Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 15: Damian Sinclair Forbids Her from Keeping the Child

Chapter 15: Chapter 15: Damian Sinclair Forbids Her from Keeping the Child

Upstairs.

Eleanor’s face drained of all color, her voice trembling with fear, "What do you want to do?"

Damian Sinclair didn’t say a word, his expression cold and murderous.

He’d always been the gentle, cultured type; even at his angriest, Eleanor had never seen this kind of ruthless hostility from him until now.

"This child can’t stay—" His ear twitched, and he abruptly cut off the rest of his sentence.

There was the pounding sound of footsteps on the stairs.

Urgent.

Pressing.

No way to escape.

Not even a minute passed before the person reached the turn of the second floor.

Eleanor looked at Damian, then at the door—the lock was latched from the inside.

But she couldn’t keep it locked forever.

If those footsteps belonged to Phoebe Grant, then she was coming straight for Damian Sinclair.

If Eleanor opened the door even a second late, she wouldn’t be able to explain.

If she opened it immediately, there’d be no redemption.

Disaster was closing in—Eleanor’s heart burned with anxiety.

Almost the next second, someone slammed violently on the door.

"Open the door." Phoebe Grant’s voice was vicious. "I know Damian Sinclair is in there. Eleanor, you bitch, open the door—"

Eleanor gripped the doorknob tight. The early winter wind whistled in from the window, so cold she couldn’t stop shivering.

"Open up!" Phoebe twisted the knob; the door didn’t budge an inch, and her suspicions hardened into certainty.

Phoebe immediately erupted into a stream of curses, "You even dare lock me out? Bitch, my family’s raised you for over twenty years, you’ve taken my wealth and privilege. You don’t appreciate my kindness; instead you bear a grudge? Pretending to be pitiful and cool, acting like you have class—is that even possible with your trash genes, bringing nothing but garbage into the world? Do you deserve it?"

Eleanor’s fists clenched so tightly her joints cracked, her knuckles turning white and numb.

The twisting of the lock grew shriller and shriller, and Phoebe’s crazed insults worsened, "You think seducing Damian will let you stay up here in high society, living in luxury? Keep dreaming. Touch him today and I’ll chop off your filthy paws, rip off your slutty skin—open the fucking door, you hear me, open the goddamn door."

"So this is my fault for not giving you security?"

The voice was soft—not loud—but it came from the landing between the second and third floors, and it was utterly icy, freezing Phoebe in her tracks. She turned around, following the voice.

Damian Sinclair stood on the first step of the landing. The huge crystal chandelier splintered dazzling light across his body, throwing sweeping shadows over him. He looked perfectly elegant, but there was a terrifying rage about him.

Phoebe glanced at him, then at Eleanor’s door, her expression flickering with uncertainty.

At that moment, Eleanor’s door opened as well.

Expressionless, she glanced toward the stairs, locking eyes with Phoebe. "Weren’t you coming in? There’s another Damian Sinclair in my room. Go see for yourself."

Eleanor’s clothes were neat, her cotton shirt didn’t have a single major wrinkle, her face was pale but showed no signs of exertion.

Damian’s breathing was even steadier than Eleanor’s; not a hint of heavy panting, his hair fluffy and thick, not the least bit messy.

Even if he realized someone was coming up and tried to prepare, there was no way Damian could teleport from the room to the stairwell between the second and third floors.

The thought struck Phoebe dumb. She’d just promised not to be so paranoid, and now not even an hour had passed before she’d slapped herself in her own family home.

"What is it?" Mrs. Grant heard the commotion and came upstairs. "What’s going on?"

"She wanted to storm my room and catch me cheating." Eleanor deliberately emphasized the words "catch me cheating."

Mrs. Grant glanced at where Damian Sinclair stood and immediately grasped the situation. "Eleanor, you’re misunderstanding your sister again. Phoebe isn’t catching anyone; I asked her to come up and call you for dinner."

Eleanor froze.

Suddenly her mood crashed. She didn’t even have the desire to argue.

She was trained by Mrs. Grant herself—whatever she knew, Mrs. Grant knew a hundred times better.

