Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 57: The Reason Mrs. Grant Is Cold Toward Eleanor
Eleanor couldn’t figure it out, nor did she have time to dwell on it.
She changed out of her clothes, paid extra for an express courier, and ordered povidone-iodine, but didn’t dare buy red ink.
She was betting that Cillian Grant would only interrogate her about each item, not actually dig through the trash bin to see if her blood was real.
Just as the delivery arrived, the door happened to be pushed open from the outside.
Morning sunlight had long spilled in, illuminating the foyer. The man’s tall, straight figure was tense, like a predator brimming with aggression and nowhere to unleash it—an animal smoldering with restless irritation.
Eleanor glanced at him a few times, didn’t draw any closer, and didn’t ask more. She played deaf and blind, a mere prop in the hallway.
Cillian Grant’s expression grew even murkier.
Eleanor sensed his temper swelling to the edge of breaking, lowered her head, and braced herself for the outpouring of his emotions.
Those four years living together in college had been much the same.
At first, she tried to be proactive, considerate in small ways. But it was just like those two Band-Aids; it only earned her his greater wrath, followed by punishment and a warning.
Later, she learned to behave.
Cillian Grant had no interest whatsoever in her concern. In his eyes, she was merely a receptacle for venting frustration—just endure quietly, that’s all.
Was that really even a person?
"Liam Xavier’s wife is pregnant." His voice drew nearer. "There’s been a big reaction outside. The Xavier Family has backed a new heir and cut off Liam’s financial flow. I’ve been swamped lately."
Eleanor’s heart skipped—a confirmation of what Damian Sinclair had written her. Trouble was closing in.
So this condo, exactly when he needed her most to rescue him, was probably just like that bag—a tactic to pacify her into compliance.
Even his previously gentle attitude now made sense.
Eleanor’s doubts dissolved, and as she came to, a pair of caramel-colored handmade leather shoes was already edging into her line of sight.
"But you." His shadow loomed over her, bringing a cold, jagged strain. "You always choose the busiest moments to cause me trouble—first it was running away, and now it’s your father coming to see you, planning to marry you off far away."
Eleanor jerked her head up, not realizing she would bump into his chin.
Pushing aside the sting of pain, she covered her forehead, partially shielding her eyes and using the gesture to furtively study his expression from beneath her hand.
He was backlit, his face stormy and dark, no longer bothering to hide his anger.
Did this mean Mr. Grant’s plan to marry her off was unexpected for him, even counter to his wishes?
Eleanor’s mouth went dry. If her guess was right, then all she needed was to follow Mr. Grant’s lead. By using him to leave Cillian’s control, she’d have another chance to escape.
The man pulled her arm down, his eyes sharp as lightning, locking onto her. "Do you want to get married?"
Eleanor caught his mood and shook her head without hesitation. "No."
Cillian Grant’s thumb stroked the red patch on her forehead.
Her answer was clean and direct, full of sincerity. Plus, the little vow—it was always her foolproof trick for brushing him off with false earnestness.
But this time, dodging the issue wasn’t exactly a lie. Her eyes were full of genuine resistance to marriage, welling up from deep inside her.
Eleanor had given her answer, but waited a long while without hearing what he’d say next.
She snuck another look up, only to meet Cillian Grant’s pitch-dark gaze, like two bottomless whirlpools, churning with turbulent emotion.
She couldn’t read them either; they made her skin prickle. "I really don’t want to, but I’ll do whatever you decide."
That should be enough, right?
She’d answered, and made her willingness to comply clear as well.
Judging from their past battles, maybe not a perfect score, but enough for a passing grade—maybe even a safe one.
Cillian Grant finally reacted. "You’re always so obedient, yet the result is always the opposite. Do you think I should believe you?"
Eleanor held up three fingers. "If I’m lying about this—about something so important—my life is yours to dispose of. I won’t have any complaints."
Cillian was visibly stunned.
For a flash, Eleanor thought she saw his pupils contract to pinpoints.
