Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 58: Mr. Grant Realizes Something Is Wrong
"Pretty much." Mrs. Grant had plenty of reasons. "Phoebe was the first to sense something was wrong. At that time, Cillian had just come back from a business trip at the Xavier Family. After what happened to Liam Xavier’s reputation, it’s hard for me not to be suspicious."
"Don’t worry, Cillian’s not someone who falls for traps so easily." Mr. Grant hid his unease and comforted Mrs. Grant first. "We called her back this time just to marry her off far away. We’ll give her a generous dowry to guarantee her wealth for the rest of her life. It’ll make up for missing out on Damian, and fulfill our obligations as parents."
"But..." Mrs. Grant still couldn’t get over it. "If she really had something with Cillian, wouldn’t marrying her far away be like letting a tiger back into the wild? What if she uses it to threaten The Grant Family later?"
Mr. Grant said, "You’re just too protective of the kids. Don’t worry, if it really comes to that, I’ll handle it."
Outside the door, the servant who came to collect the cups paused, quietly retreated downstairs, and returned to the kitchen.
Upstairs.
Mrs. Grant buried her head on Mr. Grant’s knee. "It’s so good to have you here. I’ve been anxious and scared for half a month, but the moment you’re back, everything falls into place."
The Grant Family’s reputation was restored, Cillian’s rebellion was over, there was no need to fear Eleanor’s revenge, Phoebe was about to get married, and life was back to normal.
Mr. Grant gently patted her back. "It’s my fault. I’ll stay home for the next few months and spend time with you. It’s time to treat Cillian’s marriage seriously too. Once he’s married, I’ll retire—just don’t complain about me sticking to you every day."
"Of course I’ll complain." Mrs. Grant giggled. "Back when we first got married, you clung to me 24 hours a day, you’d even get up at night to stand guard outside the bathroom, like the moment I blinked I’d stop being your wife."
She suddenly thought of Cillian. "They say sons take after fathers. Do you think once Cillian gets married, he’ll cling to his wife and annoy her to death?"
Mr. Grant thought about it and waved his hands repeatedly. "No way, not a chance. He’s way sharper than I was at his age, cold enough to cut. If his marriage turns out to be polite and distant, that’s already good enough."
.........
When it came to dealing with Cillian Grant, Eleanor had never missed a step.
Counting the days, it was exactly a month since she last pretended to have her period.
The timing was reasonable, logical, above board. Cillian was a bit of a germaphobe—there was no way he’d ever want to have sex if she was "on her period."
Which meant Eleanor could get some real sleep for once.
But Cillian wasn’t easy to dismiss. Even if Eleanor’s name was now on the house deed, he was still the master of the place. That night, her nerves were shot—she was on edge the whole time, and even when he emerged from the shower, undressing, she just stared, dazed.
"Aren’t you going to the office?" 𝙛𝓻𝒆𝓮𝒘𝙚𝙗𝒏𝙤𝙫𝓮𝒍.𝓬𝒐𝙢
"I need to rest."
Cillian untied his bathrobe; sharply contoured chest and abs rippling for an instant. He tossed the robe aside onto the bench at the foot of the bed.
Eleanor snapped out of it in shock, noticing he still had pajama pants on, but she didn’t dare relax her guard. "You’re a light sleeper. I might disturb you."
"You’ve slept beside me for four years, and you still ’disturb’ me? Are you doing it on purpose?"
Cillian lifted the comforter and grabbed the remote to close the curtains.
The room shifted slowly from day to night, sinking into a dimness where only the outlines of people could be seen.
Eleanor immediately shrank back and climbed into bed, keeping as small as possible.
"Afraid of the dark?"
Eleanor said, "Don’t you already know that?"
His light sleep wasn’t just about noise sensitivity—he was sensitive to light too.
So he liked to sleep in total darkness, where you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face.
But Eleanor had been afraid of the dark since four years ago. Whenever thick darkness swallowed everything she could see, it was as if that night of storm and violence had never passed; she’d been dragged into hell, someone’s hand crushing her lips.
That’s why, in the apartment they’d once shared up North, after she started waking up at dawn every day, Cillian had relented and put up these semi-sheer curtains.
This apartment had them too—it showed he was aware.
So why ask?
She paused mid-cocoon, suddenly alert. "What’s wrong with you?"
Cillian stared at her through the heavy gray gloom.
His night vision had been trained in the field—he hadn’t lost his touch over the years.
