No More Mrs. Nice Wife (Eleanor) novel Chapter 1243

"Mr. Goodwin, are you at Cloudcrest Manor?"

"I am."

"I've been calling Eleanor's phone, but she hasn't been picking up. I wanted to let her know that I'll be back tomorrow morning."

Ian had thought Joslyn was already back. If she wasn't home and Eleanor wasn't answering her phone, could something have happened to her?

Ian immediately pulled his door open and rushed toward the elevator, telling Joslyn, "Give me the code for the door. I'm going up to check on her."

"Well—" Joslyn sounded hesitant.

"Joslyn, Eleanor is sick. She just had a shot. We can't risk something happening," Ian said, his tone serious.

Joslyn was startled. "She's sick?" Then she quickly added, "It's Evelyn's birthday."

Ian understood immediately. He hung up, went to Eleanor's apartment, and expertly punched in the code. Pushing the door open, he found the living room dark and the apartment silent.

"Eleanor!" Ian called out as he strode toward the stairs, heading for the master bedroom on the second floor.

He took the stairs two at a time and gently pushed open the bedroom door. The room was dark, but a sliver of light from a distant lamp filtered in, faintly illuminating a small, curled-up figure in the bed, apparently deep in sleep.

Ian hurried to the bedside, bent down, and placed his hand on her forehead—she was running a low-grade fever.

So she wasn't unconscious, just sleeping very deeply.

Ian let out a soft sigh and knelt, studying her sleeping face. A warmth radiated from her body, and even her breaths were hot. Just then, Eleanor stirred, mumbling something in her sleep.

"Mansfield—"

The intimate, trusting gesture burned through his chest, leaving a mark he knew he’d never shake.

He remained frozen in a bent position, his gaze dark and impenetrable. He could feel the distinct warmth and softness where she held his wrist tight.

But she thought he was Mansfield.

Ian considered pulling his hand away, but he found himself willingly letting her hold on, feeling the heat from her cheek, his thumb gently brushing against her soft, warm lips.

Ian's throat tightened. He stayed in that awkward position, half-kneeling by her bed like a silent statue, accepting a dependence and intimacy that was not meant for him.

After a while, Eleanor seemed to drift into another dream. Her grip on his wrist gradually loosened, and her breathing became even and deep.

Only then did Ian slowly withdraw his hand. The back of it was still warm from her cheek and damp with her tears.