Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 1: She Is Not a Member of the Grant Family
The pregnancy test sitting on the sink had shown its result.
Two bright red lines.
Eleanor raised her hand and rubbed her face, her eyes shot through with tangled blood vessels, her mind flooded with catastrophe, a fear she couldn’t even describe—leaving only one thought.
This is a ticking time bomb.
It must not be exposed.
In the midst of suffocation, the sound of an engine drifted from the courtyard, and the ground floor immediately bustled with activity. Footsteps hurried up to her door, and Auntie King called out, "Eleanor, the eldest young master is back from his business trip."
Eleanor’s hand trembled, caught off guard. The Southwest project was urgent—why would Cillian Grant return early?
Before she could think further, Auntie King urged her from outside the door again.
Eleanor could only answer hoarsely, "Coming."
She quickly opened the mirror above the sink; in the second walnut cabinet compartment, an old lighter and cigarette box belonging to Cillian Grant were stashed inside.
Grabbing the lighter, she set fire to all the incriminating evidence, then twisted open the faucet and meticulously washed away every bit of ash from the cracks.
This wasn’t Eleanor being overly cautious.
Cillian Grant had served in the military, gave off a sense of alertness and acuity others couldn’t even imagine. Eleanor felt that pair of eyes of his saw through everything, as if able to pierce straight into someone’s soul.
Auntie King demanded for the third time outside, "Eleanor, Madam is calling you. The eldest young master brought gifts."
"I’m coming."
Eleanor opened the door and headed downstairs.
The towering three-story living room was bathed in light; the first thing Eleanor saw was her mother.
A fifty-year-old society lady, skin porcelain and smooth, dressed with gentle elegance—a touch softer and kinder than most wealthy matrons, radiating an extra dose of benevolence and affection.
She gazed dotingly at her biological daughter Phoebe Grant, playing with lustrous pearls, her eyes so gentle you could almost see ripples within them.
A pang hit Eleanor’s heart, tightening so much she couldn’t take a step closer.
Until she was eighteen, she too was Mrs. Grant’s pampered, cherished jewel.
But then Phoebe Grant returned with a paternity test, and everything turned upside down.
Phoebe Grant was the real heiress of the Grant Family.
And Eleanor—just a child who’d been swapped at birth, kept only because of Mrs. Grant’s kindness and reluctance to let go—a complete outsider.
"Indigo Province is famous for jade, so I get a tourmaline jade bracelet and Phoebe’s Earrings. What did your father get?"
Mr. Grant, sitting on the side sofa, waved a hand. "I’m too old to care about that sort of thing."
The man standing across from them let out a soft laugh and handed over a gift box.
From Eleanor’s angle, she could only see his back—broad-shouldered, mature and elegant, and dressed in a custom dark suit; he cut a striking, steady figure with a composed aura.
At first glance, he was restrained yet severe, with a repressed, impersonal coldness.
But Eleanor knew firsthand that Cillian Grant was a wolf cloaked in the guise of civility.
Inside, he possessed the most sinister, deranged, and violent soul.
Mr. Grant coughed drily, opening the box.
Mother and daughter on the sofa suddenly burst into laughter, exchanging glances filled with conspiratorial, unspoken amusement.
Cillian happened to block the view, so all Eleanor saw was Mr. Grant’s mock-angry glare, which quickly gave way to uncontrollable laughter.
Amid the twinkling lights, the scene radiated warmth and joy.
Eleanor couldn’t help but step forward, standing beside Mrs. Grant’s sofa. "Dad, Mom, Phoebe, Cillian."
The laughter jerked to a halt. 𝓯𝙧𝓮𝓮𝒘𝓮𝙗𝙣𝒐𝒗𝒆𝓵.𝓬𝓸𝒎
Phoebe nestled against Mrs. Grant, shooting Eleanor a sideways look. "Why did you take so long to come down? Cillian’s exhausted from his trip and still had the kindness to bring gifts. How could you make him wait?"
Eleanor glanced at Cillian Grant—their family’s ancestry had a mix of foreign blood, which was especially pronounced in him: sharp features, high brow, deep-set eyes, straight nose.
Under the lights, his eye sockets cast heavy shadows, further emphasizing the piercing, icy gleam of his gaze—it went straight through people.
A cold sweat broke out down Eleanor’s back, and she lowered her head to avoid his eyes. "Sorry."
Phoebe felt triumphant inside.
Eleanor had a sharp tongue; when it was just the two of them, Phoebe was never a match. But with Cillian at home, everything changed—he always stood by her side, and deeply despised Eleanor.
