Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 69: The Ultimate Showdown with Him

Phoebe had slept less than half an hour when she sensed someone approaching, caught between sleep and wakefulness.

The air was laced with a calm, detached scent—sage, Virginia cedar, blackwood—the base notes of every men’s cologne, but especially sharp on him.

A smell of beastly scum.

Eleanor pretended to sleep and rolled over, turning her back to him.

"Get up and eat something."

Eleanor didn’t move at all.

The man repeated, "Auntie King said you didn’t have dinner."

Eleanor still kept her eyes closed.

Cillian Grant threw back the covers, grabbed her by the waist, and pulled her up all at once; Eleanor startled, "What are you doing?"

Cillian carried her to the dining room, "Eat."

"I have no appetite."

"You said, I can do whatever I want to you. I want you to eat." Cillian sat at the dining table, still holding her, scooped up a spoonful of chicken soup, "Drink it."

Eleanor was briefly stunned, "Adults don’t always mean what they say."

As soon as she opened her mouth, the rich, oily smell of the black chicken soup rushed into her throat, making her stomach churn to the point of retching on reflex. Luckily there was nothing in her stomach to vomit, so her reaction wasn’t obvious.

But at such close distance, how could Cillian not notice?

"You want to throw up?"

Those three words, usually just descriptive—at most concerned—but right now, Eleanor truly felt guilty. His question made her blood run cold, left her unable to hide her nerves.

"Stomach cramp." Eleanor looked away, "Told you I’m not in the mood to eat."

Cillian lowered his eyes to scrutinize her, saying nothing.

The door to the maid’s room opened, and Auntie King stepped out from the kitchen in her robe, startled at their position, then moved forward and took away the soup. "This soup isn’t fresh anymore, if it sits too long it gets gamey. Miss Eleanor’s got a cold stomach, too—it’ll make her uncomfortable."

"Cold stomach?" Cillian frowned at Eleanor, "How come I didn’t know?"

Eleanor forced a faint smile, "Just a minor issue, no need to make it everyone’s business."

Cillian’s chest visibly tightened, his face turning frosty.

Eleanor clearly saw the violence crack through his eyes—suppressed for a second, then bursting out even more the next.

She clenched her teeth, utterly fed up with his mood swings, "It’s not a cold stomach, it’s my—emotions, too intense, that’s all."

The storm in Cillian’s eyes deepened. From the corn, to the fear of dark, to the "adults don’t mean it" talk—rage building in his veins finally burst to magma and erupted.

"Acting again. You say behind my back I’m paranoid, can’t let go of even minor things, but the truth is, you’re the fake one—professional liar. Four years now, you keep up the act till even your habits are airtight."

Auntie King’s whole body trembled, so shocked her pupils shook. 𝘧𝓇𝑒𝑒𝑤ℯ𝑏𝓃𝘰𝑣ℯ𝘭.𝘤ℴ𝘮

Four years... That early...

But before she could think, Cillian grabbed Eleanor’s chin hard, pinching her lips up too, "Aren’t you tired? Is there any time you’re actually real?"

These past few years Eleanor had gotten so thin—small build, and under Cillian’s broad, imposing physique, she looked fragile, delicate, as if she might snap the next second.

Auntie King rushed up, grabbing his arm, "Miss Eleanor didn’t lie to you. I’m old, I must have remembered wrong."

Eleanor took the opportunity to pry his hand off and all but rolled and scrambled down from his lap. "Auntie King, go to bed."

Auntie King didn’t feel at ease leaving, but Eleanor insisted and escorted her back to her room.

"He wasn’t like this before. He’s got a cold personality, but he never laid a hand on women." Auntie King was anxious and worried. "Eleanor, what if he gets rough with you again in a moment?"

Eleanor’s expression stayed steady, "Don’t worry, I know how to handle him."

Ever since Cillian Grant had turned into a maniac, her mental resilience had grown by the day. By now, she’d already regained her composure.

Eleanor closed the door behind Auntie King and went back to the dining room.

