No More Mrs. Nice Wife (Eleanor) novel Chapter 893

After all, Ian had shown considerable support for York's lab during their collaboration with Starnova Group.

"Alright, I'll ask him when I get the chance," Eleanor said, nodding as she saw York into the elevator.

In the lobby, York's assistant was waiting. Eleanor stopped, watching them leave.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Joy.

"Ellie, I just heard from a source at Yarnton. Yeaton Holdings' overseas medical plant is in deep trouble. Isn't Ian a shareholder and on their board? He's really shot himself in the foot with this one."

Below the message was a link. She tapped it, and it opened to a detailed financial news report. Yeaton Holdings had been exposed for environmental violations and labor exploitation, and the local government had ordered a complete shutdown and investigation. In the fallout, Yeaton's stock had plummeted, wiping nearly five billion off its market value and severely impacting its investors—including Ian, a key shareholder and board member.

Eleanor frowned.

Roland Yeaton was always long on ambition and short on the talent to back it up. He was always looking for shortcuts and dabbling in shady practices. Sooner or later, his dealings were bound to catch up with him.

This was a mess of Ian's own making. Whatever the consequences, he would have to face them.

***

At the Yeaton Holdings headquarters, the conference room was deathly silent. You could have heard a pin drop.

The atmosphere shifted the moment Ian stepped inside.

"If this number is wrong, I have no reason to believe any of the others are correct," Ian said, his voice dangerously low. "You are wasting my time." He tore the report in half and threw the pieces in front of the trembling executive.

The room was stunned into silence.

"Is this how you answer to your shareholders and board?" Ian's voice wasn't loud, but it carried an intense, suffocating pressure. "With a pile of useless paper that dodges all the important issues." The unspoken accusation hung in the air: *you are all useless*.

Sweat beaded on Roland's forehead. "Mr. Goodwin, we—"

"I don't want to hear any excuses," Ian cut him off, leaning forward and placing his hands on the table. "I want a viable solution on my desk by four p.m."

Without another word, he turned and strode out of the room.