Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 22: Mrs. Grant Personally Discovers Something Fishy
"Cillian’s twenty-eight already. Kids his age can walk on their own—he really knows how to sit tight." Mrs. Sinclair was genuinely impressed; if she had a son like him, she’d scour the planet for daughters-in-law.
"Sit tight? No way." Mrs. Grant shot Cillian a look. "I’ve been setting him up ever since he was twenty—chose for looks, for figure, for family, for character—and he hasn’t liked a single one."
Eleanor didn’t care for their topic, but when Mrs. Grant’s gaze landed on her, she started panicking and instinctively wrapped her arms around her stomach, pressing down on Cillian’s restless fingers.
Mrs. Grant’s gaze slid away, but Eleanor didn’t have time to let out a sigh of relief.
Mr. Sinclair’s eyes shifted over, scrutinizing him. "Ever since you came back from the army, you’ve been bold, ambitious. Your drive is unparalleled—even if everyone in your circle put together. Maybe you don’t care for delicate, virtuous heiresses, and prefer a partner who can keep up, stand shoulder to shoulder with you."
Mr. Sinclair sat diagonally across, separated by a small rosewood tea table; though there were two or three meters between them, his vantage point gave him a clearer view than Mrs. Grant sitting on the same side.
Eleanor’s arms shifted, fingers interlacing across her belly, elbows bent on either side, covering up everything.
Her posture was rigid and awkward—like a little hedgehog bristling all over.
Cillian let out a muffled laugh from his throat.
But Mrs. Grant heard it and immediately craned her neck to look at him.
Cillian was never one to laugh; even during official receptions from the higher-ups, he was respectful in attitude but his smiles were faint.
Let alone laughing out loud—seeing his calm, unruffled face, Mrs. Grant suddenly wondered if she’d misheard, and then scolded him.
"Did Sinclair get it right? You like women with strong careers? Why didn’t you say so before?"
"No, that’s not it." He denied it without hesitation. "I’m driven because I want to protect my family—it has nothing to do with my romantic preferences."
The Grant Family was huge and wealthy; even without Cillian’s rapid expansion in recent years, there was no need to talk about ’protection’ like that.
Everyone glanced at him in confusion—including Mr. Grant, who hadn’t spoken up till now.
Cold sweat broke out in beads on Eleanor’s palms, back, and forehead. Her arms, still holding tight, started trembling.
Cillian was in no hurry to rein it in; the more eyes focused on him, the closer he pressed Eleanor against himself.
From the side, Eleanor’s right shoulder had already touched his chest.
Plain as day—this time Mrs. Grant noticed, her brows tightened and her mouth opened to scold Eleanor.
"So what kind does Vice Director Grant like?" Damian Sinclair tossed out the question, diverting attention. "These girls who’re twenty-two or twenty-three aren’t a match for you. Someone twenty-five or twenty-six would be just right. I have a few northern friends, older schoolmates, good families—I could introduce them to Vice Director Grant?"
After Mr. Sinclair’s comment, Mrs. Grant figured Damian had a point. "Twenty-two is really young—not mature, doesn’t know how to care for people. Eleanor’s just that age this year—so rebellious." 𝗳𝚛𝚎𝚎𝘄𝕖𝕓𝕟𝕠𝚟𝚎𝕝.𝗰𝕠𝐦
Twenty-two years old—Eleanor...
Phoebe Grant had a thought, her gaze lingering on Eleanor.
Her look wasn’t vicious, not petty; it was a direct, unblinking scrutiny—more alerting than usual for Eleanor.
Eleanor couldn’t take it anymore. Taking advantage of Phoebe’s angle being offset, she rewrapped her arms around her belly, slid her right hand under her left elbow, and shoved Cillian’s hand hard.
"Twenty-two is just fine." Cillian’s eyes held a smile; his fingers pried hers apart, intertwining them, palm pressed to her soft hand.
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he rasped, "Not mature just means they’re young, full of energy. If she doesn’t know how to care—that can be taught."
Rebellious... He tasted the word in his mouth, pressing it down his throat at last.
It’s normal for men to like young, beautiful women.
