Chapter 966

Claiming Mrs. Shannon was covered in bugs had been pure fiction-a blatant lie fabricated solely to drive the woman out. She hadn't expected the maid to ruthlessly backhand her in return. Her cheek throbbed with a burning intensity.

She wanted to march in there and scream at the woman, but she had lost her leverage. Defeated, she slinked back to the master bedroom, the angry red outline of a handprint burning into her skin. She grabbed a tube of soothing cream from the vanity, but paused before applying it. If she wanted Layne to fire the maid, she needed to look like a battered victim.

If she was going to get this woman thrown out, Layne needed to see exactly how violent the staff could be. Making her decision, Maeve tossed the expensive ointment into the trash can and aggressively knocked over a few bottles to make the bathroom look chaotic.

Satisfied with her stage design, she laid back on the bed, her mind obsessively replaying Layne's erratic behavior that morning.

First, he refused her help getting dressed. Then he skipped the breakfast she slaved over, and followed it up by hiring a watchdog under the guise of 'taking care of the house.' She couldn't pinpoint the exact flaw in his logic, but something foundational had shifted.

She didn't want to spiral into paranoia. Wren was still radio silent in The Great Basin Wilderness, and the anxiety was draining her life force. She could barely summon the energy to function, relying entirely on a fabricated smile to keep Layne in the dark.

With Layne gone, her features relaxed into their natural, icy apathy. She stared at the only surviving photo of her and Wren on her phone screen, then let her eyes flutter shut.

Downstairs, Mrs. Shannon bustled around the kitchen preparing lunch. Maeve crept to the second-floor landing, peering over the banister to monitor the noise. She realized that despite her plump figure, the older woman moved with lethal efficiency.

Compared to Maeve, who had faked her culinary journey from scratch two years ago, Mrs. Shannon was a master of her craft. It wasn't Michelin-star presentation, but the rich, intoxicating aroma wafting upstairs smelled exactly like authentic, comforting home cooking.

Maeve stood in the shadows, her eyes locked on the kitchen in cold calculation. She had assumed Mrs. Shannon would try something else after the slap, but the woman was literally just cooking.

At noon, the biometric lock chimed. Mrs. Shannon's voice rang out from the foyer.

"Welcome home, Sir."

Maeve had been so distracted she forgot to rush down and greet him. She watched blankly as Mrs.

Shannon smoothly took Layne's net

briefcase and slid his tailored coat off his shoulders, hanging it up. It gave Maeve the sickening illusion that this woman had been caring for Layne his entire life.

Layne settled into the living room

sofa. Usually, if Maeve wasn't

waiting at the door, he would

instantly call her name and come

looking for her. But she waited upstairs for minutes, and henever came. Clenching her jaw, she smoothed out her loungewear and descended the stairs on her own.