Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 39: He Won’t Let Others Save Her

"I’m willing."

Eleanor turned her head away, shaking off his fingers; she was afraid if she looked at him a moment longer, the pain and hatred in her eyes would show, though to bystanders it might seem as if she was choosing to nestle against him willingly.

Cillian Grant’s chill vanished, his hand clamped down on the back of her head, pressing her tightly against his chest. "Mr. Sherman, did you hear that clearly?"

Eleanor’s ears rang again—the dignity of being human, trampled under someone else’s foot versus crushed by your own—it was a world apart.

Especially when someone kindly reached out to help you.

But Eleanor was painfully clear—she couldn’t grasp this helping hand.

In the past, when Cillian only toyed with her, she couldn’t escape. Now he’d invested a hundred million to seal this marriage alliance—he would never let her go.

If she took Simon’s aid now, Cillian would definitely intervene.

And then, never mind dragging Simon down—her plan to escape, so close to fruition, would be annulled in an instant.

After Simon left, Mrs. Grant came forward and yanked Eleanor away from Cillian.

Quincy Lewis was far more respectful in front of Cillian. "Cillian, I really didn’t expect you to show up today. Why don’t we talk in the private room? My dad—"

"No need." Cillian looked him over from above, eyes cold. "Save that ’Cillian’ for after the engagement."

Quincy bent in agreement, face awash with joy. "You’re right, it’s more proper to change address after we’re engaged."

He thought his response was proper and deferential.

But Cillian fixed him with a gaze, his expression fading, voice stripped of warmth. "That’s enough for today. Go home."

Mrs. Grant didn’t stop him—Quincy was always arrogant toward her. Now, with Cillian suppressing him, she approved.

Quincy glanced at Eleanor. She hung her head, shrinking against Mrs. Grant’s side. Her hair—tousled and wild from his grip—like a cold, unapproachable kitten.

Still, an exquisite long-haired Ragdoll kind.

The colder she appeared, the more he wanted to ruin her, ravage her.

His Adam’s apple bobbed. "You’re so busy and you still made time to come. How could I just leave? Why don’t we settle it today so you don’t have to waste time on this again?"

Cillian lifted his hand to unbutton his cuff, casting him a lazy glance, indifferent, impossible to read.

Quincy couldn’t open his mouth again.

A few heartbeats later, his impulse died and he left.

The corridor grew quiet. Cillian’s eyes stayed fixed on Eleanor.

Under the blazing lights, mixed with the pale glow from the private room, the contours of her knit dress revealed curves—plump, taut.

The dress was off-white, making her bare arms and calves look even more soft and porcelain.

A young, delicate body was always seductive, awakening all those hidden things no one dared show.

Even more so—she’d never dressed this way before, had even put on makeup.

Radiant and vivid.

She’d never revealed herself to him like this.

"Cillian?" Mrs. Grant called for the third time, eyes following his gaze to Eleanor. "Why are you staring at Eleanor?"

Cillian strode in expressionlessly.

Mrs. Grant followed; Eleanor was the last to cross the threshold.

"Get out." Cillian’s force was intimidating.

Eleanor froze in place.

The man loosened his collar. "Need me to say it again? Get out and find Aaron in the parking lot."

Eleanor drew a long breath and retreated.

The door closed. Mrs. Grant looked sternly at Cillian. "What did you mean by that?"

Cillian swept a disgusted glance around the room. The chair was right beside him, but he didn’t sit. "Will you sit down for this meal, mother?"

Mrs. Grant’s face darkened. "Matchmaking is between two people. As a parent, it’s not right for me to be here."

"So mother’s afraid of catching some disease too?" Cillian stood ramrod straight. "Then when Eleanor marries, what if she comes back to The Grant Family?"

"She won’t." Mrs. Grant clutched her bag. "A married daughter is like spilt water."

"What about Phoebe Grant—if she marries, she won’t be allowed back either?"

Mrs. Grant choked, growing angry. "Phoebe is your sister, and she’s marrying Damian, a standout heir. How can you compare?"

Her temper flared; but she cooled, sharply accusing him. "Are you shielding Eleanor now, and interrogating me?"

"Is it wrong to ask?" Cillian demanded. "This alliance means partnership, means choosing a teammate. The Grant Group’s development is my responsibility—if you ignore my opinion, are you pulling me back?"

Mrs. Grant was stunned for a moment, but tried not to yield. "It’s just one matchmaking—Phoebe asked you first. Right now, you support Liam Xavier, and that project is stuck in Quincy’s father’s hands. We’re helping you."

"Has Phoebe’s shallow lifestyle rubbed off on you?" Cillian’s jaw clenched, eyes glacial. "Why is that project stuck with him? Do you really think it’s because I lack the skill to take it?"

His words nearly spelled it out—they were making a mess with reckless plans.

Mrs. Grant was at fault, but his sharp tongue made her wheeze. "If Quincy’s not suitable, you name someone who is."

Cillian’s jaw tightened, face rigid. After a moment, he went to the door. "I’ll arrange Eleanor’s wedding myself. Mother, you don’t need to worry."

This didn’t sound right.

Mrs. Grant calmed down. She mentally recapped everything since his arrival, eyes narrowing in suspicion. "You’re almost thirty now, and in all these years haven’t found any woman to your liking?"

Cillian paused, then turned back. "I have."

Mrs. Grant’s fists clenched without a sound. "Who? Why have you never mentioned her?"

Cillian, unfazed. "We’re not at the point of marriage yet. I don’t want to disturb her."

Mrs. Grant did the math swiftly in her head—his nature was to act only when certain. If there truly was a confidante, and he hadn’t emotionally committed yet, he would indeed keep it hidden.

But "confidante" was too broad—secretaries, executives, ordinary women from humble backgrounds—none of that bothered her. What did was something else.

Mrs. Grant probed. "Have I met her?"

"Mother, you’ve met every woman around me, haven’t you?" Cillian smoothed his jacket, checked his watch. "I have business at the company. Make yourself at home."

He pulled open the door and left.

Mrs. Grant couldn’t let him go without a clear answer.

She chased him to the stairs, where a high-society matron collided with her head-on. But before she could grow annoyed, she was pulled into a tight embrace. "Grace, I thought you’d already left. Glad you’re still here."

In this brief delay, Cillian’s figure had vanished downstairs.

.........

Eleanor sat in the back seat. Aaron avoided being left alone with her—ever since she got in, he’d slipped away and disappeared.

The silence inside only amplified the sounds outside—the steady stamp of leather shoes approaching from afar.

Each muffled step, each thud, pressed hard on Eleanor’s heart.

It was always like this when alone. He was up high. She was restless, uneasy.

The man’s aggression magnified in the hush, filling every space, blocking all oxygen—sometimes he would dole out a bit, but only after she asked for mercy.

Today, Eleanor was utterly drained, her mind sluggish—she couldn’t even force herself to speak.

"Do you realize your mistake?"

Eleanor’s breath was ragged and exhausted, her head bowed in silence.

Outside, the sky clung to its last streak of light, caught between night and day’s final boundary; the blue glow entering the car was indigo.

Her small pale face looked impossibly blurred, impossibly dreamy.

Pearl studs shimmered at her earlobes; the off-white dress—pure yet alluring. Cillian watched her for a long time.

The air was tense, dangerous.

Yet, oddly charged.

In the distance, Aaron stepped across the fading daylight, plunging the inside of the car into absolute darkness.