Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 107: Mr. Grant

On New Year’s Day, rain fell on Soldane Province.

By evening, the sky was a misty haze, oppressively damp. Secretary Rhodes hurriedly stepped out of the car, his leather shoes stamping across the leaves scattered in the courtyard, kicking up water that splashed onto his trouser cuffs.

Wet and bedraggled, the leaves clung to his ankles, making a sharp slapping sound as he walked. He reached down to brush them off, but had no time to fuss, striding three steps at a time through the Grant Family’s living room, heading straight to the second floor.

In Mr. Grant’s study, there were guests: several senior directors of the Grant Group, all in their late sixties.

The mood was lively. The directors reminisced about their past exploits, faces flushed with the thrill of commanding an empire, as if they could still personally charge into the trenches and turn the tides in the business arena.

Mr. Grant was the one least disturbed by these memories; his eyes were clear, the smile at the corner of his mouth relaxed and unhurried.

In the midst of the hubbub, he was both listener and deft topic leader, yet always the one in control.

As conversation peaked, fervor surging among the directors, his smile deepened and he asked, "Is the old general still able to fight?"

The words, though softly spoken, rang clear and firm.

The room froze like someone had pressed pause; the directors, as if invisible hands had gripped their throats, stared aghast, breath caught, faces strained. A few seconds later, their passionate expressions dispersed like ornate but hollow mist, vanishing at the slightest breeze.

Only anxious glances remained, pallor tinting every face.

Mr. Grant’s expression stayed unchanged in the prolonged silence, eyes losing their warmth, face settling into a mask.

Secretary Rhodes felt his scalp prickle at the doorway, hesitating two full minutes before he summoned the courage to break the deadlock.

"Director Grant, I have urgent matters to report."

The senior directors, as if hearing gospel, immediately rose to take their leave.

Secretary Rhodes turned to close the door. Mr. Grant still sat on the sofa, teacup suspended midair, eyelids lowered, absorbed in thought.

Secretary Rhodes held his breath, waiting patiently, only speaking in a low voice when Mr. Grant had slowly blown away the tea froth and sipped, "The eldest son—he’s not in Soldane Province."

Mr. Grant acted as if he hadn’t heard, continuing his tea.

Secretary Rhodes felt his limbs stiffen in anxiety, bending deeply in apology, "It’s my failure—Miss Eleanor sold her hairpin and lost her signal; the team we hired isn’t as professional as the ones the eldest son found, and now—they’ve lost track of her."

Mr. Grant raised his eyes, gesturing at the sofa with his cup. "Sit."

The first impulse was not to sit, but he didn’t dare defy him either.

Half perched at the edge, Secretary Rhodes continued his report.

"Liam Xavier has been acting recklessly lately; his child is gone, his wife’s fate uncertain. He’s so consumed by hatred, he’s willing to be the eldest son’s dog—if the eldest son can help him get revenge, he’ll do anything. Especially—"

He cautiously watched Mr. Grant’s face. "Anything the eldest son can’t do himself, he’ll—"

"He’s aiming at me now," Mr. Grant set down his teacup. "The old men have been scared by the mad dog; they’re trembling, on the edge of betrayal."

The latter words weighed heavily.

Secretary Rhodes attempted to smooth things over, "The directors who support you are all getting old. After a lifetime of storms, they just want to hand down the family business to their sons and daughters—they’re too cautious to take risks, which is understandable."

"Hand down the business?" Mr. Grant repeated the phrase, tasting each word. "David Rhodes, do you think I’m not a match for Cillian? Bound to lose, is that it?"

"Of course not." Secretary Rhodes was sweating. "Your reputation in the industry is unrivaled—everyone knows you. The directors aren’t afraid of that half-baked Liam Xavier, they’re really rightfully concerned about the eldest son behind him—and most of all, about you."

"You have only the eldest son, and when you’ve suppressed him, what’s the point? One day you’ll hand Grant Group to him anyway. He’s cold by nature—the old directors aren’t worried, but the younger ones are."

Mr. Grant leaned back, gaze distant. "Tell me—did he foresee all of this?"

Secretary Rhodes knew well—that ’he’ meant Cillian Grant. But between father and son, some topics, even if Mr. Grant asked, should remain untouched.

The room fell silent, even the air felt heavy.

Mr. Grant squinted, deep in thought.

Cillian wasn’t in Soldane Province, nor in the country; his vanishing at such a crucial moment made his destination obvious.

But at this pivotal point of direct confrontation, with the Grant Family in turmoil, Grant Group shaken, the Xaviers in uproar, all three factions at each other’s throats—Cillian dropping out so easily, so calmly, meant he possessed extraordinary nerve and composure, used to bearing immense pressure, face unchanged even if Mount Tai collapsed before him.

Or—

Was Eleanor truly pregnant, meaning he had to go to her?

Mr. Grant’s thoughts shifted; his smile returned, though his eyes remained chillingly cold. "Cillian is cunning and forward-thinking. I’m his father—there’s no way I’ll let him outdo me. This game... is far from over."

Secretary Rhodes had already anticipated this.

The men of the Grant Family are wolves; from every angle, vicious, decisive, relentless, never giving up.

Proud, obsessive.

Secretary Rhodes, "Then start by suppressing Liam Xavier?"

Mr. Grant sneered, almost imperceptibly. "David Rhodes, after all these years with me, you’re still so shortsighted. Liam is just a target—what’s the use in knocking down targets? Cillian has a whole team of them. Damon Sharp, Connor Sullivan... too many to count—the targets can always be replaced, wielded at will."

Secretary Rhodes bowed his head in embarrassment at the lesson.

"Enough." Mr. Grant waved him away. "This isn’t your concern. Go and bring my wife and Phoebe home."

............

Eleanor opened her eyes.

Total darkness.

The tip of her nose nudged directly against the groove of a man’s chest muscles, the warmth and firmness of his torso rising and falling with each breath, smothering her completely.

She squirmed twice; the man’s arms tightened around her, not forcefully, but enough to make Eleanor behave.

Her voice was muffled, "Cillian Grant?"

The man remained motionless. Eleanor was trapped beneath his taut muscles, nearly suffocating.

She turned her head, her ear brushing his left chest, where his heartbeat pulsed reliably beneath skin and bone.

In the darkness, only that sound existed—just that sound.

Eleanor listened for a long while, the steadiness almost making her feel she hadn’t really awakened. His embrace seemed purely reflexive.

Eleanor didn’t believe it, but kept her doubts to herself.

She needed time to devise her counterstrategy.

After that savage, almost devouring kiss, she’d thought Cillian Grant would ask about the pregnancy, or at very least drop hints, test her out.

Unexpectedly, he didn’t.

Not only didn’t he ask, but the burning desire that had seized him just moments before also receded and hid away.

For a man so intense and driven by primal urges, what circumstances could make him—make him restrain his temper, suppress his desire?

Eleanor’s worst suspicion was almost confirmed.

But she’d studied him closely; his eyes never once drifted to her lower abdomen. Sleeping with her, spanking her, nothing about her stomach changed—just as before, unchanged.

A person’s thoughts inevitably surface in the subtlest details, slipping out unconsciously.

Cillian Grant is cold and merciless, his schemes deep, but he values family—if he truly suspected she was carrying his child, even if he showed no emotion, hints would leak out.

Eleanor turned things over and over, finding no peace of mind.

Finally, she settled on a provisional plan—no matter what he knows, or suspects, as long as he doesn’t expose her, she’ll play her part and bide her time; only then would her chance to leave remain.