Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 34: Make Her Move Out

Cillian stood unmoving, blocking the doorway. He glanced at Eleanor from the corner of his eye, his expression placid and unruffled. "I’m here to make her move out."

Mrs. Grant’s face twisted with shock and anger. She shot a look at Eleanor, then at him.

His suit was buttoned up tightly, his tie neat and proper, not a single flaw to be found. His face was blank, ice-cold and composed.

Mrs. Grant believed she understood him, but in his eyes she found no hidden sorrow, no pity or nervousness. On the contrary, there was nothing but a turbulent, pitch-black fury.

Mrs. Grant managed to steady herself a little. "Why?"

Cillian’s tone was frigid to the core. "She knows what she is. She shouldn’t be living with the Grant Family."

So heartless, so indifferent.

He was absolutely determined to drive her away.

Mrs. Grant stared at us both for a long while, her own agitation fading slightly.

She still had doubts. "Then why did you take so long to come to the door?"

Cillian glanced at the terrified Eleanor, his honesty sharp and merciless. "She wouldn’t let me open it."

Mrs. Grant paused, then moved past Cillian to look at Eleanor.

She stood there, bewildered and frozen, her eyes red and shimmering with tears, helpless tracks at the corners.

She met Mrs. Grant’s gaze mechanically, still lost in gray, hopeless despair, unable to snap out of it.

Mrs. Grant came to her senses. She didn’t want to move out and was begging Cillian.

Cillian was probably fed up with her pleas; that was the source of his anger.

Mrs. Grant told Cillian to leave, "I need to talk to her. Go wait for me in the small parlor. I have something to talk to you about too."

Cillian stood tall and walked away. After passing Mrs. Grant, he suddenly turned to glance at Eleanor.

That look held no warmth—just a bottomless, black, dead sea.

Eleanor shivered again and dropped her head to avoid him.

Mrs. Grant shut the door and pulled Eleanor to sit with her on the sofa. "Tell me honestly—you don’t want to move out, right?"

Eleanor nodded numbly. Of course she couldn’t move out.

That look Cillian gave her before leaving was the kind he always showed when he caught her trying to escape, when he would punish her mercilessly—suddenly forcing her out was no act of mercy.

"Good. I’ll tell Cillian to let you stay. The way I see it, the Grant Family has raised you for twenty-two years. Regardless of any resources we invested, just talking about discerning feelings, we can’t bear to let you go. Now that Phoebe’s wedding is set, I’ve found you a young, outstanding man from a good family. He’s handsome and considerate above all."

Eleanor said nothing.

Mrs. Grant didn’t need her to speak. She had no other choice anyway. "I’ve already arranged the meeting for you—time and place—tomorrow at five in the afternoon, Serene Garden. Make sure you arrive early."

.........

After delivering the notice, Mrs. Grant went downstairs to the garden parlor.

Cillian had changed into casual clothes, still in his subdued, steady tones—broad shoulders, long legs, impressive presence.

He sat alone on a small sofa, his arms draped over the armrest, his face angled to the ceiling, silent as stone.

His specific expression was unclear, but his air was one of abandoned dejection.

Mrs. Grant’s heart softened; she was both worried and pained. "Is the Xavier Family giving you a hard time? I know you’re ambitious, but take care of yourself."

Cillian sat up. "Thank you for your concern, Mother. I know what I’m doing."

Mrs. Grant was at a loss for words. Her son, the pride of her life, had always been precocious and strong-willed. When other rich kids were rebelling in their teens, he was already calculating and composed.

After growing up, he became even more unfathomable—intelligent and icy in the extreme.

There was still feeling between mother and son, though not much intimacy left.

"Is she moving out?"

Mrs. Grant shifted her chair to sit beside him. "I can’t bear to send her away. Let her stay."

"She begged you?"

"Yes."

Cillian paused. His expression remained indifferent, but a wave rolled through his eyes.

Mrs. Grant didn’t want the family’s rare moments together wasted on henpecking Eleanor. "Phoebe told me you’ve been making trouble for The Voss Family’s business lately, and even sent Damian overseas?"

