No More Mrs. Nice Wife (Eleanor) novel Chapter 844

The city lights blurred past the car window. Eleanor watched her daughter in the rearview mirror, already fast asleep, and felt an invisible knot tighten in her chest. Her daughter's health and future, once so certain in her eyes, now felt incredibly fragile, as if the word "hereditary" could shatter everything in an instant.

From the moment Evelyn was born, Eleanor had been a careful and anxious mother. A small cold or fever would keep her awake all night with worry. When it was time for vaccinations, watching her daughter cry herself hoarse would break her heart for days. It was an emotion she couldn't control; anything concerning her daughter sent her into a panic, her mind racing to the worst possible conclusions. Even knowing that the shots were for her daughter's own good didn't stop the anxiety.

Back in the parking garage, she settled Evelyn into bed and asked Joslyn not to disturb her, saying she needed to work for a while.

Closing the study door behind her, Eleanor turned on her computer and immediately opened the file containing Gina's medical records. Her fingertips were ice-cold as she stared at the thick report, which felt like a boulder crashing into her heart. She scrolled to the sections on genetic information and analysis. The professional medical terms were no longer cold symbols; each word tugged at the raw nerves of a terrified mother.

"Autosomal dominant inheritance…"

"Pathogenic gene located… Penetrance rate, fifty percent probability of transmission to female offspring."

The lines of text swam before her eyes, stabbing at her heart. She finally closed her eyes and buried her face in her hands. Her daughter had a one in two chance…

Wait. The data from Dr. Smith. Eleanor shot back in her chair, her chest heaving. She forced herself to calm down. She needed data, evidence—not speculation and fear.

She opened her computer, her fingers flying across the keyboard. Smith had given her the highest level of access to the lab's database. It contained data from nearly a thousand patients, tracking family histories over four generations. One statistic made her pause. According to the data, the probability of inheriting the condition skipped a generation was thirty percent, twenty percent lower than direct mother-to-daughter transmission.

But even as she read it, she knew it wasn't enough. Even if the probability was one percent, it wouldn't be enough to reassure her. This wasn't a gamble she was willing to take; she had to be one hundred percent certain of her daughter's health.

At Goodwin Manor, the housekeeper locked up after putting the old madam to bed. As she came downstairs, the landline phone began to ring. Surprised, she picked it up. "Hello?"

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