Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 154: That Lifelong Deadlock, No Solution
Mrs. Grant was confused and couldn’t continue, holding Cillian Grant’s hand.
"But now that she’s gone, you and your father are at each other’s throats, refusing to give an inch, only allowing outsiders to take advantage of Grant Group."
"This family business, built over three generations, and bound by several generations of in-laws, carries too much. You’ve enjoyed its glory and wealth, so you have the responsibility and obligation to promote and protect it, rather than destroy everyone’s efforts for a personal affair." 𝕗𝚛𝚎𝚎𝐰𝗲𝗯𝗻𝚘𝚟𝚎𝗹.𝕔𝐨𝕞
Cillian Grant closed his laptop. The IV needle in his hand was still there, without a soft tube cannula, just a hard needle from the infusion set, prone to dislodge with slight carelessness.
Mrs. Grant’s heart felt as though it was pricked all over by needles.
Cillian called Damon Sharp inside, packed up his laptop and the small table, sat up straight on the bed, and withdrew his hand, "Can’t protect my wife and child, the home is gone, where’s the industry?"
Mrs. Grant’s back stiffened, she almost reprimanded him, but her heartache choked her words, "What wife and child? You’ve always kept yourself pure and never engaged.
Cillian stared at her with his deep, dark eyes, cold and silent, causing Mrs. Grant’s heart to shiver with unease. She wanted to grab his hand again, but this time, Cillian shrugged it off.
He had always been cold to outsiders, disliking close distances and hating physical contact, creating an invisible deep chasm that was uncrossable and unbreakable.
Now, it seemed this chasm had been placed between them, felt by Mrs. Grant, who couldn’t accept it.
"Do you hate us?" Mrs. Grant couldn’t help but tremble, her voice shaking, "Just for an accident? Your father and I didn’t want that child born, but who could have expected her—"
Cillian’s face remained unchanged, but his eyes leaked danger inch by inch, as chilling as Mrs. Grant’s spine, intensifying her hatred toward Eleanor, the culprit.
She managed to hold back, hiding between the lines, "Her fate was unfortunate. Healthcare abroad isn’t like domestic. There’s extreme polarization in surgical expertise, either top-notch or not even better than a small domestic training..."
Damon made a gesture from the window.
Cillian cut off Mrs. Grant, "You’ve been finding excuses, don’t count on yourself?"
For a moment,
Mrs. Grant felt like a hand clasped her neck, coldness flooding her throat, forcing calmness but still changing colors, "What do you mean by that?"
"I know, and you know better." Cillian’s expression hardened into a frosty shell, his sharp features and lines like blades of ice.
"You and Father rely on filial piety, believing decades of experience, men ultimately being good assets, vying for power, and over time, smoothing out resentment. Right?"
Mrs. Grant’s body shook.
He straightforwardly replied, "Well, let me tell you, it won’t smooth out."
Mrs. Grant was heartbroken; it was the words ’won’t smooth out’, and Cillian’s understanding of the cause of Eleanor’s death.
She was bewildered and escorted out of the ward by bodyguards.
Damon escorted her to the elevator, watched the display change to the first floor, and returned to the ward.
"Director Grant has become suspicious, sending people to re-confirm Miss Eleanor’s death. Additionally, Connor Sullivan discovered David Rhodes was selectively spreading the news of Miss Eleanor’s unfortunate accident, suspecting it’s aimed at the White Family."
The IV bottle was empty; Damon went to press the call button.
Cillian raised his hand to stop him, removed the needle himself, and Damon frantically rummaged through the drawer for sterile cotton to stop the bleeding.
His previous bout of coughing blood was fake, but hospitalization was real. The minor cold caught upon separation worsened into pneumonia when the plane landed, and despite being hospitalized, the symptoms persisted, and continually worsened.
Western medicine only diagnoses the illness, disregarding constitution differentiation, thinking the medication was not appropriate, repeatedly running tests, convening meetings to discuss strategies, even considering taking a lung tissue sample for biopsy to check for new virus infection.