Mrs. Grant siding with Phoebe didn’t surprise her. What grated on her nerves was that out of all the possible ways to dissolve the situation, Mrs. Grant had to stomp her down to highlight Phoebe.

Fairness—Eleanor didn’t expect it. But if she wasn’t even allowed to be a basic person anymore—

Then what was she still doing in the Grant Family?

.........

Dinner time. For the first time in four years, Eleanor acted out—she didn’t go downstairs to eat.

Phoebe resented Eleanor for latching on, determined to embarrass her in front of the Sinclairs.

After dinner, Mr. Grant called the Sinclair family to the study. Phoebe grabbed Cillian Grant and complained, "I think Damian definitely went up to see her. Cillian, I just can’t feel at ease, I want to check the security cameras."

Cillian tapped his finger on the sofa arm, half-heartedly. "How long did it take you from noticing to getting upstairs?"

Phoebe thought it over. "A minute? Maybe two? I’m not sure."

"You can’t get anything done in two minutes." Cillian’s lips curled in a smile, but there was a shadow in his eyes. "You went overboard with the insults."

Phoebe instinctively bristled. Cillian had always supported her no matter what. Even if she’d made a mistake, it was only in not checking the facts; acting impulsively wasn’t the same as whether she insulted Eleanor. How could those two things be related?

She pouted. "She deserves it. A fake bitch, shamelessly sticking around our family no matter how many times we chase her out. If I insult her, that’s exactly what she deserves."

"I’m the one not letting her leave." Cillian leaned back, pressing into the chair. "Her documents have been with me the whole time. She can’t go anywhere."

"Why?" Phoebe’s face stiffened. "Aren’t you the one who most wants her gone?"

"When did I ever say I wanted her gone?" Cillian’s gaze turned chilling. "You’re about to marry into the Sinclair family; it’s time you learned some restraint. What happened today—there had better not be a second time."

Phoebe’s hand tightened suddenly. She was struck by the memory of looking up hospital surveillance that morning—Cillian’s strange, inscrutable eyes. He hadn’t looked at Eleanor like she was nothing more than an outsider, but more like a man looking at a woman: dark, thick, heavy with meaning.

The thought struck Phoebe like a knife, cutting straight through her, making her jerk in shock. Her voice jammed in her throat, rusty and halting. "Cillian, you—you’re not—are you attracted to—her?"

"Is that your theory?" Cillian let out a laugh. "You should spend more time learning from Mother. The Sinclair family is no less powerful than ours, and their standards for a daughter-in-law are just as high. You can be strong and bold, but if you’re unreasonable and barbaric, people will think you’re stupid and lacking intelligence."

The criticism was blunt, harsher than ever, stabbing right through Phoebe’s pride. Embarrassed and aggrieved, she mumbled, "I get it, Cillian."

Phoebe had never been chastised like this before. She mumbled a reply and fled, covering her face.

Cillian’s eyes followed her up the stairs, and as she disappeared onto the second floor, he looked on toward Eleanor’s room on the third.

The corridor was dim, her door cold and tightly shut.

For the first time, there was no sharp-tongued retort, just silence, hidden away in her room. The maids knocked repeatedly with her meals; no answer. Only when Auntie King was called did she finally respond.

Cillian’s chest felt tight. He walked up the stairs.

Eleanor hadn’t turned on the lights. The room was shrouded in gloomy silence; the sound of a key turning in the lock was magnified, jarring and harsh.

Eleanor didn’t move.

After a few breaths, steady footsteps approached. A faint whiff of alcohol filled the air—subtle, not overwhelming, but impossible to ignore as it spread out.

She didn’t look up, but she could feel a gaze land on the top of her head—burning hot, freezing cold—all at once, making her scalp tingle.

Eleanor was the first to break, her voice muffled and rough. "What are you doing here?"

"This is the Grant Family home."

Eleanor fell silent.

The Grant Family.

Phoebe’s home. Cillian’s home. Their parents’ home. But never hers.

Another long, tension-strung silence, stretched tight as a drawn bow.

This time it was Cillian’s patience that snapped.

"Speak."

His tall, dark shadow fell over her, as cold and sharp as a blade.

Eleanor was trapped under his shadow, even her breathing weak. "Say what? What do you want to interrogate me about?"