Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 133: Cillian Grant’s Irresponsibility
Eleanor gazed intently into Cillian Grant’s eyes at close range. His eyelashes were dense, a glossy black that cast a shadow under his eyes, resembling the shadows of dark currents.
"Not liking them doesn’t mean hoping they’ll be entangled in lawsuits." Eleanor extricated herself from his hold, removing her scarf and taking off her coat.
The hotel’s heating was very effective; a few words inside, and the entranceway already felt warmly oppressive.
"You instruct them to act, yet you take no responsibility."
She was always like this, taking the initiative to accuse him harshly before spinning the story further, her intentions hidden within, a foolproof strategy to handle him.
Cillian Grant couldn’t help but want to laugh, but he remained unsatisfied, his face handsome and calm. "I handle the money, they handle the work. Any accidents are within their responsibility; at most, I’ll double the payment when settling accounts."
Eleanor scrutinized his expression.
He was too composed, with a rare strength of will, not a movement in his flesh or bones, his eyes deep and inscrutable.
Cillian Grant, cold and indifferent, was strict with his subordinates but never merciless, using money to smooth over everything. This principle was prevalent among the second-generation rich who sought an easy life, but to someone like him, in a high position for a long time, it was the lowest form of maneuver.
Although for her generation of workers, the hope for an irrational boss who simply paid well was enough. The more they were paid, the more reason the boss had, as if they were gods.
However, this enthusiasm naturally collapses once wealth accumulates to a certain extent. After all, humans seek collective care; once reaching a senior position, talking only about money is less appealing than dreams.
Yet, Cillian Grant was an unbeatable strategist in the business world. Wherever he placed his pieces, it marked the direction of victory. On the path of attack and conquest, he kept his distance but didn’t posture, maintaining a moderate friendliness and occasionally showing some concern.
When dividing the spoils of victory, he was generous enough, knowing everyone’s unnoticed contributions and giving additional rewards.
The complexities of human nature were expertly managed by Cillian Grant, wielding both kindness and power, with dignity and leniency.
Eleanor didn’t believe that in this age where mercenaries were quite useful, Cillian Grant would uphold such an arrogant demeanor of the wealthy.
It was almost as if he didn’t hide it; the hotel chosen was favorable for leaving, but the mercenaries hadn’t appeared yet.
If she hadn’t seen through it, she would think now was the best time to leave.
Eleanor clutched her stomach, "Are you hungry?"
Cillian Grant noticed her movement, drew her in, "What do you want to eat?"
Though called a standalone villa, the total area wasn’t large, about seventy square meters on the first floor, with one bedroom, one bathroom, and one living room. To the left upon entering was a U-shaped open kitchen.
The decor was in the Froskar style, with a rustic wood aesthetic. The furniture maintained the natural grain of the wood, with a color scheme leaning towards red-brown. Under the warm, ambiguous lighting, a light, natural, cozy tranquility flowed.
Eleanor walked around the island to the refrigerator and opened the door, "It’s over."
The kitchen space was not large; Cillian Grant deliberately slowed down a step, his view obstructed by the refrigerator door, "What’s over? Didn’t the hotel stock the fridge?"
Upon check-in, the hotel front desk mentioned staff were responsible for restocking the fridge with emergency vegetables, prepared salads, or sandwiches. This was considered the standard complimentary meal, with additional needs available for purchase.
Eleanor held the refrigerator door, the dim kitchen light casting a glow on the upturned arcs of her eyes and mouth, like a mischievous fox, enticing but withholding the truth.
The two of them had almost been tearing each other apart these past few days, with every word like turning ribs into daggers, twenty-four ribs, twenty-four knives, all piercing the other’s chest, stabbing the heart.
Now that she relented, Cillian smiled as well, peeling her fingers from the door she wouldn’t let him see behind, "If it’s empty, call them to deliver something."
Before he could pry her fingers away, Eleanor naturally withdrew her hand, stepping aside to reveal the fridge filled with yellow, "I can eat fine, but you’re in big trouble."
Cillian Grant’s gaze shifted from her face, glancing at the fridge. The upper three shelves contained vegetable salads, sandwiches, yogurt, and all had corn, even the yogurt was corn-flavored.
Unlike home, Froskar wasn’t abundant in biodiversity, its food sources relying on the sea, with limited vegetables, primarily corn and potatoes, making it a true culinary desert.
Cillian, having snacked in the afternoon, wasn’t hungry, "You’re in trouble as well. Just looking at corn gives me nausea."
Eleanor’s eyebrows twitched slightly; she swallowed the retort on her lips.
She never hated corn, but she did hate being forced to eat it constantly, day in and day out.
If the person imposing it was someone she resented, it would be even worse, inducing a physical revulsion.
But now, she had plans, she had hope. Revealing the truth would only anger Cillian Grant, and arguing with him any further was a waste of effort and time.
Eleanor gestured to his pocket, "Then you call."
Cillian took out his phone, the screen showing it was five o’clock in the afternoon. He seemed to suddenly change his mind, "Húsavík gets dark early, but the restaurants won’t close. This Fjord has quite a few famous restaurants; do you want to go out to eat?"
Eleanor readily agreed, "I do."
She knew full well that Cillian Grant was creating an opportunity for her to escape. Eleanor wasn’t ready to leave recklessly, but if she could meet Mr. Ghost and exchange news, she could devise a plan.
Any chance to go outside, she certainly wouldn’t pass up.
The two donned their outerwear at the entrance, layer upon layer with down jackets and coats, tucking their legs into heavy snow boots.
In the lamp’s glow, Eleanor felt she was wrapped up like a ball, while Cillian showed no bulkiness, his wide shoulders and straight back, with a refined, unspeakable charm unique to mature men from Froskar—calm, yet assertive.
Eleanor should have bent to tie her shoelaces, but as Cillian finished his, he naturally turned to her side, threading and fastening the laces into a simple knot on the shoe’s tongue.
Her usual method was a bow tie, and if she wanted it more secure, she would double knot the bow. She’d never seen such a knot he tied.
"Is it secure?"
Having tied the other shoe, Cillian answered, "Secure. Once bound, it won’t loosen unless you untie it."
Eleanor instinctively stomped her foot twice; she hadn’t expected Cillian to tie her laces for her, even less so that the knot was so unique.
In such a sensitive moment, she couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of being bound.
Eleanor barely held it in and pushed the door open to step outside.
......
Meanwhile, it was noon in their homeland.
After being humiliated by Phoebe Grant on that occasion, Auntie King submitted her resignation to Mrs. Grant.
Mrs. Grant approved it promptly, but since Auntie King had managed the kitchen for years, including Mrs. Grant’s private stock of supplements, a month was needed to hand over her duties.
Ms. Lewis was assigned as her successor.
Ms. Lewis hadn’t been with the Grant Family long before Phoebe Grant returned. Once Mrs. Grant showed she cared about her biological daughter, Ms. Lewis had always been close to Phoebe Grant, ignoring Eleanor completely.
She also couldn’t understand why, when the entire Grant Family showed disdain for Eleanor, Auntie King would squander her remaining best years helping an imposter destined to be kicked out.