She couldn’t help reconsidering all her previous vows—may lightning strike me dead, may I die a horrible death—they’d all sounded empty and theatrical in hindsight. Cillian Grant was pragmatic; no wonder he hadn’t believed them.
But unless she was truly desperate to run, she would never dare swear this sort of oath.
The next second, her body was suddenly swept off the ground. Eleanor didn’t even have time to gasp before the man pulled her into his arms.
"You’re staying in Soldane Province. Once Father finds you, it’s only a matter of time. I was going to send you away myself, but now I’m giving you a second choice—turn him down yourself, and cut ties with The Grant Family."
Eleanor’s palms broke out in a cold sweat. If she actually got sent away, it’d probably be just like the year she left school—strict supervision and no freedom at all.
She couldn’t help but feel relieved. "I’ll take option two."
Cillian Grant studied her, his gaze oddly familiar—he seemed to have looked at her like this once before, back when she refused to go to grad school.
Eleanor’s heart gave a jolt, and she hurried to change the subject. "So can I go to work? So he’ll find me?"
Cillian let out a short, exasperated laugh.
......
At the same time, at the Grant Family home.
Mrs. Grant carried a cup of bird’s nest soup with fish maw into the study.
The curtains inside were half open. Mr. Grant leaned back in a chair with his eyes closed, frowning deeply, evidently troubled.
"You just got back from a business trip up North." Mrs. Grant set the cup by his hand. "Stop worrying about work. Cillian’s running things fine on his own. Even if you retire, what does it matter?"
Mr. Grant rocked gently in his chair. "Running things? Grant Group’s become his personal fiefdom."
"What, jealous of the next generation?" Mrs. Grant caught the hint of frustration and couldn’t help but laugh. "That’s your son you’re talking about."
"Not jealous. I simply can’t control him anymore." Mr. Grant picked up the cup, grimaced, and drank it in one go. "These sweet, cloying tonics—I don’t like them. Enough next time."
Mrs. Grant agreed out loud—she’d heard ’next time’ a thousand times, and yet he always drank it when she served it. She held his chair. "You say marrying Eleanor off far away, and Cillian just goes along, not a word of objection—how is it that you can’t control him?"
Mr. Grant remained silent, lost in thought.
It sounded like Cillian had given in, but in truth, it didn’t feel that way at all. There was something else underneath it all.
He’d fought his way in business for decades; he knew to trust his instincts. Good hunches might miss, but bad ones were never wrong.
"Did I ever ask you before," he said, gripping Mrs. Grant’s hand, "why did you suddenly go cold toward Eleanor?"
"She—" Mrs. Grant tensed, but seeing his serious face, finally said, "After I found out about the Damian incident, she started to hold a grudge against Phoebe and Cillian."
Mr. Grant nodded. "She’s certainly been harsh to Phoebe these past years. What about Cillian?"
Mrs. Grant’s face grew grimmer. "You remember the day of Phoebe’s engagement? Cillian asked her to go onstage and give her blessing. When she came down, she stood alone in the corner. The way she looked at Cillian honestly frightened me."
"Ever since then, whenever I’ve watched her, her eyes are either full of resentment or dark as night—downright unsettling."
Mrs. Grant said, "The Grant Family raised her for eighteen years. Before Phoebe came back, everyone doted on her. Yet, in the end, just for Damian Sinclair, she’s carried this bitterness all along. She can’t be tamed. That’s why my heart’s gone cold."
Mr. Grant rubbed his fingers together. "If she hates Cillian so much, why do you now suspect Eleanor is seducing him?"
"You don’t understand women. When she’s in love, a woman is a kitten, a rose—soft paws, thorny and playful, teasing a man. But once that love turns to hate, the claws become knives, the thorns are swords. To cut open a man’s guts, a woman can endure, hide, and stop at nothing."
Mr. Grant froze. He and Mrs. Grant had been sweethearts since childhood, faithful and smooth sailing. He understood a woman’s love, but her hate—he couldn’t begin to imagine.
"You think Eleanor is seducing Cillian to get revenge?"
