Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 31: Caught by Mrs. Grant

Eleanor couldn’t help but shudder.

"Mother, I didn’t mean it like that..."

She hadn’t finished when Mrs. Grant jabbed a finger at her nose and snapped.

"Eleanor Grant, has The Grant Family ever let you go hungry, ever let you wear rags?"

"No," Eleanor replied softly.

"So where did all that rebellious defiance come from?" Mrs. Grant’s eyes were unfriendly, her presence intimidating. "Did we mistreat you? Abuse you? Beat you or persecute you? Is that why you complain all day long?"

Eleanor first looked at Cillian Grant—cold, indifferent, nothing showing on his face—then at Phoebe Grant, who was smug, smiling with disdain.

The ones who hurt her were poised, at ease, and reveling in it.

They didn’t even see their faults, no guilt whatsoever.

Eleanor bowed her head, suddenly at a loss for words.

Mrs. Grant took her silence as guilt, and pressed even harder, "Eleanor Grant, do you think this whole family owes you? That Phoebe should never have come back, that Cillian should always prefer you? That your father and I should love only you, and our whole family should revolve around you?"

She was truly furious now.

"Mother." Cillian Grant asked Mrs. Grant to sit down. "She spoke out of turn, I’ve already handled it."

"I know." Mrs. Grant’s expression eased a little, and she patted Cillian’s hand. "You did well, didn’t let Phoebe suffer, and kept it quiet so it won’t get out."

Cillian murmured assent, his gaze coldly flickering over Eleanor. "Aren’t you going to apologize to your mother?"

"I’m sorry," Eleanor said, face full of regret. "I was rude, I shouldn’t have said that."

She shouldn’t have acted on impulse; being rash only makes things worse.

"You shouldn’t be so disrespectful."

Provoking Phoebe meant provoking Cillian; you couldn’t beat the younger, couldn’t outplay the elder. It was pointless to make trouble at such a critical moment before escaping.

"I really know I was wrong this time. It won’t happen again."

If she could just endure this and wait for the storm to pass, then freedom would be hers.

She appeared thoroughly obedient and sincere, finally softening Mrs. Grant’s face.

But Cillian Grant was stiff and taut, his noble and handsome face chilling, zero warmth.

Even his gaze was dark and foreboding.

Eleanor thought he was still dissatisfied, and was about to offer more self-criticism when Cillian barked in a cold voice, "Get upstairs."

Eleanor’s apology was pure helplessness—being kicked out right now was exactly what she wanted.

No hesitation, she bolted up the stairs in a few quick steps.

Mrs. Grant watched her retreating back. "That’s more like it this time."

Cillian said nothing, tilting his head to stare at the tightly shut third-floor door.

More like it?

Since when was she the type to accept humiliation meekly? You couldn’t suppress her, couldn’t intimidate her—vivid, clever, brave, she always fought back instantly.

This willingness to swallow her pride—what was she really thinking?

.........

Cillian Grant started up the stairs.

Mrs. Grant blocked his way, then solemnly asked Phoebe Grant to lay out several photos. "Pick one. Meet him tomorrow."

Cillian Grant stood there, glanced at them. "Can’t pick. Next time."

Mrs. Grant wouldn’t let him leave; Cillian was nearly twenty-nine—his marriage couldn’t be put off any longer.

While they kept pushing it back and forth, Grant Group’s secretary called urgently: The Xavier Family of the Southwest had an accident. The Xavier heir was flying to Soldane Province without warning to find Cillian Grant.

Cillian used that as an excuse to slip out, walking into the night.

Mrs. Grant was seething. "He can run all he wants, but he can’t run from the family. The whole South is full of eligible ladies—I don’t believe not one of them catches his eye."

Phoebe Grant’s hand paused in the middle of tidying up the photos.

The group of ladies Mrs. Grant picked—all types: dignified, pretty, gentle, elegant.

Even as a woman, Phoebe felt dazzled looking through them. Her brother was a man, and men are visual animals—how could he not be interested in looking at beauties?

For some reason, Phoebe started thinking of Eleanor—and that fleeting dark look her brother had only ever given Eleanor.

