Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 8: He Wants to Retrieve the Hospital Surveillance Footage
But her eyes were shining with tears.
She was baring her teeth and claws, but pitiful, absolutely not threatening.
Cillian Grant let out a muffled laugh, the sharp aggression in his brows and eyes fading for a moment, becoming unexpectedly gentle. "With that little strength of yours, don’t bother making a fool of yourself."
Eleanor felt mocked, like a monkey on Mount Floran, seething with frustration while someone watched her slow antics with amusement.
She yielded and leaned in.
In a flash, Cillian Grant kissed her with violence.
Eleanor’s vision swam and darkened, but she didn’t forget last time’s experience.
"Give me your documents."
After dinner, Eleanor went to the bedroom to hand her documents to Mrs. Grant.
Mrs. Grant was looking through wedding dress catalogs from major brands with Phoebe Grant. When she saw Eleanor approaching, she waved her over to sit.
Eleanor followed the direction of her fingertip and sat down on the single-seater sofa beside them.
Phoebe nestled close to Mrs. Grant, full of excitement. She shot Eleanor an intensely disgusted glare, "What do you want?"
Eleanor looked at Mrs. Grant, her voice slender and timid. "Mom, the documents."
Mrs. Grant took them and said, "The medical exam is scheduled for next Wednesday. Remember to request leave at your company."
Eleanor’s heart grew heavier—today was Friday, and five days would fly by in a blink.
What could she do? What should she do?
Mrs. Grant pushed aside the wedding dress catalog and came closer, staring her down. "Did you take a leave and go to the hospital today?"
Eleanor’s heart clenched violently.
She guessed Phoebe Grant would definitely return and exaggerate to complain. Usually, it’s all mud-slinging—she wasn’t afraid before.
But this time, the pregnancy was real.
And Mrs. Grant, as the matriarch of The Grant Family, was by no means easy to fool with a few words.
Eleanor tried her luck, taking the initiative to explain, "I just went to see Elaine White, not for pregnancy. Mom, I swear there’s no way I’ll ever get entangled with Damian Sinclair again—not the slightest bit."
Mrs. Grant moved closer and gripped her hand, "I believe you. This time, your brother invited a top gynecologist from the capital, just in time for your exam, to check your condition. I’ve arranged for the First Hospital’s department head in gynecology to give you a thorough exam—every detail, nothing overlooked."
Eleanor’s eyelids twitched.
She knew Mrs. Grant would take action, but she hadn’t expected her to skip a conversation, not even giving Eleanor a chance to defend herself—just pulling the rug right out from under her.
It was obvious: she didn’t trust her anymore.
Yet Eleanor, foolishly, still clung to a shred of hope for Mrs. Grant. "Mom, can I not get treated?"
"Is it that you don’t want to, or you don’t dare?" Phoebe Grant glanced over at her. "Mom’s always looked out for you—that’s her way of sparing your dignity. Do you really think, at the hospital, Elaine’s few words can fool everyone?"
Eleanor’s mind went blank.
She looked at Mrs. Grant, then at Phoebe, stabbed by that smug satisfaction in Phoebe’s eyes, but refused to shrink away. "Your mudslinging is old news—I’m not surprised. What I don’t get is how you managed to pin everything on Damian Sinclair? In four years, I barely saw him—so how did you go and dump all this shit on his head?"
She couldn’t wrap her head around it at all. "At the hospital, you forced Damian Sinclair to show his schedule, let you check everything, and you still didn’t believe him. Do you love him or hate him? Why do you insist on dragging him down into the gossip of power and women?"
"Enough," Mrs. Grant said, hating to see Eleanor bullying Phoebe. "Eleanor, you’re clever and sharp—I know that. But Phoebe’s your big sister, and she’s pregnant. You shouldn’t be hostile to her or provoke her."
A bucket of cold water got dumped right over Eleanor’s head; her bones felt chilled through.
Ever since Phoebe Grant showed up, Eleanor had felt guilty toward her, and had willingly returned to her biological parents.
