Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 78: The Child Can’t Be Saved, Keep or Not

Chapter 78: Chapter 78: The Child Can’t Be Saved, Keep or Not

Then let’s deduce Mr. Grant’s motive from his actions. His motive is to deal with her relationship with Cillian Grant, so the point of his words is to cause trouble between her and Cillian, commonly known as sowing discord.

After all, how much she craved motherly love, is how much she came to hate Cillian Grant when the truth was revealed.

A sudden flash of lightning crossed Eleanor’s mind, causing her spine to tingle.

She knew in her heart that she hated Cillian Grant because all of this was his doing.

But how did Mr. Grant know for sure? If he could do this, does it mean he’s already been suspicious for these four years, or is even investigating for these four years?

Is the current inaction just waiting for the evidence to be confirmed?

Eleanor brainstormed, nearly driving herself to madness with her thoughts.

Her speculations were not rigorous, full of logical loopholes.

At the most basic level, Mr. Grant, as the head of the family, when faced with such a hot-potato event that could easily destroy the family, should use thunderous means to prevent long-term dreams and unpredictable changes. His way of doing things need not be so gentle and slow.

Eleanor couldn’t figure it out.

Maybe she was overthinking, using the eight hundred concerns she had about Cillian Grant to guess others, making good people into bad ones, a case of a victim’s delusion.

But whether it is or isn’t, this situation is the worst.

It’s like putting a ticking clock on her new escape plan.

If she leaves a little slower, and Mr. Grant holds evidence, by then it won’t be a struggle where an outsider benefits, but rather an enemy attack from all sides, squeezing her to death.

Breakfast was just laid out on the table.

The servant near the door suddenly spoke up, "The young master is back."

Eleanor looked up to see Cillian Grant standing at the entrance, taking off his gray wool coat to reveal a straight black sweater and slacks, changing into house slippers, and bypassing the lattice screen.

As soon as he moved, Eleanor stepped back a few steps, returning to the kitchen while Auntie King silently retreated as well, "Why is he back again? Didn’t he already move to The Emerald Residence?"

Hearing this, despite Eleanor’s heavy heart, she couldn’t help but laugh, "Auntie King, you’ve changed."

Auntie King looked at her, "Eleanor, last night I — I’m not capable, I couldn’t help, maybe even harmed you."

Knowing how difficult her situation was, yet when pushed by someone’s aura, she still let him in and kept watch for him.

Eleanor’s throat was choked up.

She forgot that Auntie King is an honest person, not one for witty words, but with a heart full of sincerity.

"How did you harm me? Last night, I was particularly proud, scolded fiercely, and vented my anger."

Just then, outside in the dining room, Mrs. Grant suddenly exclaimed, "Cillian, your hand — Ms. Lewis, get the first-aid kit."

Eleanor followed Auntie King out.

The large dining room was in a flurry; the two servants who Mrs. Grant frequently used stood by her side, surrounding Cillian, Mr. Grant leaned over from his seat to have a look, and Phoebe Grant rebuked Ms. Lewis for being too slow.

At the center of the chaos, Cillian Grant was indifferent, unmoved by the noisy concern around him.

Eleanor had just stabilized her footing when the man suddenly turned his head, staring at her.

In the deepest illumination of the lamps, amidst the dim dawn, his brow was heavy, as if the thick night of last night had not yet passed, but even deeper, darker.

Like a calm and undisturbed ancient well, yet with surging undercurrents.

"What exactly are you doing?" Mrs. Grant unwrapped the red-dyed bandage layer by layer, her heart aching with resentment.

Cillian Grant’s gaze remained fixated on Eleanor, silent.

Mrs. Grant, head lowered, didn’t notice. Too many times, she couldn’t get answers from Cillian lately, "Do you resent Mom? Are you going to become estranged from Mom?"

As the last layer of bandage was uncovered, numerous wounds the size of a finger overlapped haphazardly. Most had just scabbed, dense with coagulated dark brown clots, with the remaining intact skin showing purple bruising.

Mrs. Grant’s heart and lungs were torn into pieces, tears falling, "How did it become this serious? Wasn’t it said to have healed, Ms. King?"

Auntie King stepped forward hesitantly. "It had healed—"

For the past few days, Eleanor had been changing Cillian’s bandages mornings and evenings. Though she had emotions towards him, she hadn’t looked closely or asked much.

Mrs. Grant was angry, "What do you mean healed? Healing is when the wound closes up. This scar just formed, and it’s become so severe. Why didn’t you report this to me?"