"Yes." Cillian subtly adjusted his posture. "Damian Sinclair is twenty-three. At his age, I was already expanding markets on my own. If he wants to marry Phoebe, he can’t be totally useless."

Mrs. Grant laughed helplessly, nudging him. "You really think everyone can compare to you?"

Mr. Sinclair often said Cillian’s ambition surpassed everyone else’s, and that was hardly an exaggeration.

Mrs. Grant sometimes thought only imminent disaster or bankruptcy could explain the kind of ruthlessness he showed.

Cillian slouched, gaze drifting into the air, as if by accident glancing up to the third floor.

In the bright array of windows, only the two by the edge were in darkness—a cold, empty abyss.

She’s afraid of the dark, but won’t turn on the lights.

"There’s no comparison in ability, but she still can’t forget him."

"You can’t bear to see Phoebe marry off?" Mrs. Grant caught the jealousy in his tone and joked, "Then you’ll have an even harder time accepting your brother-in-law in the future."

"If he actually goes through with the wedding, I’ll accept him."

Mrs. Grant laughed out loud, taking his complaints as nothing more than a brother’s grudges—forced to accept his sister’s inevitable marriage.

"And the Voss Family?" Mrs. Grant asked, "Phoebe is close to Theodore Voss, and she’s worried with all the trouble happening to the Vosses."

"Theodore runs his mouth and has no sense." Cillian’s tone was dark and heavy. "Let the Voss Family teach him some manners."

Mrs. Grant froze.

Theodore’s sharp tongue always targeted Eleanor—could Cillian be taking her side?

Then she remembered that before Damian left, he’d repeated the story from the nightclub that night in detail.

The wedding was close; Phoebe’s reputation mattered. No scandals, no disputes, or the marriage would look bad.

Mrs. Grant, seasoned in high society, knew only too well—appearing blameless in a scandal was not as good as avoiding any scandal at all.

She figured Cillian was angry at Theodore for causing trouble, which only dragged Phoebe down.

But despite Damian’s careful warnings, Mrs. Grant still had a trace of suspicion in her heart.

When she’d next brought up the marriage prospects—and mentioned the blind date for Eleanor as well—Cillian just offered a few words and left outright.

.........

The next day, Eleanor went downstairs especially at six to avoid breakfast, heading straight to work.

It was still dark—the last moments before dawn.

In the garage, four or five drivers were eating breakfast, some washing cars.

Eleanor kept to the wall, heading right to the far end—Mr. Harrison was a quiet man, always kept to himself, and parked in the more isolated spots.

But when she got there, the car was sparkling clean, but he was gone.

A driver behind her noticed and, surprised, called out, "Miss Eleanor, Mr. Harrison took a few days off."

Eleanor frowned. These past days, in the car, she’d been talking to herself the whole way.

Finally, last night, she’d managed to get Mr. Harrison—the taciturn, hard-mouthed man—to open up a little.

She’d learned that he had a grown daughter who’d been abducted, and he worked desperately in the city, while his wife searched all over the country.

He’d never take leave unless he had to—missing work would cost him a big year-end bonus, a hundred thousand meant more to him than his own life.

"Is he sick? Or something happened at home?"

The driver’s face turned awkward. "No idea. Mr. Harrison just came in, but Chase said to let him off for a few days..."

Eleanor went silent.

After a long stillness, Eleanor left the garage in the shadow of the drivers’ sympathetic, pitying eyes—walking into the darkness on foot.

The Grant family mansion sat halfway up a hill on the south side of the city, purposefully removed from the main road for privacy.

The nearest bus stop was half a mile as the crow flies, but the winding mountain road made it a four- or five-mile walk at least.

This was the road she’d walked countless times over the last four years.

If she provoked Phoebe Grant, she left.

If she upset Cillian, she left.

If Mrs. Grant was angry, she left—and when a driver was inexplicably "on vacation," she had even more reason to go.