Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 162: Cillian Grant Sweeps All Before Him, Yet He Cannot Press Forward Unwaveringly
Damian Sinclair’s face was solemn, staring at Mr. Sinclair’s expression.
Mr. Sinclair thought Damian Sinclair didn’t trust him, suspecting that he was deliberately delaying.
In a fit of anger, he vented his fury on Eleanor, "What kind of disastrous charm does she have that makes you all go crazy? The Grant father and son are fighting, turning against each other. Cillian Grant is heartless and insane to this extent. Do you also want to treat your mother and me like this, making the family home restless and at odds?"
Damian Sinclair put down his luggage, "With your vast knowledge, what is a disaster? The Grant Family now, they are unrighteous, violent, and selfish. Evil begets evil, are you glad for the victims, or are you suggesting victim-blaming?"
Mr. Sinclair’s anger subsided for a moment, and he waved his hand.
"Let’s not discuss these things. I only ask you—" Mr. Sinclair slapped the stair railing, "The family crisis is right in front of you. Will you completely ignore us, ignore the family, and fly to Froskar? Or will you stay to deal with your negligence."
Mr. Sinclair laid out the choices clearly, then added, "Cillian Grant laid out this move long ago and didn’t act, fearing to alert his father. Now, all his cards are laid bare, and he’s unrestrained, aiming to deal with you in the harshest and quickest manner possible to leave you dead."
"Your father is old, fell too hard in the internet mishap, lost his spirit and courage, most importantly lost the mindset of steady victory. The Afreia business is handled by you, it’s international trade, far-reaching, I can’t hold this bottom."
Damian Sinclair’s grip on the luggage slackened momentarily, then tightened again as he looked down at the luggage.
On the staircase, and below, briefly sank into silent stillness.
Seconds raced by, Mr. Sinclair squinted, speaking more plainly.
"Damian, what’s your chance of winning against Cillian Grant in Froskar and saving her?"
"I can tell you clearly, not even a thirty percent chance. Cillian Grant is completely crazy, he laid the groundwork for four years just for today. You might beat a person, but you can’t beat a lunatic."
Damian Sinclair’s grip on the luggage handle tightened, veins bulging, knuckles turning white.
Reason was clear to him.
Knowing that Cillian Grant’s attack now was eager to end him, to block him from going to Froskar and become a hindrance.
Even, Damian Sinclair could speculate Cillian Grant’s thoughts.
He was stubborn, he was weak, had too much he couldn’t let go of, equally important as Eleanor, his parents, sister, Sinclair Group...
In the same situation, Cillian Grant could sweep away everything, but he couldn’t press forward.
.....................
Eleanor was surrounded by a bloody mist, fog engulfing all around.
A small bean-sized figure stood not far in front of her, a child’s voice, "Mommy, I don’t want to bind you, you need freedom—"
"—" She opened her mouth but couldn’t call a name, panicked reaching out to hug, dense fog materialized, blocking her.
Eleanor pounded the invisible wall, throat whimpering until only, "I’m sorry, I’m sorry—"
From the fog reached a chubby pale arm, like lotus roots, with short fingers and small palm pressed against her through the invisible wall.
"It’s okay." The small hand gently stroked.
"No name is okay, Mommy was always too scared. Not being born is okay too, it’s not that Mommy didn’t want me, Mommy was already great."
Eleanor’s nostrils and mouth were blocked by thick bitterness and sourness, pulling at her lungs and heart.
"I love you, Mommy."
The small hand withdrew, the figure scattered.
Eleanor reached out to grab, held by a broad, scorching hand wrapping, palm rough, force compressing, dry texture penetrated skin.
She opened her eyes, abruptly pushed away.
Cillian Grant’s hand was flung mid-air, halted there, masked face, deep brows, silently gazing at her, eyes soft with scars.
Eleanor reacted by propping up a pillow to sit, remnants of medicine, a mere turn left her limbs loose, limp falling back.
Cillian Grant quickly caught her, gently laid her flat.
Eleanor struggled desperately, limbs like a rusted rotten wood bound with iron allowing no control.
Unable to raise her hand to choke his neck, unable to push him to the ground, unable to dash out to find a sharp weapon, not even able to slap him.
Full of deep hatred, eternally powerless.
She was foolish, unaware.
Eleanor trembled uncontrollably, "Get out—"
Cillian Grant looked into her eyes, not as clear and bright as before, dense blood vessels filled pupils, icy swords piercing indefinitely.
Hatred reached the bone.
His chest tore, splitting into pieces, blood gushing into his mouth, hotly containing her name, "Eleanor—"
Under the mask, the voice muffled.
For a long time there was no reply, Adam’s apple moved briefly, "The days are long, I won’t make you sad again—"
"Then go die." Unable to move, Eleanor locked her gaze on him, stared him down, imagined piercing him with a thousand bloody holes, "Seeing you live a second makes me sad a second."
Cillian Grant’s eyes were red too, two desolate black holes, seemingly collapsing when looking at her.
Collapsing to the end, gray, desolate.
He held her hand again, unyielding grip, gazing into her eyes, "... Once you’re well, I’ll take you back to the country. Soon it will be New Year, and after, in two months will be your birthday."
"Twenty-three, you previously said you want to marry at twenty-three. When Luna blooms, we’ll hold the wedding, traditional or western as you like."
"After marriage I’ll settle with Grant Group matters, accompany you on travels. Two years ago in Europe, you blogged about loving Provence, I bought a manor in the town. June and July are lavender peak bloom, you regretted not seeing sunset over the flower fields, I’ll accompany you this time, okay?"
Eleanor’s eyes had a smile.
Cillian Grant understood her smile, extremely mocking, hateful, filled with coldness, piercing the heart.
"Cillian Grant, now I’m lying here without moving, not because I want to hear your insincere words, but because I lack strength, cannot take your life."
Eleanor nearly breathless, gasping, yet tone icy sharp as an ice pick.
"Marriage, wishful thinking, seeing flowers, unrealistic dreams. We only have two ways forward, either in court, or I live and you die, or I die and you live."
Wishful thinking, unrealistic dreams.
Cillian Grant sat by the bed, silent as a wax statue, rigidly fracturing from within.
All from before when he forced her away from The Grant Family that he’d said.
He publicly stated before, and in private between them harshly he had said too.
Even shortly after a health check, she thought he’d press again in The Alabaster City’s room against a group of wealthy heirs belittling herself.
Damian Sinclair protected her, he oppressed her.
Eleanor loathed his stance to the extreme, as though every word she spoke was like lethal ropes, sharp poison blades, cruelly hurting this so-called romantic.
Suddenly, she hesitated and sharply questioned, "Where is Mr. Ghost?"
She was in intense hatred that cleared her mind from drug daze, nerves restored, memories connected.
Before unconsciousness, Wells affirmed Mr. Ghost was downstairs, the gang members were pure Nordheimers, absurdly tall and built, blows could be heard upstairs.
Cillian Grant was silent.
Eleanor sensed bad news, sharply asked again, "Where is Mr. Ghost?"
Suddenly, the door was knocked.
Damon Sharp’s face appeared in the small window, brows anxious,
Cillian Grant stood up, the doctor happened to come for rounds.
At the moment the door was ajar, Eleanor faintly heard a word, "Sinclair—"
