Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 21: Warning Her to Be Phoebe Grant’s Stepping Stone
Back at the Grant Family’s house, as soon as Eleanor walked into the living room, Phoebe Grant was pouring tea, with Damian Sinclair sitting beside her, and Mrs. Sinclair and Mr. Sinclair to her right.
The long sofa was crammed with four people, making the sofa where Mr. Grant and Mrs. Grant sat opposite feel spacious and deserted.
Yet the atmosphere was harmonious and cheerful.
Eleanor didn’t want to get involved in this scene of family unity between the two households; she greeted them politely and excused herself, heading upstairs.
Cillian Grant called out to her, "This is your upbringing? The guests are still here. Sit down."
Eleanor turned around, her gaze sweeping over Phoebe Grant and Damian Sinclair. "I’m not suited for occasions like this."
Out of the corner of her eye, Mrs. Grant noticed that Mr. Sinclair and Mrs. Sinclair exchanged a glance with Phoebe Grant, their faces souring.
Her heart skipped a beat. The Sterling Sinclair were a family of Confucian merchants, cultured and refined, scrupulously observant of etiquette and character. Today, Mr. Sinclair’s demeanor was indifferent, and Mrs. Sinclair was barely hiding her criticisms.
Phoebe Grant had sat between them, coaxing them with gentle words for quite a while before their expressions softened; Eleanor’s single remark was like a gust of wind fanning embers, reigniting tensions before their eyes.
Mrs. Grant immediately turned to fix her gaze on Eleanor, her tone severe.
"Phoebe already apologized to you at the hospital, in front of everyone. She admitted her faults and changed. But how long are you going to hold on to this grudge? The Grant Family raised you for over twenty years. You only remember the bad, never the kindness?"
Eleanor stayed silent.
This idea—grudge not gratitude—Phoebe Grant had also thrown at her during her insults. Hearing similar words from two different mouths meant either their views aligned miraculously or they’d already discussed it between themselves.
And whenever someone starts weighing the debts of gratitude, that’s when repayment is expected. So, in Mrs. Grant’s eyes, Phoebe humiliating her was deserved, Cillian Grant oppressing her was deserved.
The Grant Family raised her; so she must offer up her flesh and blood, crush her own pride and dignity, live and die for the Grant Family, serve them with every limb, giving her all.
She wasn’t permitted a shred of rebellion, or she’d be branded ungrateful, wild, and insolent.
"Mother, girls squabble once in a while. To harp on about debts and vengeance is going too far. The Grant Family is wealthy and powerful; no need to fuss over the costs of raising someone." Cillian Grant suddenly spoke up.
He sat upright, his gaze towards Eleanor also severe. "Come and apologize to Mother."
Eleanor didn’t move at all.
She stared at the crystal chandelier hanging in the living room. The refracted rainbow light split the room into two worlds.
The sofa was one world, dazzling, lively, united.
The staircase landing where she stood was another world, dim and lonely.
Such a stark, shattered divide.
Eleanor suddenly curved her lips into a smile. "Just see me as the ungrateful wolf, born narrow-minded and bitter." 𝒻𝓇𝑒𝘦𝘸𝑒𝒷𝓃ℴ𝑣𝘦𝑙.𝒸ℴ𝘮
She turned and walked upstairs.
Cillian Grant, rarely losing his temper, barked, "Come here. Sit down."
His voice carried an unprecedented harshness, dangerous.
Eleanor froze mid-step.
She met the eyes of the man on the sofa—cold as ice, chilling her heart to its core with every glance.
Further away, Mr. Sinclair and Mrs. Sinclair shot her another look, then glanced at Phoebe Grant, faces shifting from unease to relief. Mrs. Grant’s tense expression noticeably relaxed as she exchanged a knowing look with Mr. Grant.
Eleanor was suddenly reminded of Phoebe Grant’s phone call in the car, an epiphany striking her like cold water to the head.
Cillian Grant was clearing Phoebe Grant’s reputation for her. First, he’d deliberately let her see his phone’s caller ID, planting seeds of surprise. Then, in the car, he’d brought up the cherry blossoms, causing emotional turbulence with every rise and fall.
Now, he forced her to stay, provoking her further, staging a scene of her rebellious insolence, using fact to justify Phoebe’s excessive behavior as all having its reason.
Even her very bones felt a penetrating chill.
No wonder in The South’s business circles they say Cillian Grant is shrewd, as changeable as the weather in his hands.
