Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 3: His Ruthlessness

"No."

Her voice broke, and Eleanor realized she was overreacting. She forced a strained smile. "Mom, I suffer through every checkup, and the results are always the same. I don’t want to do it this time, okay?"

"Not listening to your mother anymore?" Mrs. Grant pressed her cheek to Eleanor’s forehead. "I’ve raised you myself; you think I don’t know whether you’re scared or strong?"

At any other time, Eleanor would have been beaming, delighted.

But now she was pregnant—with Cillian’s child—her heart filled only with panic, nowhere to put it.

"Phoebe and Damian are getting married. I understand you’re upset, but Phoebe’s pregnant now. There’s no changing that."

Eleanor froze, stunned that Phoebe Grant was pregnant too. "When did it happen? How far along is she?"

"Not long, she just found out." Mrs. Grant squeezed her hand. "Eleanor, you should look ahead. Among the heirs of old families, Damian isn’t the only outstanding one. If you broaden your view, whichever you choose, I’ll support you."

Raised in high society since childhood, Eleanor knew the weight behind Mrs. Grant’s words.

Arranged marriages among elites were a matter of form—you want my power, I want your money, or at the very least, we share connections.

Of course, all this was built upon bloodlines.

Eleanor was publicly acknowledged as a fake; by all accounts, marrying some nouveau riche would already be hanging on to the Grant Family’s reputation.

But now Mrs. Grant was letting her choose among the heirs, making a clear statement—the Grant Family accepted her as a daughter.

Eleanor felt a surge of emotions, but didn’t dare agree. "Mom, I just graduated. I want to focus on my career for a couple years."

Mrs. Grant thought she couldn’t let go of her old feelings and grew anxious. "Eleanor, you know what’s important. Some things can stay in your mind—after all, nobody’s a saint—but acting on them is different."

Acting on them? How is it different?

Was she afraid Eleanor would fight Damian Sinclair over the matter and embarrass the Grant Family, or that Phoebe Grant would end up hurt?

Eleanor found she couldn’t smile anymore. "Mom, I haven’t thought about it."

She really should explain further, lay things out openly, let her mother know she’d already let go of Damian Sinclair.

But the warmth that had just risen in her chest condensed into lead, dragging her down, hurting her, hollowing her out, the world spinning.

"All right." Mrs. Grant spoke thoughtfully, trusting her. "Give me your IDs, and I’ll arrange your checkup."

Eleanor’s hands were ice cold.

She realized the logic was stuck in a dead end.

The checkup was no longer simply about health—it had become her pledge not to disrupt Phoebe Grant’s marriage. If she agreed, she was surrendering; if she refused, she was resentful and plotting trouble.

Mrs. Grant noticed the sweaty coldness in Eleanor’s palm, suspicion creeping into her gaze.

Eleanor couldn’t think of a way out. All she could do was agree. "I don’t have the documents with me right now. I’ll bring them to you tomorrow."

After Mrs. Grant left, Eleanor sat on the sofa, staring off, silent for a long time.

It wasn’t just about the checkup. Her identification was still with Cillian Grant.

That man never gives anything unless there’s a catch.

If she wanted the documents, God knows what price she’d have to pay.

............

The next morning, Eleanor got up early, timing it just as the maids started prepping breakfast, and knocked on Cillian Grant’s door from the main hall.

Auntie King happened to pass by and quickly stopped her. "Eleanor, the eldest young master is always grumpy when he wakes up. He hates being bothered in the morning, you know that."

Eleanor knew all too well, but had no other choice.

Cillian Grant looked like he was all self-control, but in reality, he was driven by desire; once he gets an idea in his head, he’ll see it through all the way or find another way to get satisfaction.

Especially since her period was a lie—she really couldn’t risk being alone with him, not with so much at stake.

"Auntie King, I have proper business with him."

"Can’t whatever business it is wait until breakfast?" Auntie King coaxed her earnestly. "The young master’s temper isn’t good; don’t let him take it out on you."

