Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 130: The Desert Traveler Parched to the Extreme

Chapter 130: Chapter 130: The Desert Traveler Parched to the Extreme

Cillian Grant braced both arms on either side of Eleanor, his palms pressed against the rail of the boat, using his back to create a space for her. There was plenty of room on both sides, so she never felt crowded.

Eleanor waited eagerly at the bow of the boat for more than ten minutes before finally catching sight of a gray tail flicking quickly over the surface. Not even a splash—then it was gone.

The people nearby cried out in excitement, "What kind of fish is that? Is it a whale?"

"Why didn’t it come up? Whales have to surface for air."

Eleanor was curious, too, leaning closer to listen as people guessed.

"It’s a spotted seal."

Cillian Grant had long since run out of patience and kept silent, but now he suddenly spoke. Eleanor craned her neck in his arms to look up at him. "How do you know?"

"There’s a photo on the dock’s billboard."

Eleanor tried to recall, but all she could remember were snatches of promotional slogans: things like ’No regrets in this life’, ’This trip is worth it’, ’See deer in the deep woods, see whales in the blue sea’.

"You remembered just by glancing at it?"

Cillian’s expression was matter-of-fact. "Of course. You were glued to the car window the whole way here, didn’t remember at all?"

Eleanor froze, "You’ve got a good memory—your head’s full of wisdom."

Cillian lowered his head to gaze at her. Her hair-trigger state had eased since they left the house, and after the restaurant, she seemed even more lively in speech.

The world was loud and dirty, the sea breeze whipped her long hair. Once the scent of shampoo faded, something clearer, closer to her own essence, remained.

Maybe it was his acute sense of smell or his aversion to other people’s haze. Suddenly, he buried his face in the crook of Eleanor’s neck like a parched traveler plunging into an oasis.

Eleanor forced herself not to shove him away immediately.

She understood that Cillian Grant staying in Húsavík was giving her the opportunity to leave.

But this time, Eleanor didn’t want to give in so easily. If Cillian dared to let Mr. Ghost take her away, he had surely kept a hand in the matter.

Maybe even—

Eleanor suspected, given Cillian’s wariness and cunning, that Mr. Ghost was already unknowingly under his control, just waiting for a chance to deceive Mr. Grant and trap her again.

She no longer lacked chances to run; what she lacked was a way to truly break free, to escape Cillian’s grip and dodge Mr. Grant’s peril, feign death, and achieve closure.

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

Back at home.

Mrs. Grant hadn’t tended the small flower hall for a long time. The gardener took care of it so the branches and leaves were lush, but she still found it lacking.

Early in the morning, she put on lightweight cotton and linen clothes to dig, water, prune—keeping busy until nearly noon when Mr. Grant came home.

She was annoyed and didn’t greet him. Even when she heard Mr. Grant calling for her in the living room, she ignored him.

Mr. Grant changed clothes and found her in the little flower hall; Mrs. Grant’s temper was on the verge of exploding.

Mr. Grant saw her mood and approached, taking the pruning shears from her hand. "You called me several times to rush me home, and now you won’t even speak to me. Should I just leave?"

Mrs. Grant’s eyes blazed—she went straight to the point, refusing to circle around. "Are you suppressing Cillian at Grant Group?"

Mr. Grant had expected this. "Cillian left for Froskar. If I don’t pressure him at the company, once Eleanor’s child is born, whether we acknowledge it or not, everything will be tougher."

Mrs. Grant understood this, but watching father and son fight made her anxious and flustered. "What is even going through his mind? Even if there are feelings, he—"

Mrs. Grant bit her words off, angry enough to want to bite something to pieces. "He’s keeping Eleanor, but what about the child? Is it just going to be another illegitimate kid?"

