Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 129: The Third Option

The cabin door was open, just wide enough for two people, not enough to see the full view of the deck.

Her gaze fixated on the back of Cillian Grant; amid the increasing clamor of the scuffle, he raised his hand to push aside the crowd and disappeared into the bustling throng.

Eleanor remained rooted to the spot.

Meanwhile, at the stern.

Mr. Ghost hung up the phone, circled to the bow, and observed the situation.

Cillian Grant was exceptionally conspicuous among the foreign, pale-skinned faces. He stood tall and broad, with a stance as upright as a pine or bamboo, his hair black and thick, and his sharply defined features. Even the most famous male model in Europe couldn’t match his poise.

Mr. Ghost noticed his eyes focused on the two fighting groups, at that moment revealing a young Slav face, whose features were contorted from the fight, yet he was undoubtedly of the mercenaries, and from the look of the battle, it would be difficult to separate them quickly.

Seizing the opportunity, he slid along the wall and entered the cabin, sitting down behind Eleanor.

"I’ve called again to confirm with President Sinclair. Your nemesis at the company is squeezing out the younger adversary and is preparing to convene a board meeting, appointing an old man named Jason Xavier to replace whoever that Xavier was."

"President Sinclair said this means the nemesis is picking the fruits that the younger adversary has painstakingly cultivated for a long time. Once picked, the younger adversary will forever be under the control of the nemesis, unable to turn things around. So your younger adversary will definitely be returning to the country soon."

Eleanor corrected, "The younger adversary is Cillian Grant, and the nemesis is his father, Director Grant."

Earlier, she didn’t have time to explain the nuances of the greater and lesser adversaries to Mr. Ghost, but now that he was deeply involved, his jargon of greater and lesser adversaries just added to the confusion.

"Heh." Mr. Ghost leaned on the back of her chair, "I thought you liked those terms."

Eleanor wasn’t in the mood for jokes; her whole body was tense, eyes unblinking as she stared at the doorway, "So have Director Grant’s reinforcements arrived outside? Are they the ones causing the conflict?"

Mr. Ghost deliberately lowered his voice, making it rough and raspy as if it were caught in his throat, "No, President Sinclair said there’s a Secretary Rhodes with Director Grant lately, also contacting mercenaries, taking a similar path as Cillian Grant."

Eleanor’s grip tightened, tendons standing out prominently on the back of her hand, veins pulsing.

Just as she was about to continue questioning, a team of police arrived on the deck, quickly taking control of the situation.

Mr. Ghost swiftly stood up and headed to the rear door of the cabin.

Cillian Grant returned to his seat; the farce on the deck had been settled, with neither side able to escape, both groups handcuffed and escorted off the ship by the police.

Eleanor’s head rested against the cabin window glass; she was pregnant, wearing no makeup, her hair unbound, long, thick, and black as ink, covering her cheeks, rendering an air of frail vulnerability, silently and pitiably.

Cillian Grant gently pushed her hair aside, revealing her fair cheek, as though she had just drifted asleep, awakening to his touch, her eyes fixed on him, as clear and limpid as spring water fresh from a snow mountain, shimmering as it washed over him.

"Very tired?"

Eleanor averted her gaze, "Was it your men fighting just now?"

Cillian Grant pulled her to his side, "A small disagreement; once we’re off the ship, they’ll sort it out themselves."

Eleanor remained stiff against his chest as his arm tightened around her, pressing her close.

Through the thick clothing, she couldn’t feel the warmth of his chest or the steady beat of his heart, yet Eleanor still felt breathless.

"Those men are agile; given how long they lasted, are the opponents ’bodyguards’ too?"

Leaning back against the chair, the sound of the ship’s horn echoing, Cillian Grant replied with a nonchalant voice, "Probably."

A vague, dismissive response silenced Eleanor’s further inquiries.

As bright as the sun and moon, as distant as the closest couple.

Even true married couples had hearts that were divided; the situation between her and Cillian Grant was all the more absurd. Despite sharing intimate experiences typical of any couple and having a child of shared blood, she viewed him as an enemy, and he was deeply wary of her.

Now, worse than before, with their rift and resentment fully exposed, Cillian Grant no longer even attempted to deflect her probing.

Eleanor could only rely on conjecture.

She had long suspected that Cillian Grant’s purpose in taking her on a whale-watching trip wasn’t simply to lure out Mr. Grant’s men; that would be a temporary fix, addressing symptoms rather than the root cause.

Mr. Ghost’s comments further cemented this point: Mr. Grant’s reinforcements hadn’t arrived yet, a fact Cillian Grant surely knew.

Since arriving in Froskar, his surveillance over her was so tight it left no space, day or night, yet now, first in the restaurant, allowing her to go to the restroom alone, and now on the ship, he simply left, giving her complete freedom and ample opportunity, as if waiting for Mr. Ghost to take her away.

With that thought, a flash of insight reignited in Eleanor’s mind.

Perhaps it wasn’t just as if.

Back home, with Mr. Grant’s actions ever ongoing, Cillian Grant surely had to return, and Mr. Grant’s true trump card lay in wait for after his return home.

Mr. Grant was forcing Cillian Grant into a choice, having to abandon something.

Yet unwilling to forsake either option, Cillian Grant sought a third path, offering her a chance to escape.

Once she disappeared, Mr. Grant would lose his target and be unable to act. Meanwhile, Cillian Grant could seize the opportunity to return home, regain his position, and stabilize the situation at home, still able to find her through Mr. Ghost later.

This line of thought kindled a spark within Eleanor, flaring up intensely, more and more fervently ablaze within her body.

If it were truly so—

If it were truly so, all she needed to do on her escape route was to die, and die in a way known to all.

Thus, what connection would there be between Eleanor Grant’s desperate charge for survival in dire straits and my unrestricted, carefree Eleanor life henceforth?

None whatsoever.

"Attention passengers, whales are about to appear by the port side of the bow..."

Eleanor rose from Cillian Grant’s embrace, "There’s a whale, let’s go out."

Cillian Grant straightened her tilted collar, "Which kind of whale do you want to see?"

Eleanor observed his brow and eyes, "Are there really options here?"

"Everything has its patterns; the location, time, and species of whale sightings can be tracked. Of course, you have a choice."

Eleanor scoffed, "You didn’t say anything when we departed; now, at the moment of the bayonet, you tell me I can choose a gun."

Cillian Grant chuckled, chest vibrating with suppressed laughter, arm encircling her as they moved toward the deck, seemingly casually, "Will you choose then? If there’s no whale you want to see today, we can stay in Húsavík."

Eleanor started, eyes widening, "Really? You’re not lying to me?"

"Have I ever lied to you? It’s always you lying to me."

Eleanor automatically ignored the latter half, "A promise once made cannot be broken; there’s definitely no whale I want to see today."

The bow was crowded, the guide struggling to maintain order, shouting instructions through a megaphone. Cillian Grant leveraged his broad build, holding an arm firmly behind her back, parting the bustling crowd.

The foreign tourists were generally tall and burly, occasionally with large bellies that jostled over, but before Eleanor could dodge, Cillian Grant’s arm had already intervened. When encountering someone with significant body mass, his wrist tensed visibly, veins pronounced as he fended them off.

Eleanor nestled against his chest like a delicate, slender vine clinging to an enduring pine, firmly rooted in the most open position at the bow.

Cillian Grant detested such crowded and intrusive environments, where flesh pressed against flesh, the air sultry and stagnant.