He could clearly see her tightly wrapped up like a thin long roll, hands gripping the quilt at her chest defensively, her hair messy, face taut, eyes wide as if facing an enemy.
She refused all intimacy, even disguised her daily habits. It wasn’t lazy indifference—she was actively resisting him from deep inside.
"A caterpillar is the ugly duckling’s second act. If you like butterflies, you can’t just love butterflies—you have to love caterpillars too." Cillian’s voice was bland and distant. "But I don’t like bugs."
Eleanor shuddered, countless tremors running through her.
How did Cillian know about her story of coaxing Damian Sinclair into catching caterpillars on the cucumber trellis?
She played dumb in the dark. "So, you like butterflies, then?"
Cillian’s voice was even more complex, darker. "I don’t like butterflies. Bugs, even more so."
He leaned back on the other side of the bed, keeping his distance. In the dimness, Eleanor could only see a shadowy figure, but the gaze was cold, sharp enough to pierce straight through her.
Eleanor thought, the way she was wrapped up now, she looked just like a bug. "The blanket—do you want it?"
This time, there was no response in the darkness—just the faintest hint of breath, stirring the air.
Eleanor twisted and rolled side to side, rocking herself until she felt dizzy. She didn’t notice when he moved closer, until suddenly her forehead hit his chest.
Her head buzzed instantly, and before she could react, his arm naturally circled around her.
Like a cage of steel baked in the summer sun—scalding, confining, locking her in tight, making her want to escape.
Eleanor froze in place. "Why are you using gardenia shower gel too?"
"Don’t you like it?"
Eleanor yawned. "You don’t even like it yourself. You like that cold mint scent."
Cillian watched her through the dimness, her yawn’s warm breath trailing over his chest, tingling right through his skin. "So you pay attention to me?"
If this were before, Eleanor would’ve raised all her internal alarms and picked apart the meaning behind those words from every angle.
But maybe because she was pregnant now, she was just too tired and everything was a blur. She answered without even thinking, "I used to buy all your toiletries."
Cillian froze for a second.
Then suddenly laughed.
Eleanor, half-asleep, vaguely heard his laughter. The warning in her head faded, and she sank completely into the darkness.
Cillian listened as her breath evened out, her head on his arm, her long hair brushing his chest and his wrist.
Soft, boneless, never prickly.
As for those brittle and frizzy ends Damian Sinclair always complained about—he’d make them shine and glow, so she’d never be fooled by her own neglect again.
............
The Grant Family.
Auntie King finished her handover, and went to the small parlor to say goodbye to Mrs. Grant.
Mrs. Grant trimmed the rose branches and pointed toward the red envelope on the table. "Ms. King, Cillian’s had a sudden change in taste. Pay more attention when you go over there. Also, about his injury—make sure you remind him, that can’t be allowed to happen again."
Auntie King accepted the envelope. "I understand. Thank you, ma’am."
She turned to leave, and happened to run into Mr. Grant at the door. He’d changed into an ivory Tang suit. Even with age, he still looked elegant, dignified, and handsome.
In her heart, Auntie King thought that in presence and aura, he and Damian Sinclair seemed more father and son than Cillian Grant himself.
"Sir."
Mr. Grant nodded slightly and glanced at the envelope in her hand. "Is there something to celebrate?"
The Grant Family was generous with its staff; for weddings or funerals, there’d be paid leave, generous gifts, and always a special red envelope like this.
Auntie King explained, "Young Master Cillian asked me to help him for a while. Madam gave me this as a bonus in advance."
Mr. Grant’s smile faded. "He’s moving out?"
Before Auntie King could answer, from inside the parlor Mrs. Grant called out, "Ms. King, you go ahead. I need to speak to my husband."
Mr. Grant frowned. "How come no one told me about this?"
Mrs. Grant looked a little downcast. "Cillian only mentioned it to me just now. A few days ago, Phoebe and I suspected him, and we sided with The Voss Family. He’s upset."
Mr. Grant felt that didn’t add up. He knew Cillian well—quick to retaliate, but never petty, especially not with family. "I remember, he’s never really been close to the staff before. Why would he specifically ask for Ms. King this time?"
"Probably because she runs the kitchen. He said he couldn’t get used to eating outside food."
Mr. Grant’s face turned completely cold.
Mrs. Grant noticed something was wrong. "What is it? That isn’t the real reason?"