But back then The Grant Family suspected the people who raised Phoebe were maliciously involved in a baby swap, determined to make them pay. That family refused to admit it and reported to the police.
After the police got involved and did a DNA test, it turned out—Eleanor had no blood relation with that family, either.
So, that family was cleared of suspicion, but didn’t want Eleanor anymore.
Eleanor was ready to leave, but for one of the rare times, Mrs. Grant teared up and begged her to stay. Later, considering what happened with Cillian Grant, she was allowed to stay in the house.
But in these four years, Eleanor felt Mrs. Grant grow ever more distant from her, until now—she could feel their bond thinning into smoke.
She tried to fight it. "Mom, I wasn’t hostile. She started the whole thing. She attacked me at the hospital, my hair—"
"Cillian told me everything, exactly as it happened." Mrs. Grant cut her off. "Eleanor, Phoebe’s pregnant—how much strength can she possibly have? And with Elaine White helping you, if something bad happened, did you ever consider the consequences for Phoebe?"
She had considered it—that’s why she let herself get hit.
Elaine White had restraint, too; when she pulled Phoebe away, she reached over to protect Eleanor.
But Eleanor couldn’t utter a word—she just felt the air was full of knives, each and every one slicing her down to bloody bones.
She didn’t know how she walked out of Mrs. Grant’s room.
On the steps, Phoebe Grant caught up to her. "You’d best not be pregnant, and you’d better have nothing to do with Damian, or you won’t even make it to the exam—your death will come fast."
Apart from running to Mrs. Grant to tattle, Phoebe clearly had other plans.
Eleanor’s heart trembled with fear. "What do you mean?"
Phoebe pressed in on her. "My brother covers every base—he’s already sent someone to retrieve the hospital’s surveillance footage. Whether you went to see Elaine White or to do something else, tomorrow it’ll all come out."
Eleanor felt her soul shattered, drifting back to her room like a walking corpse.
The lamp by her bed was on, its glow enveloping someone.
Cillian Grant was sprawled against the bedhead, wearing deep green cotton pajamas. His chest was half-bare, muscles solid and powerful, brimming with rough energy.
Even more suspicious, more calculating.
How laughable that she’d thought, for a moment, his easy attitude at the hospital meant mercy or softness.
Eleanor didn’t approach.
Cillian Grant picked up her phone from the bedstand. "When did you change your password?"
"A few days ago."
"Did I agree to that?"
Eleanor was at her breaking point, and couldn’t hold back. "Did you order someone to get the hospital’s surveillance?"
Cillian Grant showed not a hint of emotion. "You got a problem with that?"
Shouldn’t she have a problem?
Eleanor stared at him. "Did you tell Mom that Elaine White and I ganged up on Phoebe? That she suffered, and I benefited?"
"Didn’t you benefit?"
Eleanor practically sneered. What did she benefit from—being dragged around by her hair in the hospital’s public hall, or being interrogated like a traitor, the whole family joining in.
Or was it that, unless Phoebe Grant ground her face into the floor, ripped her completely to pieces, and stomped her into mud under her shoe, then only Phoebe would be considered to have suffered?
Eleanor’s chest was heaving with anger. She pointed at the door and said coldly, "Get out. Please get out."
Cillian Grant didn’t move. "The password."
Eleanor’s breath caught in her throat, her vision blurred with rage. "Cillian Grant, am I trash to you, am I not even human—am I just an animal in your eyes?"
Cillian Grant frowned, sensing her emotions on the verge of eruption. "Why are you throwing a fit again?"
Impatient, irritated—his contempt was clear in the lamplight, every little detail revealed.
Eleanor’s eyes were blazing red. "Me, throwing a fit? What’s that supposed to mean? I have flesh and blood—I feel pain when I get hit, misery when I’m insulted. I get bullied by Phoebe Grant in the day, then tormented by you at night. If defending myself even a little means I’m throwing a fit, then you tell me—what isn’t ’throwing a fit’? You tell me, what isn’t?"