Doubt cracked open in her heart, splitting wider.

"Mom, brother’s been busy with work and hasn’t married." She looked at Mrs. Grant, eyes pitch-black. "And Eleanor’s still at home, but she’s not really related to us. Now brother is helping the Xavier heir. What will people think about all this?"

Mrs. Grant’s face changed instantly. "You heard someone spreading rumors?"

"Yeah." No one else had, but Phoebe herself sure did.

Mrs. Grant’s posture went rigid.

Cillian and Eleanor’s relationship had always been tense. Mrs. Grant never thought much of it, but now that Phoebe brought it up, she suddenly recalled that day after a checkup: Eleanor leaned into Cillian’s arms on the sofa, and he shoved her away, kicking her out.

Then she remembered Phoebe mentioning twice before that there was something shady between Eleanor and Cillian.

Seeing Mrs. Grant’s eyes turn unprecedentedly serious and dangerous, Phoebe decided to lay her cards on the table.

"Mom, Eleanor’s a thankless, resentful wolf in sheep’s clothing. No matter how good The Grant Family is to her, it’s never enough, and now she’s getting involved with brother. Might as well marry her off—an arranged marriage, at least, is useful."

Mrs. Grant’s brow furrowed, silent for a few moments. "She’s not a Grant by blood, everyone knows that. For an alliance marriage..."

Phoebe understood what her mother left unsaid: The good families would never accept a fake like Eleanor, and the lesser families were of no value for alliances.

"You forgot there’s that little prince in the provincial director’s family." Phoebe smiled. "Sure, there’s rumors he played too hard when young and got sick, but look at him now—healthy as ever. Obviously, the gossip isn’t true."

Mrs. Grant said nothing—not because she was opposed.

It’s just that the mayor’s son’s supposed illness was too terrifying.

HIV.

If Eleanor married out and came back carrying it, what would they do?

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

The next day, Eleanor had her first peaceful breakfast in four years.

Phoebe Grant didn’t pick a fight, and Mrs. Grant looked at her with unprecedented kindness—even put two servings of vegetables on her plate mid-meal.

Eleanor outwardly seemed flattered, but privately all her nerves were on edge.

She used to fantasize about moments like this, feeling overjoyed. Now, her deprivation-hazed mind was clear: if something seems off, something definitely is.

But she didn’t press for answers.

Whatever their motives, as long as she moved fast enough, nothing could stick to her.

Three days in a row, Eleanor worked overtime, coming and going early and late, Cillian was nowhere to be seen.

On the fourth morning, she found out Cillian was busy with the Xavier family and wouldn’t be back anytime soon.

The other big thing on Eleanor’s mind was that the supervisor suspected something was wrong with the baby—and now she had the chance for another checkup.

At lunch, she took the opportunity to ask Jolly God for another hour off.

"A blind date, huh? Is an hour enough?"

These days, Eleanor had learned that Jolly God was the kind of boss with an extra "cheerful" spirit: always toggling between crazy and motivated, his comments routinely hilarious.

"Plenty." Eleanor grinned, "Getting undressed, unbuttoning—an hour’s more than enough."

"Cough—" Jolly God choked, water going down the wrong way.

Eleanor giggled, patting his back to help him breathe. "What’re you thinking, Leader Holloway? I’m just checking the goods."

Jolly God reflexively glanced down at himself, his belly round as a watermelon, popping two shirt buttons—you couldn’t see his legs or even toes.

He chuckled, "Typical woman, your name should be Superficial."

Eleanor poked his belly. "Don’t be biased—beautiful collarbones are all alike, but interesting bellies bounce in their own way."

"So, are you checking out interesting bellies or beautiful collarbones?"

Eleanor thought a moment. "Beautiful bellies?"

Jolly God snorted and turned to leave, but after a few steps spun back around. "You’re ridiculous—be careful out there. This hour doesn’t count against your leave; special approval, keeps you eligible for perfect attendance."

Eleanor burst out laughing. "Thanks, my kind-hearted Buddha."

She didn’t dare go to a hospital, so she found a back-alley clinic instead.

Two hundred yuan, quick and dirty: the baby was fine.

But she wasn’t.