwardly, taking a sip of her drink.

Downstairs, the bar buzzed, but upstairs in the VIP section, it felt cold. Ray leaned against the railing, watching Maeve. "Isn't that Byron's girl?" he said, grinning. "Looks like she's having a hell of a time with the bartender. What do you make of that, Byron?"

I removed the inappropriate website address. I also made several grammatical corrections, improved sentence structure, and removed unnecessary repetition. The narrative flows much better now.