Outside the dining room, neon streets and towers blurred into the deep night—twisting lights winding together. Some families ate together in joy, while others scraped their minds for the hope of another tomorrow.

Eleanor faced away, standing on the opposite side of the table. "We need to talk."

The man’s face was sunk in shadow, "About what?"

Eleanor leaned on the table edge, "All this effort—is it just to make me get married?"

Cillian’s gaze was sinister.

Eleanor’s voice went cold, "I’ll do what’s arranged, but emotionally, I have no desire to get married—and—" she faltered, three-tenths flustered, "I can’t let go of my parents. You watching me, forcing me, just scares me. I’m nervous, I need time."

"What do you mean?"

Eleanor fixed her gaze on his face, "I can’t run, and I won’t. If you really can’t trust me, get bodyguards to keep watch, whatever. The Xavier Family is busy; your time and energy should go to them."

"Trying to kick me out?"

Eleanor, "No—formally requesting, negotiating with you."

"I make you that uncomfortable?"

Eleanor didn’t understand why he’d ask again, but since she was playing it brutally honest, there was no need to lie: "Yes."

"How do I make you uncomfortable?"

Eleanor studied his expression. This mood, this atmosphere—first time in four years.

He really didn’t like her mouthing off fake sweet talk. All her nice words in the past had met his icy bones—but now, when her dislike was blunt, he suddenly stayed calm.

Eleanor started to realize: Cillian loathed her so much, the more she tried to please, the more like a parasite she clung, impossible to shake off.

If only she’d known. If only...

He could’ve been the one tramping off, gone to hell, why’d she pin herself down and play the sycophant dog, licking shit for free.

"I already said, you scare me." Eleanor tried to guess his motives, adjusting her stance. "You’re too sharp, too experienced—I can’t fool you. It’s like cops and thieves; even a thief would rather go to jail than stay in an interrogation room getting questioned every day."

The man didn’t move, stared at her a while, then suddenly got up and seized her, "So you just don’t like being suspected?"

Eleanor disliked much about him, but honesty didn’t mean spilling everything. One truth is sincerity—the whole truth is digging your own grave.

"And you like it?" Eleanor dodged the question. "Your mother and your sister used to suspect you—did you like it?"

Cillian eyed her, seeing her go toe to toe with him. He’d always hated her lies, but the truth sounded just as bad as lies.

"If you can’t drink the soup, there’s some chestnut cake." He paused, "From Hopper’s."

Eleanor froze, "Which Hopper’s?"

"The Peridian Way near The Aztil Walk." Cillian’s expression was bland, as if tonight’s conflicts had all passed. "The one you took time off to buy from."

Eleanor felt suffocated, stared into his eyes, uncertain if this was a new round of intimidation or just a test.

That day, she’d ordered the cakes first, then slipped off to a black-market clinic for a checkup while waiting in line—the two places were a street apart. Did he find out something while checking on Damian Sinclair?

Eleanor maintained her new "authentic" image, "I don’t eat sugary, oily stuff at night—it makes you fat."

"Eat." Cillian opened the box, "Get fat, someone might want you."

Eleanor stared at the sweet cakes, as if every piece was laced with poison—stuck in her throat, so disgusted she almost gagged.

......

The next morning after breakfast, Mr. Grant accompanied Mrs. Grant in the garden, trimming flower branches.

"Phoebe called—said it’s too hot in Afreia. Even a five-star hotel there can’t compare to an overseas IKEA. She wants to come back."

Mr. Grant didn’t care, "Then let her come home. Damian’s starting up a business, it’s already tough. Phoebe’s pregnant, she’ll only distract him."

Mrs. Grant paused, flower in hand, looking at Mr. Grant’s light, breezy manner. Both amused and exasperated, "Is it that all you men seasoned in business are so clever and cool? Like nothing ever fazes you?"

That kind of praise was rare from Mrs. Grant. Mr. Grant put down the shears, "Why do you say that?"