No More Mrs. Nice Wife (Eleanor) novel Chapter 251

Mrs. Ellington’s voice was pitched just right—not too loud, not too soft—ensuring everyone nearby heard her words with perfect clarity. Vanessa Shannon’s fingers tightened around the stem of her champagne flute, her manicured nails digging so sharply into her palm she nearly drew blood.

“The developer of the miracle drug? So it was her all along! That’s incredible,” one of the guests exclaimed in surprise.

“Yes, my son was seriously ill, and it was only thanks to that treatment that he recovered,” another added, voice full of genuine gratitude.

In an instant, several society ladies, glasses in hand, began drifting toward Eleanor Sutton, drawn to her like moths to a flame.

Vanessa’s gaze followed them, unable to look away from the woman now basking in the limelight, surrounded by admirers.

Eleanor, the once-invisible housewife who had always lingered quietly beside Ian Goodwin, was now the center of attention. She conversed with the ladies with effortless poise, a gentle, measured smile on her lips—neither fawning nor aloof.

“Miss Shannon?” A voice cut through Vanessa’s thoughts. “The emcee needs to confirm your setlist for the performance.”

Startled, Vanessa snapped back to reality, suddenly aware she’d been standing there lost in thought for far too long. She forced a polite smile for the messenger. “Thank you, I’ll be right there.”

Low murmurings from the other guests drifted to her ears as she walked away.

“I heard that medicine saved thousands of lives...”

“To achieve so much at such a young age—no wonder Mrs. Ellington holds her in such high regard...”

“And she’s beautiful, too!”

Each whispered remark landed like a pinprick to Vanessa’s pride, making her quicken her pace as she left the crowd behind.

In front of the backstage dressing mirror, Vanessa drew a deep breath, taking in her meticulously applied makeup. She’d chosen a stunning white gown adorned with real diamonds—a seven-figure designer piece flown in from Europe—specifically to make an impression tonight.

Every sparkling gem on the dress was genuine, a testament to how carefully she’d prepared. She’d wanted to ensure no one could look down on her.

There, on a velvet loveseat, Mrs. Ellington was holding Eleanor’s hand, leaning in close as they chatted intimately, not even glancing toward the stage.

Several other society women clustered around them, as if the piano recital was nothing more than background music.

Vanessa’s fingers hovered above the keys, her mind suddenly blank. For a moment, she nearly forgot the opening note. Forcing herself to begin, she played, but the smooth, flowing melody she was known for sounded strangely lifeless tonight.

Her hands moved mechanically over the keys, her eyes drifting again and again to Eleanor. That woman, once so insignificant in Vanessa’s eyes, now basked in adoration, while Vanessa—the celebrated piano prodigy, beloved at countless events—felt like a mere afterthought.

A harsh, wrong note rang out. Vanessa jolted, realizing her palm was slick with nervous sweat.

She recovered quickly, but her composure was gone. The piece that usually brought her thunderous ovations now felt flat and hollow.

As the final note faded, polite applause rose from the crowd. Vanessa stood and curtsied, her gaze searching for Mrs. Ellington—who offered only a perfunctory clap before turning right back to Eleanor, her attention already elsewhere.