Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 75: Eleanor’s Breakdown and Outburst

Second floor, master bedroom.

Mrs. Grant sat at the dressing table in the walk-in closet, tending to her skin. "Cillian and Eleanor... am I just being paranoid?"

Cutting ties, stripping the family name—if there was something, would it really end this harshly, this mercilessly?

Mr. Grant stood by the wardrobe, coordinating her outfit for tomorrow’s visit to the Sterling Sinclairs.

Hearing this, for the first time, he didn’t immediately pick up Mrs. Grant’s words.

Lately, Mrs. Grant circled around this matter, pulling over it again and again; she wanted a definite answer.

Let this humiliating affair settle to dust once and for all.

"Honestly, ever since Phoebe came back, Cillian’s attitude toward Eleanor got cold. The first two years, whenever Eleanor came home during breaks and got into trouble with Phoebe, Cillian would throw her out."

"Last year, on Chinese New Year’s Eve, there was a heavy rain, Eleanor fought with Phoebe again, and I sent her back to school, called a car. But Cillian wouldn’t let her go—just tossed her an umbrella, and Eleanor left without it. Looking back, they nearly hated each other."

Mr. Grant finished hanging the clothes and responded, "He’s been this hostile all along?"

Mrs. Grant looked back. "Pretty much. Especially these three months since Eleanor came back after graduating. Every time she clashes with Phoebe, as long as she talks back, Cillian suppresses her. Some of the fault isn’t even hers, but Cillian forces her to apologize. Honestly, I thought that was best—as long as he keeps Eleanor down, I don’t need to fear she’ll ever have the chance to get back at him."

Mr. Grant squinted, pondering for a long while before asking, "Those four years Eleanor was in college—do you know what happened?"

Disgust flashed across Mrs. Grant’s face. "How could I not know? I used to teach her to be diligent, and all she did was get cocky. In college, she skipped class all the time. At first, she’d ask for leave, but after too many requests, the school refused and she just skipped outright. Her counselor would call me four times in a single month."

"Later, I got so annoyed I handed her over to the secretary. She got even wilder—vanished for a week at a go, no word, nothing. When the secretary couldn’t manage, the calls came back to me."

Mrs. Grant waved her hand, irritation creeping into every word. "She was a sweet, lively child, but growing up—for a Damian Sinclair—she warped into someone unrecognizable, completely lost her mind."

Mr. Grant stared into space and grunted, lost in thought.

Feeling brushed off, Mrs. Grant’s eyes flared. "What are you thinking? You still haven’t told me, why do you want to keep Eleanor? If Cillian can draw a clear line with her, isn’t that best? No need to worry about marrying her off, or her dowry, or business interests."

Mr. Grant laughed softly and explained in a gentle voice, "It’s just a dowry. There’s no such thing as baseless rumor—if there’s suspicion, it’s safest to keep her close, under our noses. Think of it as buying yourself peace of mind."

"You still don’t trust Cillian? Then go check the surveillance—The Emerald Residence is Grant Group’s property, so is the security. Or just send Secretary Rhodes. Easy as pie."

Mr. Grant shook his head. "You’re oversimplifying."

This son of his—now, only the Xavier deal stands between him and fully dropping the ’Vice’ in Vice Chairman.

He’s not someone who can be controlled or reined in anymore.

Just like, since ancient times, the Emperor and the powerful Crown Prince—a father’s severity, the son presses forward; a father’s softness, the son maintains distance.

Ultimately, it was David Rhodes who missed the mark with the location for catching them. And Eleanor is sharp, quick. He didn’t want to openly clash with Cillian, so he had no choice but to turn a blind eye.

More than that, he’d already had doubts about those four years. Her reaction during the subtle probing in the study only confirmed it.

Between them, who’s the active one, who’s passive, how deep are their feelings—he should find out before deciding how harshly or gently to handle this matter.

Of course.

If, by chance, someone happened to have solid proof—be it video or photographs—and handed it to him, there’d be no need to wait any longer.

But with all his years in this world, Mr. Grant knew that was just wishful thinking.

He could only sigh and let it go.

"What do you mean, oversimplifying?" Mrs. Grant waited so long, only to get a sigh, growing anxious. "Explain yourself."

Mr. Grant had no intention of telling Mrs. Grant about the power slipping through his fingers in old age. He was ready to dodge the issue with some other excuse.

Just then, a loud exclamation from Phoebe Grant sounded downstairs, "Brother, what are you doing in Eleanor’s room?"

.........

Eleanor waited on the bed for an hour before there was noise outside her door.

She sat up. "Auntie King—"

Before she could finish, the figure at the door closed in on her. No pause—he seized her arm and hauled her off the bed.

His hand clamped her jaw, forcing her to tilt her head up sharply.

Only the bedside lamp was on, its light dim and heavy.

Eleanor saw Cillian Grant’s face—cold and rigid, pale with fury and chill; his eyes, like blades, as if he wished he could skin her alive.

"You’re lying to me again." His arm was taut with muscle, choking her almost breathless. "Again and again, I believe you, tolerate you, give you choices—and every time, you deceive me. You never learn."

Eleanor didn’t struggle or speak—just looked at Cillian Grant.

She tried to see through his skin and flesh, to discover what kind of heart he really had inside.

How could someone, after utterly destroying every part of another person’s life and love, still stare at the wounded shell with even more hatred and anger than the victim.

To the point where, for an instant, it looked like he was hurt too.

Eleanor almost laughed, but it came out as something between a sob and a smile. "Father can’t let go of me. I want a family—is that such a crime?"

"The Grant Family is not your family." Cillian’s chest heaved violently, a murderous edge just shy of exploding. "How many times must I say it before it gets through to you?"

"I’ve heard you. But I need love." Eleanor tried to pry off his arm—with each loosening, he tightened his grip, chest squeezing the air from her lungs. Her words were shredded with pain. "Who doesn’t want stability, a family who loves them, a place to go home to? I grew up in the Grant Family, those feelings aren’t so easily cut off."

As she spoke, her mind felt ice-cold, utterly composed.

She understood Mrs. Grant perfectly. Mr. Grant calling her sentimental and unforgiving was spot on.

So, from the moment Cillian stormed into her room during the typhoon, even if Mrs. Grant missed the look in her eyes, nothing would ever go back to the way it was.

Letting go always comes down to timing. She and Cillian were bound to turn to bitter enemies in the end.

She knew too—Mr. Grant didn’t keep her out of sentimentality, but because as long as a threat is controllable, it isn’t dangerous. But the moment control is lost, men seasoned in business become crueler, meaner, and more inhuman than any woman.

On the flip side, if Mr. Grant is suspicious, he’ll keep a close watch on Cillian, hold him back.

When the snipe and the clam fight, the fisherman wins.

In the cracks between, Eleanor would always find her chance to escape.

Cillian glared at her, bloodshot eyes swelling with rage. "You’re twenty-two, not two, not twelve. Leaving the Grant Family won’t kill you."

His voice was threaded with anger, agitation, disappointment, and countless emotions she could not name, all tangled together.

"If even once, you’d just made the right choice, a peaceful home would’ve been yours for the taking."

Eleanor couldn’t keep her shivering in check, her voice dissolving, barely sentences. "What do you mean by peace? You mean those four years?"