Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 103: Cillian Grant Thinks Damian Is a Coward
"The newly emerged group behind us, they’re sturdy, with their core tightened during movements, and their hands unconsciously lingering at their lower back. If I’m not wrong, they should be armed."
Mr. Ghost’s usual lighthearted demeanor suddenly vanished as he stared straight ahead, not daring to glance at her through the rearview mirror.
"You know I have a wife and daughter. I’m in this damn smuggling business, living in constant fear, just to give them a good life, a big villa, luxury cars, any bag they want, they get; genuine Disney dolls for my daughter. I’m... just a snakehead."
"How old is your daughter?" Eleanor rummaged through her luggage and found a palm-sized doll keychain, "This is something I—something I cherished from my trip to Trilliant County. Take it back home as a gift for your daughter."
Mr. Ghost didn’t take it, so Eleanor tossed it from the back seat into his lap, "Consider it a little memento."
If she were caught, or if her pregnancy were exposed and Cillian Grant kept her at The Emerald Residence, at least the doll bought on Liberty Road would still be free.
"That card—"
"Thank you for that card," Eleanor managed a difficult smile, "I understand your intention to lighten my load and keep me safe by not carrying cash. I can’t refuse your kindness now, but once I get the chance, once things are a bit stable, I’ll throw your card into the sea... save the postage of sending it back."
Mr. Ghost understood her meaning perfectly: use it sparsely to avoid further implicating him, don’t mail it back, to avoid revealing his location in the country. 𝘧𝓇ℯ𝑒𝓌𝑒𝑏𝓃𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭.𝒸ℴ𝓂
"Stop at the next intersection," Eleanor directed, "With the identity you’ve arranged for me, I have an international driver’s license, and I can drive decently well, even drift a little."
It was late at night, and Froskar was like a blind box shrouded in snow, pitch-black, endless, silent, and chillingly empty.
The car headlights could only illuminate a patch directly ahead, the crunching sound of ice beneath the tires capturing Eleanor’s every sense.
Even if this road led to the world’s end, she wouldn’t surrender until she truly saw it; she would crawl, roll, even become a dog groveling in pursuit of freedom, her tail fervently wagging all along the way.
............
The atmosphere at the Grant Family was bizarre.
During dinner, Damian Sinclair suddenly arrived to see Cillian Grant.
The two exchanged not a word of greeting, yet with mutual understanding, proceeded upstairs one after the other to Cillian’s study on the third floor.
Phoebe Grant was even more astonished, "My brother is always against others entering his private study."
Unlike Mr. Grant, who might occasionally meet guests in his study, Cillian’s room was forbidden territory; no one could enter, see it, or clean it but himself.
That’s why when Eleanor went knocking on his door early in the morning, Phoebe found it absurd and laughable.
Mr. Grant observed her—her looks and personality were like The Grant Family, but not her intelligence. If Eleanor’s wit and sharpness had passed on to her, The Grant Family would be thriving now.
Upstairs, as soon as Damian entered, he froze in place.
The Grant home’s interior design featured a beige and brown theme, and Mr. Grant’s study was no exception, perhaps with a touch of coffee color and walnut furniture as the main shade.
It was said Mrs. Grant pursued a warm family ambiance, so she specially invited Master Clearwater to design it with elements of New Chinese style and natural wood, reflecting the meticulous thoughts of a hostess in every detail.
But this room alone was set against a deep black, gray backdrop.
Only the curtains, desk, bookshelves, carpet, and two identical chairs, quiet and empty, were so impeccably clean, they seemed desolate and barren.
Cillian Grant sat down, without the slightest intention of offering a seat to Damian Sinclair.
Damian didn’t mind this breach of courtesy; after all, Cillian Grant’s attitude towards him had never been friendly for a long time.
He strode to the desk, "Why won’t you let Eleanor go?"
Cillian propped his elbows on the table, clapping his hands together, "Good question. Where did you get the idea I wouldn’t let her go?"
Damian avoided his trap, "She hasn’t appeared for a few days; she left, didn’t she? The moves you made against Grant in the Grant Group were discovered and stopped by Grant, right?"
Cillian’s eyes were like a net, woven from scheming, experience, and shrewdness, casting over, leaving few who could escape.
Damian felt his hairs stand on end, confronting it, suddenly thinking of Eleanor.
Wondering if, over these past four years, she too endured such heart-wrenching scrutiny.
If she did, how could she have persevered in the struggle for four years,
never being crushed, never tainted, never descending into despair?
The thoughts occupying her mind remained inventive, the world in her eyes was endlessly curious, and everyone who entered her inner world experienced a Wonderland-like place.
In his sight suddenly appeared Eleanor, standing in the shallow stream captured in an overturned ebony desk frame, with verdant water plants and trailing branches caressing her toes, sunlight casting shimmering reflections; she sparkled more than the waves.
She was laughing, radiant and spirited, her fair skin also in motion, like a serene spring lake clearer than the brook.
Anyone who saw her would never forget her.
Cillian abruptly snatched back the frame, the photo turned towards him, its rough back facing Damian.
Damian said, "What’s that supposed to mean?"
"My woman, you’re staring at her, and I haven’t even asked what you mean by that."
Damian’s expression solidified into stone, absurd, delusional, nonsensical, horrifying, until he realized it was laughable, "Your woman? Do you fancy her or just want to possess her?"
"What do you think?"
Damian had no desire to delve into the mind of a shameless man; he just seized the opportunity, "If you like her, you should let her go."
Cillian’s face wore an ironic expression, as if addressing a naive scholar, a monk chanting foolish sutras, an empty-talking minister ruining the nation.
He always enjoyed this—Damian arguing, reasoning, ultimately being refuted by him.
"If you love her, you should respect her wishes, let her go, wish her a joyful, fulfilling life—"
This time, Cillian didn’t even care to hear the complete argument, dismissing it with a wave, "Do you think your feelings are rational, restrained, even noble for being willing to abandon her?"
"I never considered myself noble; it’s my genuine care and restraint, my constant affection for her, considering what’s best for her."
"That’s just cowardice." Cillian’s expression remained unchanged, eyes solemn, unwavering, moving forward with unprecedented intensity, the brilliance erupting like an apocalyptic fire, fierce and domineering, burning until all was exhausted.
"You love her, yet you dared not even utter the word love just now, aiming to be her white knight, hesitating, a blindfolded mule unable to resist for four years."
"You say letting go?" Cillian’s brows arched with contempt, in this dim room, it was like a blade drawn, unstoppable.
"Of course, you want to let go; you can’t break through the constraints of family, powerless. You can’t let go of moral obligations, a simpleton. Don’t even talk about respecting her, you’re just afraid of facing her angry glare if you defy her wishes, unable to bear her loathing, and willing to hand her future to an unknown, unworthy stranger."