Phoebe tilted her head toward Cillian, but kept her eyes locked on Eleanor, feigning innocence: "Cillian, what’s Eleanor’s gift?"
Cillian gave a brief laugh, his voice deep and mellow, but his tone was detached. "She doesn’t get a gift."
Phoebe’s face lit up, while Mrs. Grant opened her mouth to say something, only to be quickly pulled back by Phoebe.
The vast living room lapsed into several moments of silence, until Mr. Grant spoke up, "Why not?"
Cillian was perfectly calm, understated and unconcerned. "She’s not my sister."
Eleanor felt herself suffocating.
Four years ago, when Phoebe returned to the Grant Family, Cillian came home soon afterward. Not long after, he burst into Eleanor’s room for Phoebe’s sake, and slapped her hard across the face.
From that day on, by day she was the unwelcome outsider, and by night she was his captive enemy.
She was certainly no longer the sister.
The scene grew even thicker with tension, stifling the air.
After a few more moments, Mrs. Grant briskly changed the subject: "The wedding between Phoebe and Damian is on the agenda. The next three months will be busy with preparations, and this year’s family health check is moved up to this week—everyone, be ready."
Eleanor was stunned, as if a bucket of cold water had been dumped over her head, her bones aching with chill.
The Grant Family’s health check was usually arranged at year’s end.
She’d originally calculated that she had two more months left.
Enough time to deal with the ticking bomb in her belly. Now suddenly, pressed to just one week?
Phoebe immediately noticed Eleanor’s odd reaction.
"Are you scared? Scared of what? Scared I’m marrying Damian?"
Eleanor’s mind grew even more chaotic.
Damian. Damian Sinclair.
He used to be Eleanor’s fiancé.
After Phoebe fell for Damian Sinclair at first sight, Cillian helped her—he became Phoebe’s fiancé instead.
Everything about Damian Sinclair was a minefield for Eleanor; touch it, and there’d be an explosion.
Sure enough, before Phoebe finished speaking, everyone turned their gaze to Eleanor.
And among them, Cillian’s eyes were the darkest and most hostile.
Their gazes clashed, sharp as knives and thorns.
Cillian detested most that she was still scheming—trying to steal Damian Sinclair from his real sister.
Eleanor managed to keep her smile in place. "You’re overthinking. I’m just afraid the doctor will once again diagnose me as infertile, and order another laparoscopy. Those hurt like hell."
Her fallopian tubes were congenitally obstructed, and she also had uterine issues. Every year, after the medical results came out, Cillian would force her to undergo all kinds of endoscopic surgeries.
Eleanor pictured the operating room ceiling, the shadowless lamp, the icy, long tube shoved inside her body—her mood sank even lower.
She couldn’t help but glance at Phoebe. "He’s been your fiancé for four years and only two and a half with me. If longevity breeds affection, what are you afraid of?"
Phoebe’s expression soured.
The engagement had been two years, but who didn’t know Eleanor and Damian Sinclair were childhood friends?
"Cillian—" Phoebe called for backup.
"Apologize." Cillian’s voice dropped to freezing, a chilling warning. "Before Phoebe’s wedding, you are not allowed to see Damian Sinclair."
Eleanor: "..."
This was beyond ridiculous—her own mother couldn’t have made it more absurd.
In four years, had she ever been allowed to see him?
The next moment, she caught Mrs. Grant’s full-face disapproval, and Mr. Grant’s impatient agitation in her peripheral vision.
She offered a bleak smile, lowering her head. "Sorry."
The so-called family celebration ended in quiet misery.
............
After washing up, Eleanor opened the bathroom door.
There was now an extra pair of minimalist, off-white men’s house slippers by the bed.
She froze immediately, standing motionless on the spot.
Cillian Grant lounged at the headboard, his meaning unmistakable. "Still hung up on it? Not willing to let go?"
Eleanor knew what had happened downstairs—unless she explained herself, it wouldn’t be over.
"Not really."
Cillian gave a cold laugh, strode over in a few steps, and gripped the back of her head with brutal force.
"Do you know why I came back early, and why I didn’t give you a gift?"
When angered, Cillian had a vicious, unstoppable aura—like thunder on the verge of breaking loose.
His voice wasn’t loud, his face wasn’t twisted, but that cold, biting rage shot out of his eyes and could freeze someone, body and soul.
Eleanor instinctively began to tremble, jaw clenched tight. "Because you don’t accept me."
Cillian’s hand slid from her head to her face. "Still hiding something? What have you done lately?"
Eleanor’s pupils contracted sharply.
The only thing she’d done in recent days was realize she might be pregnant, buy a pregnancy test online, confirm it, and destroy the evidence.
Could it be...
He’d figured it out?
