No More Mrs. Nice Wife (Eleanor) novel Chapter 6

It was just past midnight.

Eleanor lay awake, insomnia gnawing at her nerves, when she heard the front door open. Ian was home.

In the past, whenever Ian came back late, Eleanor would always get up and check on him. If he'd been drinking, she'd quickly brew some strong black tea to sober him up; if he was simply exhausted, she'd warm a glass of milk to help him sleep.

Marriage had a way of teaching a woman all sorts of things—how to cook, how to do laundry, how to read every flicker of someone else's mood. In the end, she'd trained herself into a thankless housemaid, worn out but unnoticed.

Ian's footsteps echoed up the stairs, stopping outside the bedroom door. Eleanor squeezed her eyes shut, feigning sleep.

The door creaked open. His tall figure crossed the room and paused at the edge of their daughter's bed. The faint scent of whiskey mingled with the floral perfume she recognized—Vanessa's favorite.

Ian leaned over to tuck their daughter in, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. Eleanor, pretending to sleep, felt the touch land on her own brow.

A wave of heat spread where his lips met her skin, but Eleanor only felt her body go rigid. The moment he left, she sat up, grabbed a wet wipe, and scrubbed the spot he'd kissed.

She felt dirty, revolted by the touch of a man who'd just spent the night with another woman.

Over the next three days, Eleanor managed to mend things between herself and her daughter. After all, she'd raised Evelyn from infancy; her daughter's love hadn't vanished, only been pushed aside. If Eleanor was patient enough, she knew she could rekindle that bond, remind Evelyn who had always been there.

On Friday at noon, Eleanor spent the morning in her study, working through a proposal. Parched, she headed downstairs for a drink, only to catch sight of Ian coming up.

Descending from the third-floor study, she met his eyes on the landing. Without a word, she brushed past him and continued to the kitchen to make herself some tea.

"Still mad at me?" Ian's voice was tinged with annoyance.

Eleanor paused, turning to face him. "What would I be mad about?"

"Forget it," Ian muttered, clearly losing interest, and started up the stairs.

Eleanor frowned, moving past him. Lately, there were so many things about their relationship she found herself forgetting.

"Sure, just let me know when works for you. We'll talk then."

Balancing her cup of tea, Eleanor climbed the stairs again, checking her watch—she didn't want to be late picking up Evelyn from school.

Ian hadn't come home until after midnight last night; he was probably napping now, and she had no intention of disturbing him. But as she passed the second-floor landing, she heard his voice on the phone.

"My flight's Monday morning. Yeah, I'm bringing Evelyn."

"Just tell me what you want for Christmas. Anything at all."

Eleanor pressed herself against the wall, hidden in the entryway, listening to Ian's footsteps fade as he retreated to his room.

His last words floated down the hall, "I'll get you whatever you want."