Valda stared in disbelief. "What the hell did he just say? Maeve, you need to explain what's going on with you and this guy right now!" Maeve's shoulders shook slightly, but she forced herself to remain composed, recalling Valda's earlier harshness.

Taking a deep breath, she grabbed Byron's arm, her eyes a mix of anxiety and determination. "He's my husband. We're legally married—papers and all."

Byron glanced at her hand gripping his arm. Her slender fingers trembled, revealing the fear she was trying to hide. He noticed but didn't pull away. "Have you completely lost it?" Valda's face twisted with rage. She lunged forward, attempting to slap Maeve.

Maeve quickly stepped behind Byron, using him as a shield. Her voice was firm. "I'm married now. I'm not marrying Jeff. Return the Graves family's engagement gifts. From now on, I'm staying away from Jeff. This is my marriage, my life, and I'll make my own decisions." Valda's face flushed with fury, her lips quivering. "Fine, ignore me all you want. You'll regret this!" With one last furious glare, she stormed out.

Maeve felt an unexpected wave of relief. Saying "no" to Valda hadn't been as terrifying as she'd imagined; the hardest part was summoning the courage.

Once they were in the elevator, Maeve realized she was still gripping Byron's arm. Embarrassed, she quickly let go and offered an apologetic smile. "Sorry for dragging you into this mess." Byron casually slid his hand into his pocket. "Was that your mother?"

Maeve nodded, hesitating before adding, "My dad owed the Graves family a favor, so they've always expected me to marry my ex."

Byron made a noncommittal sound, but his mind wandered back to their earlier visit to city hall. So, her family pushed her into this, and that's why she came to me? The timing seems a bit too perfect. His eyes narrowed in suspicion. Until he could figure out whether Maeve's appearance that night was a coincidence or something more calculated, he wasn't about to trust her blindly.

The elevator dinged at the tenth floor. Inside the apartment, Maeve headed straight to the kitchen with the groceries. Tying an apron around her waist, she glanced at Byron. "I'm making soup tonight—it'll help with your recovery. Good for your injury."

Byron's expression flickered as he remembered her earlier breakfast. Can she even make edible soup? he wondered.

"No need," Byron said flatly. "I'm not a fan of soup."

Maeve's voice was soft but persistent. "Is there anything you actually like?"

Byron didn't bother hiding his irritation. "Even if you cook it, I'm not touching it."

Maeve smiled, undeterred. "So, should I just throw everything in and hope for the best?"

Byron sighed, too exhausted to argue. He went to the sofa, collapsed, crossed his legs, and rubbed his temples. His phone rang.

He answered, his voice heavy with fatigue. "What is it?"

A sharp cry of pain rang out, followed by Archer's voice. "Mr. McDaniel, we've got everyone involved in the attack. What's your call?"

Groaning and crying filled the background, but Byron's face remained cold, his voice disturbingly calm. "Break their hands and legs, then toss them in the sea. Let them cool off a bit." Archer replied efficiently, "Got it. Also, their accounts were clean, but we traced the funds back to someone working under Neville McDaniel."

Neville, the so-called second heir—a parasite living off the family name—was a joke to Byron.

Byron's eyes flashed with contempt. "He's like a pest after the harvest—barely hanging on. Send the company documents I haven't reviewed yet to Pinehurst Apartments, and make sure my meds are delivered too." "Understood. I'll handle it quietly," Archer confirmed.

"Good," Byron said, ending the call. He leaned back, closed his eyes, and let the silence wash over him.

Despite his injuries, Byron found returning to the office worthwhile. The shock on the shareholders' faces was priceless, and it gave him the perfect chance to see which senior executives were backing which side. It was a gamble, but it paid off.

As the soup simmered, Maeve went to the living room to call Byron for dinner. She found him sprawled on the sofa, fast asleep, arms crossed, head tilted. His usually pale lips were flushed—he seemed to have a fever.

Worried, Maeve moved closer, reaching out to feel his forehead. Before her fingers made contact, a strong hand grabbed her wrist hard enough to make her wince.

"Shit!" Maeve gasped, frowning in pain. (The promotional text at the end has been removed.)

Byron's eyes flew open, his voice low and menacing. "Didn't I fucking tell you to stay the hell away from me?"