Single Mother of a Werewolf Baby
Chapter 78: The Ninja Attack

Chapter 78: The Ninja Attack

James couldn’t believe what he had just witnessed.

The same Eleanor who once clung to him like an obedient pup, following his every command, now looked him in the eye as if he were a complete stranger. Cold. Indifferent. Unmoved.

Her expression didn’t flicker for even a second. There wasn’t a hint of recognition, no flash of memory. Just void-like detachment. That hollow gaze cut deeper than a blade.

It was a bitter pill to swallow.

James stepped back silently from the spotlight, retreating to a quiet corner, his heart burning with confusion and anger. The second phase of his plan would soon begin, and then he’d know the truth. Was Eleanor truly pretending? Or had she genuinely forgotten about him?

He refused to believe she could forget him. But despite his bravado, a gnawing uncertainty lingered in the back of his mind. What if she had? What if she really was no longer the Eleanor who once loved him so dearly?

He clenched his fists, barely suppressing the storm building inside him.

Meanwhile, the party continued.

After the group of young elites moved on, a few middle-aged businessmen approached Edward to exchange greetings and discuss trivial matters. Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of three elegantly dressed women, each carrying a wine glass. They approached gracefully, laughing softly among themselves... until one of them stumbled dramatically.

The woman tripped, her heel catching on the floor. She fell with a sharp gasp, her wine glass slipping from her hand. Scarlet liquid splashed across the lower hem of Eleanor’s gown.

Eleanor could have stepped aside. She had seen the woman coming from the corner of her eye, but something about the situation seemed... staged.

There was no malice in these women’s aura. No threat. Only guilt. Someone had sent them.

She allowed the spill to happen. This had the makings of a classic setup.

From the traditional script, she knew how this was supposed to go... someone spills a drink, and the lady rushes to the restroom. A perfect moment to isolate the target.

One of the other women quickly helped the fallen lady up, brushing her off gently while scolding her playfully.

"I told you not to wear heels you’re not used to! Now look... you’ve hurt yourself and caused a mess!"

The third woman turned to Eleanor with a flustered expression. "I’m so sorry, Miss. My friend didn’t mean to cause any trouble. Let me help clean your dress."

"You ruined her evening!" the helper scolded again. "Even if we sold everything we had, it wouldn’t cover the cost of this gown."

Eleanor inwardly applauded the performance. Not bad. But unfortunately, they were acting in front of the wrong woman.

Her group, however, didn’t know how to respond. They stood frozen, unsure if they should intervene or allow the drama to play out. Among them, Florence Mitchell looked particularly devastated, as if she’d failed a major life test.

After observing their reactions, Eleanor finally spoke.

"It’s alright," she said calmly, her voice cool yet composed. "I was about to head to the restroom anyway. There’s no need to worry about the gown. Miss, please get your ankle checked... it might be worse than it looks. A twisted ankle can cause long-term damage if left untreated. You should find a doctor as soon as possible."

With that, she turned gracefully and began walking toward the restroom. Florence followed close behind like an obedient soldier. Leaving everybody around there in awe with her noble behaviour.

As they walked, Eleanor issued quiet instructions through her earpiece. "I need a spare gown in the restroom. Ophelia, bring the one with the gemstone embroidery."

"Yes, ma’am," Ophelia’s voice responded promptly.

While moving through the hallway, Eleanor analysed the situation. "These women weren’t afraid. They radiated guilt, not hostility. This feels more like the work of a lecherous young master hoping to isolate me... not an assassin’s plan. Assassins don’t feel guilt. Not even their followers. They should act without hesitation."

Once at the women’s restroom, Eleanor saw no one loitering outside.

A slight pang of disappointment touched her heart.

Turning to Florence, she gave one final instruction, "Stay outside. Make sure no man enters this restroom. If someone tries, shout. Loudly."

"Yes, ma’am!" Florence saluted mentally and stood guard with resolve.

Eleanor stepped into the lavish restroom.

The scent of fresh flowers mixed with the faint aroma of rosewood. Gilded mirrors lined the marble walls. Warm lighting complemented the soft instrumental music playing from hidden speakers. A space meant to soothe.

She paused before the mirror, her emerald eyes studying her reflection. Calm. Unbothered.

Reaching into her clutch, she pulled out her La Prairie Skin Caviar Powder Foundation, her favourite. She flipped it open, dabbed a puff into the pressed powder, and gently blotted her T-zone. Her lips received a quick touch of plum-toned gloss, and she adjusted the diamond earring brushing her jawline.

Suddenly, she sensed a hostile aura enter the restroom. Her body instinctively tensed, but she kept her expression neutral and calmly continued her touch-up. The presence approached her almost silently from behind.

Eleanor grew serious. Every sense heightened as she focused on the faint sound of the intruder’s breathing drawing closer. Yet, she maintained her composure, acting as though nothing was amiss.

Just as the intruder was about to strike, she spun and launched a precise punch aimed at the intruder’s head. But the figure moved like water... ducking under the blow and creating distance in one fluid motion.

Now Eleanor saw her opponent clearly.

A woman with short black hair. Dressed in a tactical black vest and skin-tight pants. A ninja-like mask covered her face. Only her sharp eyes were visible... eyes that had seen blood.

On the floor near the entrance lay a black evening gown, discarded carelessly.

Ophelia hadn’t arrived yet.

"Should I fight her alone? Stall until Ophelia comes? Or call in the Shadow Team?" Eleanor’s mind raced.

But her opponent didn’t wait.

She lunged... her heel slicing toward Eleanor’s ribs with dangerous precision.

Eleanor twisted her body mid-step, the heel narrowly missing her and instead striking the mirror behind her. It shattered into jagged shards with a loud crash.

"Ninjutsu?" Eleanor asked calmly, tilting her head. "How interesting."

The ninja struck again, this time sweeping low with a kick designed to knock her off balance. Eleanor leapt backward and narrowly avoided the attack.

"You’re good," Eleanor said coolly, her breath even. "But this ends now. I don’t want to spill blood in a restroom."

"What?" the woman murmured in shock, her voice sharp but uncertain.

But she didn’t have time to recover.

Four black-clad figures emerged from the shadows of the restroom, surrounding the ninja without a sound. Panic replaced confidence in the woman’s eyes.

She made a desperate lunge toward one of them, but it was futile.

Before she could blink, a fifth figure appeared behind her and, with a swift twist, snapped her neck. Crack!

She collapsed to the floor, lifeless.

At that moment, the restroom door swung open and an anxious Florence entered.