Everyone in the Grant Family knew—if anyone wanted Eleanor gone, it wasn’t Phoebe Grant, it was Cillian Grant.

He gave her the cold shoulder normally, but whenever Eleanor messed up, his anger was cold and merciless, with no hint of the past between them.

Eleanor wouldn’t apologize and wouldn’t back down.

"Auntie King, I know what I’m doing."

Ever since Eleanor returned after graduating, she’d been avoiding Cillian Grant, and Auntie King couldn’t figure out why she was seeking him out today. "Eleanor—"

The next second, the double redwood doors opened wide from the inside.

Eleanor turned to look.

Cillian Grant wore a deep black satin robe, collar buttoned all the way up, his natural aura chilly and dominant, sharp and invasive.

Added to his tall, broad frame, long legs and arms, and an unfriendly expression, he seemed even more intimidating.

"What business?"

He’d heard everything from inside.

Auntie King felt guilty. "You’re up—I’ll go hurry up breakfast."

Auntie King made a quick escape.

Eleanor panicked. "Auntie King, wait, let me say something and I’ll go downstairs with you."

Auntie King hesitated, glancing furtively at Cillian. When she saw his expression—half a smile, half a chill, the gloom intensifying—she paused. "You woke me up just to tell me something?"

Eleanor braced herself and spoke quickly. "Mom asked me to get ready for a checkup. Give me my stuff."

Cillian Grant played dumb. "What stuff?"

Auntie King’s gaze followed, confused.

Eleanor clenched her hand tightly, wanting Auntie King there as insurance to avoid being alone with Cillian Grant.

But every upside comes with a downside—she couldn’t be too explicit about things.

If she said directly it was her IDs, she’d have to explain why Cillian Grant had them, why the person who despised her would be holding onto them.

"You know what I mean."

"I don’t know." Cillian’s gaze was piercing, voice impatient. "Remember your place. Don’t stir up trouble for no reason."

The door slammed shut. Eleanor’s face was blank.

Auntie King sighed, and came over to lead her downstairs. "Eleanor, the eldest young master is a man—men are different from women. For them, blood ties are unsolvable."

That was tactful enough; Eleanor thanked her.

Except Auntie King’s understanding of their relationship was worlds apart from Cillian Grant’s warning.

He was threatening her—reminding her of their positions, not to have a single stray thought.

The truth was, Eleanor regretted it already.

She knew Cillian Grant was heartless, had no pity for her. Yet, because of that memory of his past indulgence, she always left a tiny shred of hope.

Once again, reality proved Cillian Grant had nothing but hatred for her—no affection at all.

At breakfast, Phoebe darted glances between the head and foot of the table.

Cillian Grant sat serenely, unconcerned with her scrutiny; Eleanor kept her head down, drinking her porridge, ignoring Phoebe’s stares.

"Eleanor, why were you calling for brother so early?"

Eleanor didn’t lift her eyes, just kept drinking her porridge.

Phoebe’s face soured, and she turned to Mrs. Grant. "Mom, did you ask Eleanor to get ready for our family’s checkup? She was asking brother for documents this morning."

"No," Mrs. Grant replied. "I only asked Eleanor for her documents last night."

Phoebe suddenly laughed out loud. "Did Eleanor think Mom wanted her to help?"

The provocation was clumsy—amateur hour.

Eleanor’s mind was in turmoil and she couldn’t be bothered to deal with it, so she just glanced up at Phoebe.

Phoebe was ready for a fight.

Eleanor dropped her gaze again, stirring her porridge.

Phoebe sat there, all geared up with nowhere to go, her face turning red and green with frustration.

She slammed her chopsticks down, going for the jugular. "Am I falsely accusing you? If it’s not wishful thinking, are you just trying to impress brother?"

Cillian Grant looked over; his gaze wasn’t quite mocking, but certainly didn’t respect her.

Eleanor gripped her chopsticks tight.

She wasn’t about to play low-level games with a fool who kept showing off in her face.

Even with Cillian Grant sitting there—as far as being a pushover, she was at least a dumpling with stuffing inside.