Between women playing tricks, she’d never lost.
Yet with just a phone call, in such a short span, he’d already planned a solution. Step by step, word by word, traps hidden everywhere, luring her to tumble right into the pit.
His methods were masterful, his intentions ruthless. He understood her nature with uncanny precision—another try and she’d still fall.
Realizing this, Eleanor stopped resisting.
It was obviously a plot to stomp on her for Phoebe Grant’s sake; there was no way Cillian Grant would let her escape at this critical moment.
Eleanor stepped down from the stairs, her gaze sweeping once around the room.
On both sofas, only the spot next to Cillian Grant was free.
She didn’t want to sit but had no choice. After hesitating for a few seconds, she sat down, clutching the armrest.
The living room fell silent for a moment before the warmth and chatter resumed.
She and Cillian Grant weren’t far apart now, and the room’s heat and bustle made it seem even closer.
He actually leaned in towards her, voice thick with anger. "What did you promise me in the car? Are you too scared to stay because you don’t want to face Damian Sinclair and Phoebe being close?"
Eleanor turned her head, seeing fragments of chandelier light falling in his eyes—dark, deep, so cold he seemed made of steel.
But his thoughts were impenetrable.
She’d promised not to get tangled with Damian Sinclair, so shouldn’t she avoid him, stay as far away as possible? Sitting here watching Damian Sinclair be close to Phoebe Grant only made her seem more affected and unable to let go.
"Disgusting." Eleanor turned her head away, tired of guessing what he meant—and not wanting to look at him. "Seeing people I dislike, people I hate, only makes me sick."
She couldn’t tell if the man beside her understood, but his breath quickened audibly.
Across from them, Mrs. Sinclair showed concern. "Cillian, are you feeling unwell?"
Phoebe Grant, who’d held her tongue so far to protect her image, couldn’t help herself. "Brother’s still angry at Eleanor. She’s never thought much of me. She tries to compete with me over everything."
Eleanor lifted her eyelids.
Phoebe Grant was scared she’d reveal more, as if facing a formidable enemy.
Mrs. Grant noticed too, and cut in, her voice loud and sharp: "What are you trying to stir up now? You’re sharp-tongued in private, and Phoebe’s put up with you. Now that we’re discussing her future marriage, can’t you show a little consideration for the big picture?"
"Mother." Eleanor couldn’t bring herself to say Mom. "I didn’t say anything."
Before the words had even faded, Eleanor’s waist was suddenly gripped tightly—shockingly hard.
Her heart raced wildly.
She’d never expected Cillian Grant to be so brazen. She knew it was a warning to behave, play the silent stepping stone for Phoebe Grant.
But under the scrutiny of seven or eight pairs of eyes—wasn’t he afraid of being caught?
Maybe...he wasn’t afraid anymore.
Now, the world saw him as the ascetic, rigid in restraint, clean from head to toe.
Even if he was caught.
He’d be the victim, earning public sympathy and forgiveness. She’d be the wicked, low woman, left to bear all the slander and bitterness herself.
From head to toe, Eleanor felt submerged in a frozen pond; she didn’t dare make a sound.
"The older she gets, the more unruly..."
"Always pushing Phoebe to embarrassment..."
"So impulsive, so full of defiance and temper..."
Utterly turning things upside down.
Eleanor didn’t care about any of it; her nerves stretched to the breaking point.
She bowed her head and admitted to everything. But Cillian Grant’s arm never relaxed, remaining locked around her waist, his fingers occasionally stroking her.
Every movement from him sent another shiver through her.
"Vice Director Grant, when are you getting married?" Damian Sinclair suddenly spoke up.
Mrs. Sinclair paused, then was intrigued as well.
Cillian Grant stood out so sharply among the second-generation heirs.
Striking looks, even more remarkable ability, an ambition for business—he’d conquered The North in four years, multiplying the Grant Group’s assets many times over. Privately, he didn’t smoke, didn’t drink, wasn’t lustful, didn’t gamble; every investment was a win—most importantly, he cherished family.
Besides work and necessary socializing, every spare minute was devoted to the family, handling everything with care and patience.
Even with Mrs. Sinclair’s bias towards her own son, she had to admit Damian Sinclair didn’t measure up to Cillian Grant in any regard.
Thinking this, she could see Phoebe Grant’s point; with such a brother, no wonder Damian felt restless and unsatisfied.
