Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 143: Cillian Grant Is an Extremely Dangerous Psychiatric Patient

Chapter 143: Chapter 143: Cillian Grant Is an Extremely Dangerous Psychiatric Patient

Cillian Grant asked other questions, but Eleanor ignored them all.

This line made Eleanor feel utterly ridiculous.

"Do I need to doubt that I hate you?"

Cillian Grant watched her, his hand hanging by his side clenched tightly, the knuckles cracking, the deep blue veins on his arms pounding furiously against his skin. "You used to be able to smile at me, joke, throw little tantrums... Eleanor, even if you hated me, it wouldn’t have come to this."

Eleanor gave him a cold smile, her pupils dark and intense, shockingly black.

"Every time I act, you see right through it, ignoring me with resentment and anger. So pretentious, utterly shameless."

Cillian Grant’s chest heaved sharply, his face faintly turning green under the dim light, like the sky before a snowstorm, gray and desolate. "More than two months ago, before you found out you were pregnant, you would never have hated me to the point of being a mortal enemy. At that time, all you thought about was leaving me."

Eleanor found herself unable to deny it.

In recalling the past four years, the initial immense shock had left her stunned. Her reason couldn’t accept it, her emotions couldn’t sever it.

She kept dreaming.

Dreaming of waking up and finding them back to where they started, having done nothing at all.

So, she resisted Cillian Grant’s touch but couldn’t resist him softening for a moment, yet his temporary softness didn’t stop him from advancing again at night.

During the first two years, every vein and nerve in her body was constantly torn apart in this push and pull, breaking under the strain.

In the third year, she used seven hundred days and nights to gradually erase and let go of the memories of the eighteen years they had shared, accepting that the person who had loved her was gone.

Her resistance escalated, and the fiercer it became, the more futile it was. At that time, she was still a little girl, and fear involuntarily arose, plunging her into a period of disorientation, almost ready to give in.

She stumbled upon a sentence: [The last victory often lies in making one more effort.]

She still had lingering thoughts in her heart, like unquenchable sparks, reignited by this sentence.

She persisted, again and again.

And in this cycle of persistence, grievances arose, accumulating into hatred. But the Grants had nurtured her, and considering Mrs. Grant, she suppressed the hatred, seeking only liberation.

Until she had a child.

This heap of flesh had bones to support it. The actions of the Grant Family wore down her last connection, and the flood-like hatred completely broke through under his absurd and ridiculous excuses.

Love? Marry her?

Just three words.

If it were false, she could accept it.

If it were true, how pitiful she would be.

The room had long been silent, leaving only the wild wind raging past the window, the frame quivering with a soft rustle.

Cillian Grant’s upright and noble figure seemed to suddenly collapse.

Often, sharp insults, wishing a knife could stab into his heart and explode, were easier to handle than silent resistance.

The former’s hatred is long-accumulated grievances, while the latter’s hatred is a decisive iron-clad severance.

In his deep understanding of human nature, even now, he couldn’t help but ask, "Did I say something wrong? If not, you can refute me."

Eleanor pointed to the door, signaling for him to leave.

Explaining, rebutting, analyzing herself—no matter which choice, it made her look like a sinner.

Eleanor was resolute; she wasn’t the sinner. It wasn’t her place to confess to crimes or sign confessions.

"Eleanor, you can refute me," Cillian Grant repeated, his pupils bloodshot as if they were about to crack, the pent-up rage reaching its peak, leaving him in fragmented and helpless self-doubt.

Eleanor remained silent, her gaze icy, her face devoid of warmth.

Cillian Grant was frozen by her gaze, standing stiff at the foot of the bed like a statue.

The silence dragged on for a while. He retreated to the door, calming his emotions, "Freshen up, let’s go to The Whale Museum. I’ll wait for you downstairs."

Eleanor watched the door close again, the lock clicking shut with a harsh snap.

Left alone in the room, Eleanor was momentarily thrown off balance, her breath erratic with confusion and hesitation.

Why would Cillian still let her out today?

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

When Eleanor went downstairs, Cillian Grant was leaning against the left side of the sofa, reading a book.

Since the villa had a small library, naturally, there were a few books on display, half biographies of famous people from past and present, and half philosophy and psychology.

The Arctic winds and snowfields in Froskar were a constant, and with a sparse population, the isolation was boundless.

Once people became lonely, they tended to over-explore the spiritual world. Psychology and philosophy thrived here in Nordheim, with various types of in-depth research and detailed classifications.

The psychology book Cillian Grant was reading was even more precisely categorized, titled "Relationships: Women’s Views on Marriage and the Transformation of Love and Hate."

Regardless of what Eleanor thought inside, she remained unfazed on the surface, donning her outdoor coat and hat at the foyer, leaving quietly.

The car was parked at the entrance, driverless.

Eleanor opened the back door and got in.

Cillian Grant appeared at the door, wearing clothes of the same style and color as hers, cloaked in the soft light of the entrance amidst the snow and wind, exuding a melancholic, somber, and heavy masculinity.

Eleanor averted her gaze.

Cillian Grant approached the car, noticing she was seated in the back. His steps faltered for a second, his face growing more desolate. Changing his course, he didn’t head for the driver’s seat but opened the backdoor.

"Sit in the front."

Eleanor didn’t respond or move.

Cillian Grant held onto the car door frame.

Human nature is very peculiar, ever-changing; a person can have many facets, but their underlying essence never alters.

Like Cillian Grant’s dominance, his occasional low-profile concession might appear, but only in those brief moments when caught off guard and beyond control.

Once he’d regained his composure and figured things out, he returned to being an impeccable leader.

Eleanor didn’t dislike smart people, but the arrogance of smart people made her want to vomit.

She got out of the car and moved to the front seat.

Eleanor knew very well that if Cillian was insisting she go out now, he could have countless motives, but letting her free was certainly not one of them.

Yet she had to make this trip. Otherwise, cancelling without reason would cause Mr. Ghost to guess wildly, and Damian would, without doubt, try to make contact again upon learning of her change in circumstances.

She would show up to inform them that their plan was abandoned.

The last time she bowed her head would be her final explanation to Damian Sinclair.

The Whale Museum that Cillian Grant had chosen featured an exterior of pure white cylindrical neoclassical architecture, standing three stories tall. The first floor displayed whale models, mainly showcasing the whales and porpoises one might encounter in Húsavík, while the second floor housed real whale skeletons, illuminated in immersive deep blue lighting, with skeletal soundscapes playing whale sounds.

This floor was currently hosting two tour groups. Eleanor absentmindedly merged into the crowds, and when she realized Cillian Grant wasn’t by her side, she turned around only to see Mr. Ghost.

Eleanor’s heart skipped a beat.

Mr. Ghost wove through the crowd, grabbed her arm, and skillfully maneuvering through the throng, led her through an inconspicuous side door directly into the parking lot.

Eleanor opened her mouth to say something.

Mr. Ghost hushed her, "Shut up and listen to me first. Right now, my friend is pretending to be a psychiatrist, informing the staff that Cillian Grant is armed, an extremely dangerous psychiatric escapee from a mental institution, highly likely to cause a shooting incident at the museum, like that Texas movie theater massacre."