No More Mrs. Nice Wife (Eleanor) novel Chapter 1581

A suffocating wave of guilt washed over Eleanor. It was obvious his fever had spiked last night, and now, he had been burning up for hours.

"You have a fever. Let me take you to the hospital," Eleanor said, stepping forward. "Or I can call Gavin and have him drive you."

Ian propped himself up on his elbows. A second later, Eleanor was yanked into a scorching, solid embrace. The man panted slightly, his voice muffled and thick with childish stubbornness. "I'm not going anywhere."

Trapped in his tight hold, Eleanor couldn't help but feel a surge of anxious dread. She reached out and patted the back of his hand. "Let go of me first. You have to see a doctor like this."

Instead of releasing her, Ian tightened his arms, burying his face deep into the crook of her neck. His scalding breath fanned across her collarbone, his voice raspy from the high fever. "No—as long as you're with me, I'm not going anywhere—"

Eleanor felt a heavy knot of remorse in her chest. She hadn't picked the right time to say those harsh words to him last night, completely missing the fact that he was sick. Her resolve softened, and she coaxed him gently. "Okay, no hospital. I'll go get you some fever medicine, alright?"

If his fever stayed this high, it was going to be dangerous.

She remembered she had a first-aid kit stocked.

Ian hesitated for a moment before finally loosening his grip. Eleanor got up, pushed the door open, and went into her side of the house. A few moments later, she returned with the medication.

She poured him a glass of warm water and handed the pills over. "Take these first."

Ian took the medicine and the water, swallowing them obediently, though his intense gaze remained locked on her—as if the moment he finished, she was going to abandon him.

"Cough!" He choked on the water, breaking into a fit of heavy coughing.

That was what happened when he didn't pay attention to what he was doing.

Was he really just a burden to her?

That thought hurt infinitely more than his physical illness. He had never imagined that one day, she would look at him and see nothing but a dead weight pulling her down.

They finally reached the second floor, and Eleanor guided him to the door of the master bathroom. Ian straightened up, turning to look at her. "I'm hungry. Do you have any food?"

"I'll go ask Joslyn to make you some light chicken soup. Go take your shower first," Eleanor instructed.

Only then did Ian obediently step into the bathroom. He stood in front of the vanity mirror. The man staring back at him had a dark shadow of stubble along his jawline. The razor-sharp, commanding aura he usually carried was gone, leaving him looking like a discarded vagrant.

Ian let out a soft sigh, a self-deprecating smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Perhaps she was right. In Eleanor's eyes, he was nothing but a burden—a problem she just couldn't shake off.