Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 27: Everyone in the Circle Sees Eleanor as a Dog

Chapter 27: Chapter 27: Everyone in the Circle Sees Eleanor as a Dog

"Now that the truth is out, everyone knows your true colors. There’s no place left for you in our circle. Eleanor, you’re not the Grant Family’s lady anymore, do you know how everyone sees you now?"

Eleanor didn’t even need to think to know it wouldn’t be anything pleasant.

For four years, the circle’s sneers and exclusion, both overt and covert, had never let up. With Phoebe Grant running her mouth everywhere and Cillian Grant treating her like dirt, people followed their lead—they treated her just as badly.

Back then, Eleanor was left bleeding and raw.

But right now, she felt strangely calm.

It was the calm acceptance that comes after a hurricane tears through and all that’s left is broken wreckage and despair.

And, the knowledge that she was about to begin again.

After all, she was planning to run, wasn’t she?

Theodore Voss couldn’t stand her composure.

"Why are you still putting on airs? Do you really think you deserve to act like some rich princess?"

"Everyone looks at you like a dog. A shameless stray that won’t leave the Grant house no matter how hard we try to kick you out."

"But I don’t even think you make a good dog. All you know how to do is fawn over Cillian, and you forget there’s Phoebe, your real master, at home."

Eleanor suddenly strode forward, her face emerging from the shadow, the light slicing across her eyes—cold blades of ice that cut with a chilling sharpness.

"When did I ever fawn over Cillian Grant?"

Theodore Voss shrank back two steps before he could control himself. Eleanor advanced again, pushing him until he kept retreating.

"A dog? I’ve only ever been bitten by dogs. With that spite and filth for a mouth, of course you’d be the head lapdog."

Theodore’s back hit the wall and the impact finally snapped him out of it—then he turned red with rage and humiliation.

"You’re the dog! Everyone knows how you suck up to Cillian. First it’s borrowing certificates in the morning just to knock on his door. Then when Mrs. Grant told you to draw blood, you pretended to be weak to cozy up to him."

He pinched his fingers in a mocking pose and mimicked a girl’s whiny voice, "’You promised you’d trust me, does that still count?’"

"It’s hilarious. You really think seducing Cillian will let you stay with the Grants? As if you’re even close to his level. You’re not even the right breed—he’s disgusted by you!"

Eleanor’s face turned pale, something both absurd and humiliating.

That moment—her undignified begging, acted out by someone who hadn’t even been present, word by word, their voice grinding into ridicule—it was freshly served up for all to mock.

It was like being stripped naked and paraded through the frozen streets, the most shameful parts of her exposed for scrutiny, with everyone watching eagerly, passing judgment, then spreading it for sport.

No matter how calm she felt, no one could endure having their dignity dragged through the gutter like this.

"So, did Phoebe Grant tell you all that?"

"So what if she did? Are you going to deny it?"

"Deny what?" Eleanor stepped in even closer. "Birds of a feather, right? Cillian Grant, all wolf and no heart, colder than ice. Phoebe—just a mongrel who yaps from behind power, sharp-tongued and petty. You? A whole pack of mutts, squawking and barking—shame none of you have a shred of decency, just filthy words from filthy mouths."

"Well said." A sudden voice echoed from the stairs, chillingly familiar.

A cold sweat shot up Eleanor’s spine. She turned around.

Cillian Grant was standing on the stairs. Who knew when he’d arrived. He was watching them.

Under his iron-gray blazer was a pure black turtleneck. Unusually, he wore white pants below—slightly wide-legged, casual, almost languid.

Yet the man himself radiated cold indifference, heavy as lead.

Maybe the distance was too great, but Eleanor couldn’t tell if he was angry or radiating malice.

"Cillian, you’re here!"

Theodore Voss’s eyes lit up; he strode over, giving Eleanor a heavy shoulder check as he passed.

