Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 73: Taken Back to the Grant Family

"How did you get these shoes?"

Eleanor was confused, "They were delivered by courier."

Mrs. Grant searched her expression. "A’s pre-release fashion show, in China only I was given two pairs in advance by the brand—one brown pair for me, a pink pair for Phoebe, and a white pair signed by the designer personally—a collector’s item, not for sale."

Eleanor’s face tensed at the first half of the sentence, then suddenly relaxed. She kicked off her slippers and stood barefoot on the floor.

"I didn’t know these slippers resemble the runway edition, but what I bought is just cheap Yiwu stock. Maybe the store really knows how to follow the trend. If you’re suspicious, Mother, you can have them checked—there’s definitely no signature on them."

Phoebe Grant ordered Ms. Lewis to step forward and inspect them.

Eleanor bent down to pick up one for her, her eyes flickering past Cillian Grant without a trace.

Her purse was empty and she couldn’t afford luxury goods, so she habitually paid them no mind. But Cillian was different—he was now Vice Chairman, wielding real power.

Even Mr. Grant’s own wealth might not compare to his.

These privileges and coveted luxuries the upper-class wives competed for—he could get them with a word, didn’t even need to show up in person.

The brands’ prized collections locked away in their vaults would be offered up, both hands.

She had prepared for the handbag last time, but these slippers caught her off-guard. Luckily, before leaving, she’d found those white, fluffy long hairs cute, couldn’t help stroking them several times—she knew for certain there was no signature.

"Once, twice now." Phoebe Grant clearly remembered as well. Her eyes roved over Eleanor’s clothes. "Top is D’s fall/winter haute couture, the trousers are also A’s. Eleanor, your whole outfit easily costs over three hundred thousand. So Yiwu-made too?"

Eleanor saw Ms. Lewis shake her head at Mrs. Grant. She only grew more composed. "I’m vain. Can’t afford it but still want to wear designer brands."

Cillian Grant’s chest rose and fell repeatedly, as if he were approaching a breaking point. After steadying himself, he met Mr. Grant’s watching eyes.

"Cillian, you don’t want Eleanor to come back?"

Cillian Grant gave a half-smile. "Didn’t I send her away? Isn’t that clear enough?"

Something meaningful flickered across Mr. Grant’s face; he glanced at Eleanor. "And what do you think, Eleanor? Father knows you’ve been wronged. Tell me—do you still want to stay with the Grant Family?"

Eleanor was caught off guard by how fast things progressed—she’d expected a storm, and yet after merely a pair of slippers, it had reached the final stage.

She glanced discreetly at Cillian Grant. His face was cold and bleak, holding an unspoken warning.

He warned her to cherish her final chance to choose—while never once actually offering her any choice.

She lowered her gaze. "Father, are you asking because you’re reluctant to let me go?"

Mr. Grant hadn’t expected Eleanor’s response. After a few seconds’ pause, he said, "Reluctant." There was a faint smile. "You’ve grown up, Eleanor."

Compared to Phoebe Grant of the same age, she was much more mature, much calmer, and... much smarter.

But being too smart only made the cracks more obvious.

Storms churned within Mr. Grant’s heart.

Eleanor pretended not to hear the latter part’s hidden meaning. She used her sleeve to quickly wipe her eyes. "Then I’ll stay."

"I don’t agree." Cillian Grant was like a brewing storm, heavy rolling clouds pressing down, suffocating and dire.

This time, Mr. Grant wasn’t hurried or angry, only spoke in an easy tone. "Why? What’s your reason?"

"I’m tired," he said. "Tired of being entangled meaninglessly with someone who lies at every turn and can’t take a hint. If I drive her out and she can still come back—"

Cillian Grant looked Eleanor up and down. There was neither shock nor fury in his eyes, not the lightning of having been deceived again—a darkness gathered there, thick as a lifeless, bottomless sea.

A chill crept through her, terrifying.

It surged back and drowned her, froze her dead.

"Then have her household registration removed, strip her of the family name, issue a public statement under Grant Group, and sever all ties with her completely."

For a long moment, Eleanor actually forgot to breathe.

Every sense in her body dulled, except her ears, which seemed preternaturally keen—total silence, and yet a deafening roar.

It was Phoebe Grant laughing, Mrs. Grant sucking in a sharp breath.

It was Mr. Grant asking, "Are you sure?"

"I’m sure."

It was a man’s cold, mocking laugh, thick with annoyance, loathing, and malice.

"No more guessing for Father, no more worrying for Mother, and I no longer have to be distracted by all this. Everyone’s satisfied." 𝒻𝑟𝘦𝘦𝘸ℯ𝒷𝑛𝘰𝓋ℯ𝘭.𝘤𝘰𝘮

"Is it her you hate, or do you hate me and your mother for being suspicious?"

"Does it matter? She’s the root of everything."

Eleanor found it absurd.

She didn’t have grand ambitions—at twenty-two, an age full of dreams, her deepest wish was just to live quietly, to live like a person should.

To have countless nights in the future, all gentle as that one, with the breeze and moon outside a tiny inn.

To be able to speak one day as freely as the landlady—without pretense, blurting out, "Girl, I’ll give you a discount, three bucks."

She envied Tilly so much, but never dared hope life would ever treat her as it did Tilly.

If she could, she would take a ten-square-meter room in Trilliant County; maybe a little bigger, just a bit.

She’d make two rooms—a study or playroom for her daughter when she was young. When the girl grew, paint it her favorite color, make it her own little bedroom. The key would be hers, and no one—absolutely no one—would burst in unannounced.

Because of this tiny weed of a hope, her every act of subtle resistance—the domino effect of defying him—had become her capital offense, unforgivable.

They wished nothing more than to tear her apart, destroy her, wound her by every means possible—shred and grind her to nothing.

......

"Eleanor." At some point Mr. Grant was in front of her. "Come to the study, I have some things to discuss with you."

Eleanor snapped out of her daze, stiff. "Okay."

She trudged after Mr. Grant up the stairs, faintly aware of a gaze at her back—deep, oppressive, icy yet burning, sharp as needles in her flesh.

The study.

Mr. Grant sat on the single sofa by the window, just like every talk in this room when she was a child.

Eleanor hesitated for a few seconds, then, as in childhood, sat on the small stool beside the sofa.

Fine lines fanned at the corners of Mr. Grant’s eyes; a smile spread across his face. "For these years, Cillian was expanding into the North, I held the rear, and you were away at college—come to think of it, it’s been four years since we’ve had a true heart-to-heart."

Eleanor forced a smile. "I used to study history, always thought conquering a kingdom was easier than ruling one. Rear-guard funding, supplying personnel, maintaining connections—these four years of Grant Group’s rapid progress, you were chief—the man behind the curtain."

Mr. Grant laughed, pointing at her in the air. "That mouth of yours—definitely your mother’s work."

Eleanor’s smile was strained. She said nothing.

Mr. Grant’s eyes were bright—not as sharp as Cillian’s, but weathered by the years into worldly wisdom.

"Do you resent your mother?"

Eleanor’s voice was soft. "No."

Mr. Grant leaned back. "Eleanor, your mother—she’s quick to love, quick to hate, fiercely loyal. Like a lioness on the grasslands."

Eleanor lowered her eyes.

A lioness on the grasslands protects her cubs. But her—she’d stopped being a cub long ago.