Auntie King clasped her hands, anxious.

"Go to the hospital, the wound is too deep." Mr. Grant came over, wiping Mrs. Grant’s tears, his expression grave, "You’ve come of age, and your mother and I won’t interfere much in your life. But your body and skin are granted by your parents, this kind of severe injury you’ve overstepped."

"We’ll go to the hospital later." Cillian Grant picked up the fresh bandage from Mrs. Grant’s hand, roughly wrapping it twice, tying it firmly, "What’s for breakfast?"

Auntie King quickly responded, "There’s Chinese style and Western style, the meals are all here. If you want anything else, I’ll arrange someone to make it now."

Cillian Grant pulled out a chair, sitting at the left lower seat of Mr. Grant’s position, "Don’t bother, just serve the Chinese dishes."

The Grant Family practiced a separate serving system for breakfast, but the kitchen always prepared extra just in case. Ms. King hurried back to the kitchen to get ready.

Mr. Grant furrowed his brow tightly, turning back to sit down.

Mrs. Grant sat at the right lower seat of Mr. Grant, with Phoebe Grant always close by her side.

Eleanor silently circled the table, sitting beside Phoebe Grant.

As soon as she sat down, the man’s gaze swept over again, across the table, the bright white light spilling over his face, becoming increasingly sharp and piercing.

Like rampant vines growing, binding her, strangling her tightly, or like a poisonous blade dissecting her, analyzing her being.

Eleanor lowered her eyes, avoiding his gaze.

They both understood each other.

She had first pretended to stab him, then last night was resentful and rebellious, thoroughly tearing their facade apart.

Even if Cillian Grant became a saint now, he wouldn’t let her go. Neither would Eleanor, even with her legs broken, tendons pulled empty, she would still crawl away from Cillian Grant.

What followed would be a tough battle.

At the dining table, Mrs. Grant continuously showed warm concern for Cillian Grant, asking repeatedly, wanting to understand the reason.

Cillian gave sporadic and absent responses.

Phoebe Grant, feeling uneasy after last night’s impulsiveness, feared seriously angering him, "Brother, do you want to move back and stay at home?"

Eleanor nearly choked on her food.

She could only sigh; Phoebe Grant indeed was an unbeatable ninja in her life, always catching her off guard and in unimaginable ways, defeating her defenses.

Mrs. Grant nodded, "Move back, I can watch over your hand injury every day from now on."

This time, Cillian Grant remained silent, which was not a refusal.

Mr. Grant, who had not spoken, finally put down his spoon, "Cillian’s been busy lately. The Emerald Residence is in the city, close to the Grant Group, convenient. No need to force him to move back."

Eleanor felt a flicker of hope, listening intently.

Cillian Grant picked up a piece of shumai, chewed a few times, and with his eyes lowered, stared at the half remaining in his bowl, "I’ll move back."

Mr. Grant paused, a gleam flickering in his eyes, "You told your mother moving out was for convenience, but now it’s not inconvenient?"

Phoebe Grant smiled cheekily at Cillian, "Brother cares about the family. I’ve just returned from abroad, and Mother is worried, so of course, Brother will stay at home, just like before."

Eleanor’s last hope died completely.

Early in the morning, she had diligently made shumai just to gauge Mr. Grant’s attitude. Mr. Grant was not Cillian; he wouldn’t openly restrict her freedom of movement.

The most likely scenario would be him assigning an assistant to follow her, monitoring her, which she couldn’t refuse but could find ways to delay.

Given the delay, she could then go to the hospital first, to protect the pregnancy, and stop the bleeding.

Then find Elaine White to corroborate details and buy a new phone along the way, replacing the previous SIM card.

Once the assistant was in place, she could attend work normally, using it as an opportunity to seek escape.

But with Cillian Grant’s appearance, all her plans were in vain, as if announcing with a trumpet, that the young lady was going out, and any enemies should come and catch her.

After breakfast, Eleanor returned to her room without a word, entering the bathroom.

Her lower abdomen had been intermittently cramping all night, and during breakfast, it developed into a heavy pain. It was heavy and burdensome, certainly not a good sign.

She removed her pants, seeing bright red blood stains spreading dramatically, now equivalent to the volume of her menstrual cycle.

Eleanor instinctively covered her lower abdomen, and in the mirror above the sink, reflected a pale and panicked face.

This defeated, colorless face was the same as the one a month ago when she had a pregnancy test in the mirror.

Back then, she had earnestly wished not to have this child.

But now?

Could she bear it?

Just then, a sound came from outside the door.