The flower hall was being prepped for expansion at the end of the year. Mrs. Grant had spent the morning working on fertilizer, getting stains and smudges on herself, her hands layered in black and yellow. 𝕗𝕣𝐞𝐞𝘄𝐞𝚋𝚗𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗹.𝚌𝕠𝚖

Mr. Grant unhesitatingly gripped her fist, prying open her fingers one by one, carefully loosening her tense knuckles. "It doesn’t have to end up as an illegitimate child."

Mrs. Grant jerked, glaring at him, "What do you mean?"

Mr. Grant sighed and guided her to sit down.

Mrs. Grant didn’t want to sit at all—she stiffened her back, staring unblinking at him.

Mr. Grant looked helpless. "Grace, when Phoebe was pregnant, Cillian went to Ivan Bolton in Aethel to protect her pregnancy, invested a hundred million."

Mrs. Grant’s face was expressionless. "I know. Later, Ivan Bolton had that car accident. Phoebe switched to another doctor."

Mr. Grant wrapped his arm around her shoulder, patting her gently again and again. "What if that hundred million wasn’t for Phoebe?"

Mrs. Grant’s facial muscles twitched; inside she felt a swamp of suffocating poison. All it took was a spark and it swept through her chest, every hair standing on end, the urge to smash things and vent out of control.

No wonder.

No wonder, right before the health check, she asked Eleanor to go to the hospital for blood work—he forcibly stopped it.

He must have known about the pregnancy then, and all his disgust and oppression was just meant to fool us.

Outwardly he favored Phoebe, but when it came to sharp words, Phoebe was no match for Eleanor.

When it came to actual insults or physical action, he suppressed Phoebe.

Mr. Grant, seeing her involuntarily tremble, switched to holding her in his arms to calm her. "Don’t go to extremes. That hundred million was for Ivan Bolton to treat Eleanor’s infertility. Cillian didn’t know she was pregnant then."

He worried for Mrs. Grant’s fragile state and didn’t mention that Cillian later added another hundred million to spare Eleanor the pain of acupuncture.

Mrs. Grant’s anger didn’t abate—instead, her whole body grew even more taut, as tense as a drawn arrow about to be loosed.

"He didn’t know? Phoebe’s his real sister—he just used her as a cover—"

She stopped mid-sentence, her whole being shocked, face frozen in a terrifying rictus.

Mr. Grant didn’t know what she was thinking and hurried to soothe her, stroking her back and her cheek, calling her name again and again. "Grace? Grace—"

After a long moment, Mrs. Grant snapped back, clutching Mr. Grant’s clothes with wild force, her voice hoarse from surging emotion. "Four years ago, when did Cillian and Eleanor start?"

Mr. Grant frowned deeply. "The people I sent to The North before were intercepted by Cillian. I’ve been so busy with Grant Group lately, I lost track, can’t say for sure."

"Are you still trying to hide things from me?" Mrs. Grant’s eyes were bloodshot,

"The year Phoebe returned, she suddenly got involved with Damian Sinclair. Right afterward, Cillian handled it swiftly. I kept thinking he was just worried about reputation and went along with it—sacrificing Eleanor to protect Phoebe. But—"

She squeezed every word out between her teeth, "But now, isn’t it clear he just used Phoebe as a decoy again?"

Mr. Grant’s brow knotted so hard it looked permanent. "Grace, I really haven’t confirmed this yet. I brought it up so you’d understand—Cillian is set on his course. He won’t turn back."

"Won’t turn back." Mrs. Grant repeated the words, every syllable like a dagger to her heart, nails driven in. "With Cillian and Eleanor, it wasn’t Eleanor who started it, was it?"

Mr. Grant was silent.

"He’s been with her since four years ago. That hundred million for Ivan Bolton was so Eleanor could have a child, and now that he’s gotten what he wanted, what’s he planning?"

All this time, whether through blindness or willful ignorance, Mrs. Grant had blamed everything on Eleanor alone.

But now, with each of Cillian’s actions exposed, Mrs. Grant felt a thousand beliefs collapse into rubble.

In that wasteland, only one thought remained, sharp and terrifying.