Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 116: Should I Pretend to Submit?

Eleanor had just recognized the last character when footsteps echoed outside. A knock came at each door, "El~eanor?"

It was the waitress who had earlier stopped her. Foreigners struggled to pronounce the characters of Therasian correctly. After calling out, "Eleanor," the last character was dropped, leaving just "El~"

"El~"

Eleanor quickly tore the note to shreds and responded.

The waitress’s footsteps approached.

She pressed the flush button, watching the scraps of paper swirl away in the water until not a trace remained. She then pushed open the door, "Is something wrong?"

The waitress was startled as the door swung open unexpectedly, and she patted her chest, "OMG, OMG, your husband was worried if you were inconvenienced."

Eleanor apologized, "Sorry, I was careless. There’s no inconvenience, everything’s fine."

She washed her hands and stepped out, and Cillian was waiting for her outside.

The lights in the shop were bright, tinged with orange hues. A beam of light fell from above Cillian’s head, casting shallow shadows over his chiseled features. Despite wearing a down jacket, he still exuded a dignified grandeur, a commanding presence.

In this roadside chain fast-food restaurant, he seemed dazzling and out of place.

Eleanor faced him directly, "Did you order?"

Cillian’s gaze passed over her, landing on the waitress behind her.

The waitress pinched her thumb and index finger together, forming an almost-OK sign, but the remaining fingers splayed wide, looking somewhat off.

"Everything’s fine."

Eleanor turned around, "Did you have the waitress watching me?"

Cillian stepped up to her, wrapping her hand in his, still damp and cool from the water, "You took too long."

Eleanor withdrew her hand, "Did you tell her you’re my husband?"

Cillian’s eyes lingered on her face, "You don’t want that?"

Eleanor looked up at him, her skin pale and cool, warmed unrealistically under the fast food restaurant’s desolate yet dreamlike orange lighting, calm yet unrealistic, "Would you?"

Eleanor turned to leave.

Since arriving in Froskar, the ring, the ends of the earth, and the husband, even if they were just illusions, seemed to indicate clearly that Cillian intended to marry her.

Especially at a time when the pregnancy was on their minds.

He doted on her excessively, brushing it off when she ignored him or retorted; he took it all in stride.

It’s as if for this child, he’d be willing to step back, marry her, let her return to life before she was eighteen, wipe away these four years with a stroke.

From the daughters of affluent families to wealthy wives, those four years of Cillian’s hard work had laid down a prestige that shone brightly for them both to share.

What a grand and beautiful prospect. A world filled with endless luxury and top-tier resources at her beck and call.

Eleanor opened the car door, took a seat in the passenger side, and her fingers trembled incessantly, failing to fasten her seatbelt several times.

But why him.

Why does he assume women are vain, materialistic beings? That love and hatred are dictated by power, and that if power is great enough, the hardships and bitterness given by the other can be overlooked without a slate of gratitude, living harmoniously and raising a child?

Moreover, she was not foolish, not to mention how fiercely the Grant Family might react. Just look at how people outside, with Liam Xavier as an example, could see a building a collapse overnight; people claim to be heartless, yet they truly don’t care.

Then what about Cillian?

Given all he’s done over the past four years, would he really give up power, fame, and fortune for her?

It’s utterly nonsensical, a paradox, a fool’s dream.

Ultimately, it was for the child. Her two past decisive departures, the substantial resistance likely caught him off guard, posing a challenge, so this time he yielded step by step, spinning bigger and rounder illusions, only to anchor her. 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝙚𝙬𝓮𝙗𝒏𝙤𝒗𝙚𝙡.𝒄𝒐𝓶

Eleanor’s head drooped wearily as she thought about Mr. Ghost’s note. Mr. Grant, with his keen intelligence, never acted rashly, and his immediate increase in personnel to bring her back only suggested that he was close to confirming evidence of her pregnancy.

Once he confirmed it, Cillian would be certain of it too.

By then, would they still pretend not to know? Would the surveillance around her tighten? Would Mr. Ghost have the opportunity? Would she have the opportunity?

Or should she feign acceptance, act a bit more obedient, and show an eagerness for marriage to relax his vigilance?

Eleanor’s mind was a chaotic mess, too tangled to notice anything outside the car.

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

Cillian declined the waitress’s offer to pack, gesturing to give it to the drifter by the window seat.

He strode out, where the mercenary team leader got out of the car to meet him, whispering a few words.

Cillian’s expression remained unchanged, though somehow it grew more serious.

They drove in silence.

Eleanor returned to the villa, exhausted and weary, unable to keep her eyes open.

She just wanted to go upstairs, wash up, and sleep.

Cillian called out to her, "Fast food outside isn’t clean. The new chef has just arrived. Have a little snack before sleeping."

Since renting the villa, their meals had been handled by mercenaries. With their years out in the field, a few of them were quite skilled in cooking. French, English, Italian cuisine; before Cillian arrived, Eleanor had rotated meals, experiencing the tastes of Europe.

After Cillian’s arrival, he was even more fastidious, immediately hiring a chef. However, this small town wasn’t a tourist hotspot, and Therasian chefs who could cook authentically were even rarer.

Cillian had found one, then another; this was already the fourth for him.

Now, Eleanor’s taste had faded; everything she ate tasted like wood, and she didn’t want to trouble herself as long as her nutrition was adequate.

"I’m not hungry."

"Running around in the snow for so long, are you really not hungry from all that exercise?"

Eleanor stood on the stairs, using the height to look down at him.

He tilted his head slightly, the bright light of the first floor illuminating his face. His brows were dark and thick, his eyes bright and deep, seemingly pooling softness beneath the light and shadows.

Eleanor’s demeanor softened, "What’s for eating?"

"Shrimp custard and red bean porridge."

Eleanor went downstairs, passed by him, and sat by the dining table, "Red beans are hard to cook. Did the chef arrive this afternoon?"

She spoke softly and gently, not necessarily tenderly, but with poise and composure. Her brows and eyes devoid of laughter, taking on a detailed, pure, and serene air in the soft glow of light.

Cillian focused on her for a few moments, then walked over and sat beside her.

Since entering the house, the mercenaries had dispersed. Eleanor knew they’d take turns keeping watch around the villa, but the vigilance shouldn’t be too high.

After all, they weren’t guarding against serious enemies with knives and guns, just ’protecting’ her, a defenseless woman, in case she encountered danger if she left.

If Mr. Grant’s men came here, and if the two sides clashed, would she have a chance to escape in the chaos?

The new female chef, young, first brought up a bowl of shrimp custard.

Eleanor, preoccupied with many concerns, didn’t pay much attention and finished it quickly. When the red bean porridge was served, she just couldn’t eat anymore.

"Are you hungry?" She pushed the porridge towards Cillian, "Driving in the snow at night, focusing burns energy too."

Cillian was unusually attentive to her tonight, his gaze lingering on her face for a long time. From previous experience, such a look was a precursor to his outburst.

Eleanor’s heart skipped a beat, her palms instantly sweaty.

"Go upstairs and sleep first." He said.

Eleanor snapped out of her daze, turned, and left.

When Cillian entered the room, Eleanor had the light on and was already asleep.

The night was deep, the surroundings too quiet, the lamp casting a soft amber glow, flowing onto the bedside. Her long hair was spread across the pillow, her sleeping posture curled, the quilt covering her nose and mouth, only leaving her peacefully sleeping brows and eyes visible, clear and gentle in the play of light and shadow.

Cillian brushed back a strand of hair hooked onto her cheek, his hand rested against her cheek, soundlessly; he himself was also soundless.