Mrs. Grant didn’t sense anything amiss, but Damian Sinclair and Phoebe Grant both turned pale.
Phoebe Grant’s suspicions deepened.
Phoebe forced a smile. "Cillian’s just joking. Damian, hurry up and send those friends’ WeChat accounts to him. If things go well, maybe we can be in a double wedding. Double happiness!"
Damian pulled out his phone and came over, QR code right in front of Cillian’s eyes. "Add them, Vice Director Grant. Education, looks, figure, family—they’re all a match for you."
He was so close that a mere shift in the corner of your eye could reveal everything.
Eleanor tensed up from head to toe, tried fiercely to break free of Cillian’s grip, but he locked her hand tight, arm pulling her close like cradling her by his side.
Damian seemed to notice, his gaze sweeping over their bizarrely close posture.
Cillian glanced at him, a lazy, unruly smile. "South and North are worlds apart. I still prefer southern girls."
Damian’s smile was cold. "Southern girls? So specific—Vice Director Grant, already got someone?"
His tone was coated with ice, hostile from all sides, brimming with bitter, sullen malice.
Cillian raised his eyebrows, his tone casual. "You ask too many questions. If you’ll allow me, let me teach you something: for a man, building a family and career is duty as well as obligation. You’d better learn to focus on yourself; always meddling in others’ private matters will only hold back your business and neglect your wife."
Wife.
Damian chewed up that word, eyes blazing with fury, leaned in again—shoulder and arm barely brushing Eleanor’s cheek.
He didn’t notice, deliberately lowering his voice, shadowed and sinister: "Do you really think..."
Cillian suddenly shoved him aside, grabbed Eleanor by the collar, and pushed her off the sofa. "Upstairs."
It all happened so fast—everyone was stunned.
Several sets of eyes swirled around the three of them, back and forth.
Phoebe Grant immediately stood up. Earlier, Damian’s body had completely blocked Eleanor—he’d been way too close, and she couldn’t take it anymore.
And now her brother had pushed Eleanor away.
Did Eleanor hit Damian? Or was it just words?
"Eleanor, you—"
"Phoebe." Mrs. Grant cut her off just in time. Her impression of Eleanor had just improved—no way she’d let it get ruined now.
With that brief interruption, Eleanor dashed up the stairs.
Anyone could see it was a retreat in panic.
Phoebe Grant’s teeth ground together, jaw making a cracking sound, a vicious glare flashing from her eyes.
Eleanor didn’t bother to think how things would be settled downstairs. She sat before the vanity, gulping breath after breath.
In the mirror was a face lost, frantic, on the edge of falling apart.
Eleanor knew perfectly well—in her current state, she wasn’t going to last long in the Grant Family.
Now, with Mrs. Grant’s attitude, Mr. Grant’s silent approval, and Cillian’s unusually hard-to-handle mood, that ’not long’ had been shortened to almost nothing.
And then there was Damian—he was a real bomb now.
She had to leave.
And she had to leave soon.
But before she could go, there was still one obstacle to face—Mr. Bolton...
Cillian had said Mr. Bolton would come in the afternoon. So Eleanor came down before lunch, hoping to fish out some more information.
Downstairs, Mrs. Grant was entertaining Mrs. Sinclair in the little flower parlour, with Phoebe Grant making tea by her side.
Since returning home, Mrs. Grant had genuinely cared for Phoebe, and in the process had laid out a whole plan of elite hobbies for her, all to help her fit into high society faster.
Phoebe Grant had been enthusiastic at first, but soon tired of dance being exhausting, piano requiring tough practice, and botany demanding too much aesthetic sensibility. Only Mrs. Grant’s calligraphy and Cillian’s tea ceremonies went well for her.
But whatever Phoebe learned, Eleanor was forbidden to show any more skill; all the dance, piano, and floral studios she’d grown up with were dismantled as soon as Phoebe gave up on those lessons.
As for calligraphy and tea ceremonies, whenever Phoebe was present, Eleanor had to claim she couldn’t do them.
Looking back, putting Eleanor down to lift up Phoebe had been the norm for ages.
She’d never admitted it, never let herself dwell on it, always shut those thoughts out—preferring self-deception over facing the truth.