Damon knew well, attributing his condition to external stressful affairs, compounded by prolonged weariness and a weakened state over the past four years. The body appeared healthy but any slight illness now became the catalyst, triggering all accumulated fatigue.
Cillian said, "Leave the White Family alone, you’re probing Elaine White, which has already raised Ian White’s suspicion. That old fox is perceptive and will handle it himself."
"As for him, his men have been driven out from Froskar, and those with eyes won’t take his business any time soon. Those without eyes wouldn’t have found anything significant, but you should still inform the gang to be careful, Eleanor cannot be agitated now, in any case don’t alarm her."
"Who ’he’ was referring to was self-evident."
Damon sighed silently, noticing that even in private, he no longer addressed his father. "I’ll notify the gang immediately—"
He hesitated, watching Cillian’s expression.
Cillian discarded the cotton swab, his tone flat, "Want to say something?"
As Cillian’s assistant, involved in Froskar’s business, Damon rarely talked out of turn, but now couldn’t help it, "Mr. Grant, I shouldn’t discuss your private affairs, but Miss Eleanor deeply misunderstood you. Keeping the truth from her through the gang—once revealed, it might deepen her misunderstanding of you."
Cillian shifted his gaze from the blood-stained cotton swab in the trash can to Damon.
Indiscernible surge of dark emotions flickered in his eyes, yet vanished in a breath, "Never speak of it again, leave."
Damon expected this, acknowledged his mistake, and turned to leave.
With the door closed, Cillian got out of bed and approached the window, where the evergreen treetops were level with the windowsill, the proximity brought a faintly bitter aroma.
Further away, the courtyard wall obstructed the view, exposing a row of bare spring cherry branches.
Ivan Bolton estimated it would take at least three months to treat her infertility. He had planted a city full of Luna for the upcoming wave of pink mist. Once the Grant Group’s situation settled, backing him with full confidence, she could conceive again, and he would clarify everything.
Initially, she might find it hard to accept, but with a child sharing their blood, serving as a cushion, they could distance themselves from the Grant Family, their small family slowly becoming harmonious.
But she didn’t stay in the North to pursue her master’s after graduation—instead, striving to return to the Grant Family.
She was deeply drawn to Mrs. Grant, and also to Damian Sinclair.
After Mr. Sinclair was rescued by the Grant Family the year before, he had been urging Damian to get married, who was evasive. Over the past few years, he hadn’t touched Phoebe Grant, with Eleanor refusing a master’s degree, doing everything to return to the Grant Family. It was hard not to overthink.
During those months he was fuming with anger, and coincidentally, the child came unexpectedly early, at a time she needed protection most, he was the most ruthless towards her.
To the point where she found out she was pregnant, scared to even tell him.
Cillian felt a sharp tearing in his chest, his flesh and veins seemed hollowed out, leaving only an empty shell. The tearing couldn’t be calmed, but instead irritated the itch in his throat, causing him to cough again.
He bent over, gripping the windowsill, straining to suppress it as memories surged repeatedly—her hair torn out in chunks at the White Family Hospital during a scuffle with Phoebe, the patch of red and swollen scalp.
How she visibly lost weight that week she had the health check, wearing a black coat, appearing so isolated and frail in the morning mist.
How she’d left twice in panic with the child until the revelation that she and the child awaited death by the Grant Family’s hand.
She had finally given up on the Grant Family, but the process was painfully unbearable. Should he insist on the truth, he would become the source of sin.
Like the death knot she tied at The Emerald Residence.
What once seemed inseparable now was unsolvable.
Unsolvable to the point that, echoing her excuse for not going to the hospital checkup previously, pressing further would result in a collapse, madness, and total ruin.
Moreover, she was pregnant with their child.
The domestic situation was still unstable, he couldn’t accompany her every day, she might as well calmly carry the child to term.
The rest of their lives were still long.
