Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 138: How to Fake Death in Detail

Eleanor had initially considered faking her death as a desperate measure when all her ploys were exposed and Cillian Grant refused to play along.

Bold, outrageous, and overly ambitious, it seemed unrealistic.

Even if she found ample reasons, it couldn’t conceal her agitated helplessness.

At the moment, it seemed like the best choice.

"Is his father planning to have me killed during the surgery?"

Damian Sinclair replied, "Yes."

Eleanor closed her eyes, and every bone in her body trembled, shattered, and reorganized.

She grew up with The Grant Family, learned to walk, speak, and recognize the world with them, every bit of which shaped her entirely, allowing her bones to grow, flesh to fill, and soul to be completed, molding her into who she is now.

In the four years of tearing apart, she gradually let go, found pieces to fill in anew, and despite the clear separation, she couldn’t deny the Grant Family’s imperceptible mark deep within.

Therefore, no matter how exhausted, how she struggled, she never thought of harming or destroying The Grant Family.

All she sought was escape.

Now, as if she severed those deep-seated threads and changed her skin, bone, and soul, she suddenly became willing to let go.

"I must die without any doubt, so that everyone firmly believes it, allowing me to start anew elsewhere with peace." Eleanor’s voice was calm to the extreme, as if she detached herself from the situation.

"Cillian Grant is suspicious and arrogant. Whether it’s a car accident or jumping into the sea, without my corpse, he will keep some doubts. But his father is different, shrewd and ruthless, and surpasses him. If I follow his father’s plan for a staged death, he will doubt but then believe."

Damian Sinclair understood yet found it hard to believe, "You plan to first get caught by his father, taken to the hospital, then find a way to escape afterward?"

Mr. Grant’s methods are well known to those who’ve experienced them; indeed, jumping away using his hand would raise no questions.

But the difficulty, danger, and slightest misstep mean discovery by Mr. Grant could turn into a self-entrapment.

As for whether Eleanor’s plan might deepen the father-son schism within The Grant Family,

Eleanor didn’t directly clarify, and up till now, Damian Sinclair assumed not to think about it.

Eleanor clenched her hand tightly, spoke obscurely, "Damian Sinclair, if someone else told me that these four years Cillian Grant had been for me, I wouldn’t believe it. But you’re different; I’m the victim, and you’re the innocent party implicated by me. Not only do I owe you for multiple assists, but also for these four years of marital bind."

"It’s shameless of me, seeking to owe you one last time. Please help me contact that gang, they are confident in absolving me, guaranteeing that I won’t leave traces for Cillian Grant’s people to find, they can definitely tamper with the hospital too. The operating room is strictly off-limits, so whether I miscarry, whether I’m indeed dead, is but the hospital’s say."

"If his father’s men insist on personally inspecting or witnessing the surgery." Eleanor exerted force, the scarlet nail marks crisscrossed on her palm.

Her eyes were cold and bright, "Modern medicine is advanced; I believe there’s always a way to cover it up. At worst, they witness the surgery, but I think they, a group of out-of-towners, surely can’t run rampant, so that’s the advantage of the local gang, right?"

Damian Sinclair, "You’ve thought so thoroughly, I have no doubts."

"Thank you." Eleanor leaned against the wall, "Damian Sinclair, I hope my ’death’ this time allows you to regain your freedom and the choice of desire and reluctance. Before leaving the country, I said the mountains and rivers heard my farewell."

"That line is, I wander worldly pathways, never idle, drifting north, south, east, and west."

Some people are trapped in the rain, others enjoy the rain. Life’s affairs come and go, each with their own tales.

I hope you are open-minded, unchanged along the way, and sincere along the way.

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

Today, the shock Eleanor received was groundbreaking; returning to her seat, her condition detached and numb.

Cillian Grant frowned but didn’t make it difficult for her.

As if she hadn’t been away for long, just a few minutes, in contrast to that previous constant watch in a roadside fast-food joint, it undoubtedly gave Eleanor enough freedom and opportunity.

Eleanor ate silently; her pregnancy reaction differed from ordinary people; typically, food easily triggered vomiting or a craving for specific items.

She completely lost interest in food, like a vampire from Western legends; everything tasted like wood, unaffected by smell, just as long she had space in her stomach to forcibly shove in.

Cillian Grant watched her eat, occasionally switched dishes, handed utensils, poured water, and Eleanor accepted it all without refusal.

In these four years, at first, she was in pain, troubled, struggling, until she finally got used to it, used to rejecting him, resisting him, and being afraid of him.

She once tried to find reasons for Cillian Grant, a thousand, ten thousand, even considered extraterrestrials replacing him.

Yet never thought Cillian Grant’s objective was her.

Previously leaving the country, when he suddenly expressed wanting to support her, it shocked Eleanor.

In hindsight, Cillian Grant hadn’t been hinting; he was almost clear this past year. For example, her staying for studies, remaining in the North compliantly, walking through his arranged paces.

Unfortunately, with such resentment in between, piece by piece, he confined her within his grasp, day after day.

She never thought along the lines of male and female relationship, never even entertained the idea. Those hints and clear indications naturally pointed to something else, logically coherent.

Eleanor ate with an absence that appeared mechanical, wooden, lost in thought; Cillian Grant moved the plate aside, "What are you thinking again? Distracted even while eating?"

"It seems you always ask what I’m thinking."

Eleanor restrained herself.

Her thoughts, Cillian Grant saw through in an instant; she was like a turtle in shallow waters he fully understands, knowing exactly when she kicks, stretches, or turns over.

But him?

His depths were like the sea.

Until now, Eleanor trusted Damian Sinclair wouldn’t speak nonsense or joke with her about such matters.

But what about the logic?

The logic she previously went skewed by seemed coherent, yet the notion Cillian Grant spent four years for her disrupted reason, logic unraveled, Eleanor couldn’t find a smooth thread to weave the scattered pieces into coherence.

In the end, there’s only taming, barely amicable.

"Because I don’t know." Cillian Grant swapped for her some juice, fresh green, smelling of avocado and banana.

Eleanor tasted nothing, abandoned after sips, "Lies."

Her tone mimicked Cillian Grant’s past judgments; every time she argued, true or false, he discerned at once.

Cillian Grant sensed her imitation, a glint of amusement in his eyes, "Truly don’t know. Your thoughts are always—"

He attempted a metaphor, "Like the wind, like the clouds, so natural yet elusive, indefinable."

Eleanor’s inner world was colorful and dazzling; people who entered it wouldn’t want to leave.

Upon leaving, the world outside was cold, dull, and so vulgar it became loathsome.

But wanting to return would be like the fisherman mistakenly entering a utopia, searching upstream hundreds of times, never finding a trace.

Cillian Grant could see through all Eleanor’s moves and machinations, yet couldn’t see her hidden true intent.

A flower, how it appeared in her eyes, today’s cloudy skies may or may not unsettle her heart, or bring a cooling breeze in her mind.

Gradually, eighteen years of understanding, corroded in her eyes of resistance, got worn beyond recognition, the more sought, the less attainable.