Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 128: Faking Death and Leaving

Eleanor’s attention wasn’t on the dining table. She gave a perfunctory reply, picked up a napkin to wipe the corner of her mouth, "I’m going to the restroom."

Cillian Grant didn’t ask much, nor did he stop her.

Eleanor weaved through the bustling crowd in the restaurant. For the first time, the man remained in place, watching her disappear among the masses, not following closely.

The restaurant was crowded, with a long line outside the restroom.

Eleanor squeezed past the queue. Between the men’s and women’s restrooms was a shared sink.

She stood there, her gaze scanning the two lines. Those coming and going from washing their hands were all foreigners with prominent noses and deep-set eyes. It seemed she’d been seeing things, a brief glance that imagined seeing Mr. Ghost.

Eleanor waited another minute. Not the slightest movement or suspicious sign appeared.

She hastily washed her hands, preparing to leave.

Suddenly, a middle-aged man squeezed in next to her, wearing a baseball cap and sporting a red stubbly beard, looking Caucasian. But when he spoke, it was Mr. Ghost’s voice.

"President Sinclair says your little enemy will soon return to the country. To prevent any other plots he might have, it’s not wise to act rashly. He wants you to wait a bit longer."

Eleanor’s heart raced, water splashing from her fingertips. Her voice was as soft as a mosquito’s, "I can’t run anymore. Now that my pregnancy is known to everyone, neither the little enemy nor the big one will spare me. Every time I run, I get caught. Falling into the little enemy’s hands is pointless; falling to the big one will likely end in two deaths with one blow."

Mr. Ghost turned to look at her in disbelief, "And you’re not running? Just...accepting your fate and waiting for death?"

An unusual wave washed over Eleanor’s face, firm and resolute, like a spark that in a flash became a sea of fire.

"In this world, only death can end everything. Only by dying in everyone’s perception can I be reborn in another place, ending this endless ordeal."

Eleanor often felt that no matter how hard she tried or how well she planned, she couldn’t escape the Five Finger Mountain that was Cillian Grant.

And now, there’s an added Mr. Grant.

They were so cautious that nothing leaked, as clever as could be, their scheming unfathomable and unimaginable. In the business world, among peers and rivals, old foxes with wits often appeared over decades, yet Grant Group remained unshakeable.

Eleanor had no confidence in engaging in a three-way struggle with them. As long as she was alive, there would be no escape. Only in death could everything be resolved.

Mr. Ghost was shocked and stunned; he hadn’t even considered this possibility.

But Eleanor’s suggestion, upon careful thought, truly seemed the best way to break the deadlock. Yet, implementing it was equally daunting.

How to die in a way that everyone believes it, yet ensures it’s not true death?

For a moment, Mr. Ghost racked his brains but had no clue. He asked Eleanor, "So what are you planning to do?"

Eleanor turned off the faucet, "I only have a preliminary idea. Just wanted to tell you first. As for what to do, my two enemies’ conflict is just beginning. There will always be an opportunity."

She turned and left decisively. Mr. Ghost stood in place, staring at her slender back, unable to snap back to reality.

Just beginning?

President Sinclair clearly stated the little enemy would soon return. Could there be a change?

Mr. Ghost was utterly confused, took out his phone, and contacted Damian Sinclair.

............

Eleanor returned to her seat.

Outside the window, the sunlight was bright, the shimmering waves on the sea glittered on the glass, and Cillian Grant’s side profile seemed coated in the brightest gold, radiantly handsome.

Some people are handsome in appearance, others in their bone structure. He had both, combined with power, charisma smoldering over the years, remarkably captivating.

Even in a vast crowd, one can spot him at a glance.

Eleanor approached him, "Have you finished eating? I want to go outside."

The lemon at the restaurant seemed off, both sour and bitter. With one sip, the tongue felt puckered from tip to root. Cillian Grant set down his lemon water, "The wind outside is strong. Wait ten minutes for the ticket check before boarding the ship, and then go out."

Eleanor frowned at him. "I wore a windbreaker outside, it’s windproof. Walking from the restaurant, ten minutes is just right to board."

Their eyes met, Cillian Grant remained unmoved. "Sit down."

The tone was deep and cold, carrying an irresistible authority.

This authority existed daily in those four years in Froskar.

After coming to Froskar, his attitude changed. No matter how Eleanor raved, cursed, or provoked him, whether he was angry or annoyed, the commanding tone of intimidation never returned.

Eleanor’s face stiffened. She pulled out a chair and sat down.

Her complexion was already pale, indistinguishable whether it was the bright store lights or if she was frightened, her face appearing even paler with no sign of vitality.

Cillian Grant couldn’t help but soften, extending his arm, interlocking fingers with hers on the table. "Be good, the waves are high, stay in a safe indoor place."

The words carried a hint of suggestion.

Eleanor’s heart raced, staring at him without blinking.

The lamp suspended above the dining table glowed white, its light reflecting in his eyes, shallow shadows brewing as if a storm was forming. His face showed no joy or anger, gazing at her, yet also through her.

As if there were a thousand words, all unspoken, extraordinarily intriguing.

Eleanor lowered her eyes.

Last time, Mr. Ghost also met her in the restaurant’s restroom, and afterwards, it was proven they hadn’t fooled Cillian Grant.

With this precedent, there was no reason for Cillian not to be cautious this time, yet Mr. Ghost still appeared. She excused herself to the restroom; Cillian didn’t stop her, let alone follow.

It seemed like he was deliberately letting her go meet.

Eleanor’s mind was a jumble, intuition flashing, but it seemed too strange to confirm.

...............

Cillian Grant checked his watch, stood up, and pulled her to her feet, "It’s time. Soon the ship will set sail, it’ll be unstable with many people. Don’t wander around."

Eleanor didn’t respond, her steps following him out the door.

Leaving the restaurant, they immediately boarded the ship by ticket.

Eleanor saw those mercenaries had already boarded ahead of them, standing in threes and twos on the deck, looking like ordinary tourists.

She was brought by Cillian Grant into the cabin, with double rows of seats. She sat by the window on the inside, Cillian on the outside.

He crossed one leg, his sitting posture neither upright nor lazy, casually yet dignified, his left arm draping over Eleanor’s seat back, loosely embracing her.

At that time, the ship hadn’t set sail, tourists were entering the cabin one after another, casting glances as they passed them.

Women always yearn for favoritism, especially when it’s from a man with an imposing aura yet aloof indifference, displaying favoritism publicly, asserting control domineeringly. The contradiction soaked into the bones, the greater the contrast, the more entrancing.

Eleanor felt uncomfortable under the concentrated gazes, turning her head to look outside the window.

She was seated on the ship’s left side, unable to see the front deck, unaware of when the mercenaries planned to act, and not knowing if Mr. Grant’s people had boarded.

As time ticked by, just as the ship was about to set sail.

Outside on the deck, chaos erupted suddenly, with sounds of scuffling bodies, collisions, and tourists screaming, all bursting forth in an instant.

Out of instinct, Eleanor looked at Cillian Grant.

The man was as deep as night, his calm like a dead sea, looking towards the door, "Stay here, I’ll go take a look."