The Heir's Secret Bride

18

He shot a glance at the scruffy brown pup, then turned back to Maeve, eyebrows raised, clearly questioning her bizarre. anties.

Maeve's anger vanished in an instant. She pulled back the hand she'd been waving at the dog, her face flushing as a wave of heat spread across her cheeks and ears, turning them a deep shade of red. "I-I wasn't arguing with it," she stammered, her voice shaky. "I was just... reasoning with it."

Byron had just come from a negotiation, still carrying the scent of alcohol and a lingering bad mood. But when Maeve offered her ridiculously naive explanation, a smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth. That amusement quickly faded when his eyes fell on the torn collar of her shirt. His expression darkened, and he asked, "What the hell happened to your clothes?"

His gaze moved from her collar to the red marks on her neck, and his frown deepened. "Get in the car."

Maeve's checks cooled as she nodded and slipped into the passenger seat. As she fastened her seatbelt, she glanced around at the sleek, luxurious interior and asked, "Is this your boss's car? Are you even allowed to be driving it?" eah. Byron replied nonchalantly.

Maeve's eyes widened. She recognized this was a Maybach-definitely a sign that Byron's boss was someone important. Even the license plate, with its elite number, was enough to make that clear. She wondered if the earlier chase had something to do with his boss. She frowned, thinking to herself. Must be rough working for someone that high up.

Byron noticed her awkwardly trying to cover her torn collar, her attempts doing little to hide the smooth skin underneath.

Without looking directly at her, he shrugged off his coat and draped it over her lap. "Put this on."

Maeve looked down at the coat, then back up at him with a small, grateful smile. "Thanks."

The coat still carried the warmth of of Byron's body, and since Maeve was petite, it nearly reached her calves, enveloping her in its warmth. Byron nodded odded briefly, started the engine, and drove off.

After they had driven for a while, Byron asked, "How'd you hurt your hand?"

Maeve's

"If

fingers paused as she

as she adjusted her slee

sleeves, her hand instinctively clenching. She wasn't sure how to answer.

you don't on't want to t to talk about it, that's fine," Byron said. "Tissues are there if you need them."

Maeve murmured her thanks and began searching for the tissue box, but it wasn't where she expected.

Byron glanced over and, without a word, pressed a hidden latch. The compartment slid open, revealing the tissues inside.

Marve suddenly felt like a total country bumpkin. This car is really high-tech," she remarked with an awkward laugh, pulling out a tissue to clean the blood from her palm.

Her mind wandered. She had no regrets about stabbing Jeff-if she hadn't acted, she would have remained trapped under

Iris control f forever.

Yet, as she sat in the relative safety of Byron's car, a new fear took hold. 'With the Graves family's influence, if Jeff seeks revenge, could Byron end up caught in the crossfire?' she wondered.

Byron noticed the furtremble in her fingers and frowned, falling silent. The rest of the drive passed in quiet.

When they got home, Marve immediately grabbed some clothes and headed to the bathroom for a shower.

Meanwhile, Byron went to the guest room, pulled out his phone, and called Archer, instructing him to find out where Maeve had been and what she had done that night.

A short while later, Arch Archer sent over a video-surveillance footage from the private room where Maeve had been. The rich guys hadn't managed to destroy it yet.

Byron watched the video, his initial detachment slowly shifting to a stern, intense focus. As Maeve drove the knife into Jeff's hand, a flash of surprise darkened his deep brown eyes. Just then, a knock came at the door.

"Mr. McDaniel. I'm Mr. McL

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with my shower. You can go ahead now," Maeve's soft voice came through, with a hint of nasal tone.

"Got it." Byron replied, his eyes still locked on the screen as he rewound the video, replaying the scene over and over with keen interest.

After the video had played for the third time, Byron opened the chat box and sent a message to Archer. [Handle the aftermath and also help Nestor secure the Yruhsall project.] Archer's reply came almost immediately. [Got it. I'll take care of it right away.]

Securing the

Yruhsall project would be a game-changer for Nestor, effectively closing off any opportunity for Jeff to challenge him for control of the company Maeve called out to Byron once, then made her way to the living room to tend to her wounds.

The deep cut on her palm had occurred when she accidentally injured herself while stabbing Jeff. Since the wound was on her right hand, applying the medicine proved to be particularly difficult.

"How long do you plan to struggle with that?" Byron asked, his voice casual. Maeve looked up in surprise to find him. standing in the living room. With his arms crossed and leaning casually against the table, he observed her with a curious.

gaze.

Maeve's hand shook, and the cotton swab she was holding fell to the floor. As she bent to retrieve it, she replied softly, "I'm almost finished" Byron t

took in the mess of ointment smeared across her skin, raising an eyebrow in silent observation. He didn't offer to help, simply watched her with a faint smirk as she struggled

Maeve, initially unfazed, grew increasingly flustered under his gaze. Her unfamiliarity with using her left hand made her movements shaky and clumsy. Frustration mounting, she finally turned to him with a beseeching look. "Could you give me a hand?" Byron let out a soft chuckle. "I suppose I can be convinced."

Maeve was momentarily at a loss for words, her frustration bubbling beneath the surface. It was clear to her now-he was definitely doing this on purpose.

Maeve had grown up with her parents lavishing attention on her younger brother, which instilled in her a strong sense of independence. She was accustomed to managing things on her own, never considering asking for help. Byron knew exactly how to push her buttons, and he seemed to take a twisted pleasure in doing it-forcing her to ask for help just to see her flustered.

She couldn't help but be both annoyed and amused by his strange sense of humor.

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Still, she managed to keep her cool, even as she watched him carefully tend to her wound. A small, involuntary laugh. escaped her lips.

Byron

glanced up, his voice calm and collected. "What's so funny?"

Marve quickly shook her head. "It's not you, really. I just found it a little ironic. Yesterday, I was patching you up, and now here you are, playing nurse for me. Feels like we're a couple from some melodrama." Byron remained silent, his face a mask of indifference. The room's atmosphere grew noticeably awkward.

Maeve immediately regretted her

words, biting h

her lip. "What the hell was I thinking? We're not a couple-barely even friends, just two people stuck sharing space, she thought. finished tying off the bandage and straightened up. "There, Done" "Thanks," Maeve said with a sigh of relief. Standing up, she added. "I haven't eaten yet. I'm thinking of making some soup You hungry? Want some?"

Byron finished

Byron was about to say no but then remembered how good her cooking was. "Whatever," he said with a nod.

A few minutes later, Maeve came back from the kitchen with two steaming bowls of navy bean soup. Fresh mint leaves from her balcony garden floated on top, adding a bright note to the dish.

"I figured it's best to keep it light for dinner, so I went with a simple soup," she said, setting the bowl in front of him. "And I left out the carrots-I know you're not a fan."

Byron paused, his spoon hovering above the bowl. They'd only eaten together a few times, but she already knew his preferences.

What's her deal? If she doesn't have some kind of angle, why's slie going out of her way like this?' he wondered.