"What have you been up to? Why did you just answer the phone?" Maeve asked.

"Maeve?" Byron's throat tightened at the sound of her voice. He rarely called her Maeve; only a few times held unforgettable memories for her. Perhaps he'd leaned close to her neck, affectionately whispering her nickname as he kissed her, or teased her until she blushed with anger. Or, entwined on the bed, he'd murmured her name during moments of intense passion.

However, Maeve seemed to hear something else in his voice. Her eyes welled up, and her voice choked as she said, "It's a refrigerated room, like a freezer. It's dark, I can't see, and I don't know where I am."

"Okay, I see," Byron said calmly. "Don't be afraid. I'll find you as soon as possible."

"I'm afraid I can't wait," she whimpered. "It's so cold. I want to sleep."

Byron sensed her weakness. Her strained speech indicated she was reaching her limit.

"Don't sleep, and don't close your eyes. Talk to me, okay?"

Her nose was red with cold, her words delirious. "Byron, I've never met anyone more outrageous than you. You're simply an asshole. Someone like you should be single for the rest of your life," she said.

"Okay, no one wants me," he replied patiently, tracing the address from her call. "I have another question."

"Go ahead."

"How much of what you said to me in the car that day was true?" Maeve asked weakly, closing her eyes. "I want to hear the truth."

Byron, already en route to her location, answered almost instantly, "It's all fake. You were wired. I deliberately said those things to Neville."

Maeve felt even more aggrieved. Her nose twitched as she choked back tears. "Then, couldn't you have reminded me another way? You could have written it down, but why do you have to be so cruel? I hate you when you talk to me like that, belittling me. Why are you always bullying me? You know I didn't harm Gilben. Why are you so fierce every time you see me? It's as if I've done something wrong!"

Her thin cries, weak from the cold, were filled with indescribable grievance and bitterness. Byron felt as if his heart had been clawed and bled profusely. Uncontrollable self-blame washed over him. He lowered his eyes; the light through the car window made his handsome face indistinct.

"Maeve, don't cry," he said hoarsely, each word labored. "I can't hug you now." All his words felt inadequate. He wanted to comfort her, but he couldn't. The powerful Byron, leader of the McDaniel Group, felt utterly powerless.

Maeve closed her eyes. Her frozen tears added another layer of moisture. But she didn't want his hug; she wanted his love.

The room grew colder; Maeve's phone screen went black. Lynn, listening nearby, felt a mixture of resentment, relief, and jealousy. The next second, a weight settled on her shoulder—Maeve had fainted.

"Maeve, Maeve?" Lynn called, frantically trying to rouse her. Maeve's body temperature was dangerously low.

Panicked, Lynn wrapped Maeve in her coat, but it was useless. Desperate to save her, Lynn removed a necklace; inside, a pill was hidden. After swallowing it, Lynn's body began to grow, her bones creaking as they shifted. A tall, slender young man with exquisite features—more beautiful than a girl—stood there. His fox-like eyes drooped; his face was a sickly red. He was breathtakingly beautiful, almost otherworldly.

He hoisted Maeve onto his back, securing her with the coat. Crawling along a shelf to the window, he punched through a crack. Three more punches shattered the glass. He didn't hesitate, stepping onto the window frame, using one hand to support Maeve as he jumped. He landed first, cushioning her fall.

He unbuttoned his coat and knelt, rubbing Maeve's palms and neck to restore circulation and prevent hypothermia. Maeve, though unconscious, felt his actions.

She moved her pale lips, whispering, "Thank... thank you..."

"You helped me, too," Lynn said, his gaze complex. Maeve, numb with cold, didn't notice his boyish voice.

Knowing it wasn't enough, Lynn bundled Maeve into his coat and started towards a nearby hospital. Headlights appeared; an engine cut off; footsteps rushed closer. Byron and his men arrived. His icy gaze fixed on Maeve in Lynn's arms.

"How is she?" Byron asked.

"Hypothermic. She fainted," Lynn replied, lips pursed.

Byron frowned, reaching for Maeve. "Leon, bring a doctor. Go to the car and check. Leave her to me."

Lynn dodged. Byron's arm froze. His gaze sharpened, "Leon, she is my wife."

"I know," Leon replied, suppressing his reluctance. He returned Maeve to Byron, feeling a hollowness in his heart.

Byron carried Maeve to his car. "Turn the air conditioning to the highest temperature and raise the partition," he instructed the chauffeur.

He quickly changed Maeve's wet clothes, carefully drying her skin and dressing her in dry garments. The man who Maeve often criticized for being cold, now looked solemn and cautious, treating her like a precious treasure.

(The final promotional sentence was removed as it was not part of the story itself.)