Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 28: Give Her a Profound Lesson

Eleanor took back her raised leg.

Cillian Grant’s voice was icy, "Didn’t you have a lot to say? Stand right there, in front of everyone, spell it out word by word, make sure every single person hears you."

His words were playful and mocking.

The box was already heavy with loaded, scrutinizing glances; now, as they all landed on Eleanor, not a single one bothered to hide.

Mocking. Disdainful.

They drowned her.

Damian pushed forward, shielding her, only to be swiftly dragged away by Phoebe Grant.

The room descended into a deeper silence, the gazes more naked, more brazen.

From simply looking at her, they turned into looking down from above—suffocating, coming from all directions, flaying Eleanor inch by inch, stripping her of human skin.

It was almost laughable; she’d cursed Cillian Grant as a dog, so Cillian was really making her into one.

She struggled to maintain her dignity, and he shattered it, effortlessly, in front of them all.

Eleanor forced a stiff smile at her lips; the hand behind her back clenched so hard it went numb, spasmed.

This humiliation—she had to swallow it. Only by enduring could she later leave it all behind and find her wide-open future, her days of freedom.

"Everyone, I’m sorry for taking up your precious time. Here, I sincerely apologize to Miss Phoebe Grant. I’m sorry. And also to Mr. Cillian Grant. I was wrong, I shouldn’t have harbored foolish hopes, shouldn’t have disrespected Miss Phoebe Grant. I am one of The Grant Family’s—charity cases—"

"Shut up." Cillian Grant suddenly stood up, rage flashing in his eyes and brow. "Is this all you were going to say?"

The curve at the corner of Eleanor’s lips wouldn’t hold.

Still not enough?

She caught sight of Damian, standing up as well, and suddenly understood.

"Sorry, I’ve been rambling." Eleanor turned toward Damian. "Mr. Sinclair, we had a mistaken encounter before, and because of that, everyone’s been upset."

"Now that everyone’s here today, I sincerely offer my congratulations to you, to your fiancée Miss Phoebe Grant, and to the child you two are expecting. May you be united, loving for a hundred years. If I ever have even a stray thought toward you, toward your marriage—may I die utterly."

"Don’t say—"

"Enough."

Two voices rang out at the same time. Eleanor didn’t look at Damian, only stared at Cillian Grant.

His fists were clenched, his whole body rigid—like a bowstring stretched to its absolute limit.

At any moment, a freezing arrow could shoot from him, right into her flesh, pierce through her chest.

To take her life.

Eleanor truly didn’t understand—it seemed there was no low he wouldn’t force her to sink to.

Was she supposed to kneel on the ground, kowtow to everyone? Or go and lick the tips of Phoebe Grant’s shoes, to prove she really was their dog?

Cillian Grant pointed at Theodore Voss.

"Stand up. Who spread that rumor—Eleanor is cruel, tried to cause Phoebe’s miscarriage? Call them out."

The room froze; Damian Sinclair’s words stalled at his lips.

But Eleanor was calmer than everyone put together.

She understood—they were confused. Wasn’t this all about beating down the dog? Why did they suddenly want to stand up for her?

It wasn’t standing up for her. Raise, then crush—just an old trick.

Theodore Voss’s face was still stuck in its earlier self-satisfied smirk.

He stared, slow to connect with Cillian Grant’s ominous gaze; in that instant, it felt like a thousand weights pressed down, suffocating him.

But his body jolted upright, stiff, "It was... it was..."

He gritted his teeth, "It was me."

"You?" Cillian Grant’s tone was razor sharp. "The Voss Family must have developed supernatural powers—see a thousand miles, hear a whisper on the wind. Not only do you know my family’s business, you know Eleanor trying to win me over, even my exact words, clear as day."

Theodore Voss’s forehead couldn’t stop sweating.

He didn’t want to seem like a coward in front of Phoebe Grant, but with every glance around the room, all those spoiled heirs clearly avoided his eyes, fearing he’d drag them down too.

Everyone here knew—with Cillian Grant’s current power, even if they all banded together, they couldn’t cross him.

Not that The Grant Family was so untouchable, even with their clans joined—if it ever got that far, the state would step in and sort it out.

What they really feared was their own interests suffering; these past four years, Cillian Grant expanded in The North, and in Soldane Province, wove alliances, invested or partnered or squeezed their families, built a web tied together with money.

For businessmen, profit is god. If they offend this god of money, their own fathers would turn on them, skin them alive.

"No, it... wasn’t." Theodore Voss feared his own family getting crushed, shot a furtive look at Phoebe Grant.

Phoebe didn’t look back, her gaze darting between Damian Sinclair and Cillian Grant.

Her beloved fiancé couldn’t tear his eyes from Eleanor; old affections linger—Phoebe knew it well.

But now, her closest brother was suddenly standing up for Eleanor.

No, this wasn’t the first time he’d sided with her.

Since last week’s strange glances—he’d scold her for insulting Eleanor, force her to apologize. 𝒇𝓻𝓮𝓮𝙬𝙚𝒃𝒏𝓸𝙫𝒆𝙡.𝓬𝓸𝒎

Mrs. Grant always told her, her brother only meant well.

But Phoebe kept hearing a voice inside—something’s wrong with brother, brother feels something different toward Eleanor.

"No need to ask—I told him to spread it." Phoebe Grant stared at Cillian Grant. "But didn’t you let it happen, brother?"

"When did I ever let that happen?"

"Last Wednesday, after the check-up—did you forget, brother?"

Cillian Grant’s already shadowed face took on an even colder look.

"That day, the talk was about your wedding date—what did I let happen?"

Phoebe Grant’s hand gripped tight on her leg.

She looked at Cillian, then turned, her gaze sharp and dangerous, stabbing suddenly into Eleanor.

Eleanor’s face was blank, but inside, a weighted barrel swayed, hauled up a little—for the moment.

Cillian Grant lied to her, but he’d never lie to Phoebe. So what was he playing at now?

And that look from Phoebe Grant... Eleanor’s eyelid twitched, instinctively trying to read it.

But before she could, Damian Sinclair suddenly laughed aloud.

Phoebe turned to look at him, Eleanor frowned, followed their gaze.

Damian’s eyes were like ashen mist, with something else impossible to define.

Silent. Steadfast. Murky... unnameable.

"No wonder my mother always urges me to learn how to behave from Vice Director Grant. I’m truly not in his league."

Damian’s tone was full of meaning.

Baffled, the room wanted more, but with Cillian Grant there, no one dared speak.

Only Phoebe, "What do you mean? Damian, what are you saying?"

"None of you get it?"

Damian Sinclair stared at Cillian Grant, met his darkly intimidating gaze, undaunted, spoke calmly and fluently.

"Vice Director Grant may loathe Eleanor’s restlessness, but he doesn’t want her reputation tainted, dragging Phoebe down. Gossip is just gossip—if one side reeks, even the good is brought up in the dirt. Phoebe’s pregnant, living in the shadow of wagging tongues—how could such a devoted brother bear that?"

"Plus, Eleanor’s posture today is too low. If news gets out... people naturally sympathize with the weak. Who knows what that’ll make them think about Phoebe. So that’s why Vice Director Grant’s angry."

Phoebe Grant finally understood.

The voice inside her faded, but still lingered; she couldn’t help but ask, "Is that true, brother?"

Eleanor sneered.

Cillian Grant was truly an exemplary brother, going round in huge circles; even she wavered a moment, only to see it was still all for Phoebe Grant.

The irony—he does all this, and still Phoebe Grant doubts him.

That’s how the favored act, fearless; those who are denied, even when their hearts settle, can’t find peace.

Eleanor marked this lesson deep.