Eleanor, completely off guard, slammed sideways into the wall. Pain exploded through her right shoulder and collarbone, but she gritted her teeth and swallowed her cry.

In her line of vision was Theodore’s back—he didn’t even glance back, just rushed over to Cillian, ready to file his complaint.

As soon as Theodore opened his mouth, he caught Cillian’s stare—dark as thunder, eyes chill and dangerous.

A shiver crawled up Theodore’s spine. Was it because Eleanor’s words had gone too far? Was Cillian going to blame him too?

Theodore stiffened, voice tripping over itself as he hurried to tattle—shooting Eleanor a look of contempt, exaggerating her "crimes," desperate to show how aggrieved and innocent he was.

Eleanor pressed her shoulder. Cillian’s gaze was already shifting to her, growing heavier with every word Theodore spat out.

She felt ice in her heart. She swore, even if the heavens struck her dead, Cillian would always be suspicious. Whatever Phoebe’s side whispered, he’d believe it without a second thought.

Such a double standard—strict with others, lenient with himself.

"Anything you want to say?" Cillian Grant asked her.

Eleanor’s sarcasm faded from her eyes. "I have a lot I’d like to say, but would you even believe me?"

"Upstairs," Cillian signaled to her. "Everyone’s there. If you have something to say, you can take your time—say it all there."

Eleanor’s whole body tensed.

She wasn’t naive enough to think Cillian was actually giving her a chance to defend herself.

In fact, Eleanor regretted it now. All it takes is a moment’s lapse, a flash of pride—sure, cussing them out was satisfying, but none of that would matter if she got cornered and destroyed now.

If going upstairs only meant being humiliated in front of everyone, Eleanor would be willing to tear off her own face and let them trample it.

But the real fear was Cillian snapping, resorting to his old punishments. If he found out she was pregnant, would he let her live?

Worse, what if he tightened his grip over her, ruining any chance to escape—what then?

...

Inside the private room, Theodore rushed ahead to whisper to Phoebe Grant. Eleanor paused at the door for a sweeping glance.

Decadent French luxury—private room, split into an outer and inner lounge.

She couldn’t quite see the inner room.

But the outer, perhaps because of Phoebe Grant’s pregnancy, was scrubbed clean of any trace of smoke or alcohol. The wide crystal table was lined with colorful drinks; the long, cornered sofa was packed with people. 𝓯𝙧𝙚𝒆𝙬𝙚𝒃𝙣𝙤𝒗𝓮𝓵.𝙘𝙤𝙢

All familiar faces—the sons and daughters of the upper crust, peers in the circle. Anyone who lived in Soldane Province was basically here.

As soon as Cillian walked over, the center seat automatically cleared—but he didn’t sit down.

He pointed to the very edge—two young men sandwiched together there jumped up at once, grinning, frantically inviting him to take the spot.

Just then, Damian Sinclair emerged from the inner lounge. He stopped short when he saw Eleanor.

The discreet scrutiny in the room instantly burst into noisy, tangled curiosity.

If those glances left a mark in the air, they’d have formed a sharp four-cornered web—Damian Sinclair, Phoebe Grant, Cillian Grant, and Eleanor herself.

"Come here."

Cillian lifted a hand, calling Eleanor over. In front of others, he always regarded her with apathy and disgust—never let her close, never spoke to her.

The sudden command made Eleanor’s stomach drop. She squashed the tide of dread, stopping two meters from him.

His eyes clearly held disapproval.

Which makes sense, she thought. After everything he’d heard downstairs, he’d be crazy not to be pissed off.

She held her ground. Damian Sinclair came over, offering her a seat. "Why are you here? Sit down, at least."

Ever since the pregnancy, Eleanor hadn’t shown any symptoms, but her body tired far more easily.

She thanked him, and moved to sit.

"Stand." Cillian leaned against the chair, sprawling back with a commanding posture, power radiating from him. "Did I say you could sit?"