Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 59: What Exactly Does Cillian Grant Want?
Mr. Grant shook his head, glanced at the flower stand beside her, and smiled, "If you keep this Margaret any longer, the greenhouse will need to be expanded. This time I’ll draw you up some blueprints in a medieval imperial style. Once it’s built, we’ll plant a few Golden Celebrations, and flowers in that blue-violet-gray shade of Blue Rain would also be nice."
Mrs. Grant beamed, "Back then you couldn’t even tell a rose from a peony, but now you’re an expert on varieties and colors."
Mr. Grant bantered a bit more, then returned to his study.
Once he closed the door, he found his mind anything but calm.
He felt he had to approach things now with the cool logic of a businessman, not the pointless worries of a father.
First, Grace is a woman; her way of seeing things is tied up in countless emotional threads, her judgment too subjective to trust. But sometimes a woman’s sixth sense is as sharp as a radar alarm.
Second, that one hundred million—any explanation for it sounds forced, and besides, Cillian didn’t even give a reason, just brushed past with a single rhetorical question.
Third, why does Eleanor hate Cillian? He knew Phoebe’s actions back then were dishonorable, but with Eleanor’s character, eighteen years of gratitude for raising her should count for something. It shouldn’t be enough to hate him deeply, to seek revenge on Cillian and drag down The Grant Family.
Most importantly, the logic here doesn’t add up. Seduction doesn’t hold water, but there’s definitely something fishy going on.
Just like what he noticed himself: Ms. King has served The Grant Family for over a decade, content in her little kitchen domain, never drawing attention, never pushing forward. The dishes she’s good at are those Eleanor likes, not Cillian.
Mr. Grant called in his secretary, "Keep an eye on Ms. King in the coming days."
If his suspicions were right, then all these things over the past four years needed a thorough look.
.........
Eleanor jolted awake.
A wave of heat blew over the top of her head—she was being held in a perfectly tight squeeze, her cheek pressed against a warm chest, her legs pinned under one far sturdier and more muscular than her own, toes touching a patch of fuzzy, sweaty hair.
Eleanor held her breath.
Yesterday she’d slept all the way into the night; when she woke, Cillian was gone. Damon Sharp came by to drop off dinner and refill the fridge.
He mentioned in passing, "Mr. Grant used a lot of manpower to look for you. Now that you’ve been found, those people have to withdraw and regroup."
Eleanor felt the real trouble was about to begin—the fact that so many were involved meant they’d cast a wide net, and who knows what they’d dragged in by accident.
Now, as soon as she opened her eyes, the ever-watchful Reaper was right in front of her—in a haze of dim light, dark circles below his eyes, a rough jaw with prickly stubble, ragged and worn, he looked more like the one on the run than her.
So busy, so tired—had he found anything out? Was he suspicious?
Eleanor wanted nothing more than to grab his shoulders and shake him awake, demanding answers one after another.
"Why are you staring at me?"
All of a sudden, Eleanor was captured by a pair of cold, bright, star-like eyes full of invasive intent.
When the man was asleep, his features were strong and mature, almost heroic. But once his eyes opened, that maturity turned heavy and sharp, intimidating enough to make her shrink back and avoid his gaze.
Eleanor shifted her eyes away, "You—what do you want for breakfast?"
She’d wanted to probe about what had him so tired lately, but remembered he’d already complained yesterday about scrambling for The Xavier Family. Asking again would either make her seem oblivious to what he’d said, or too calculating for comfort.
Cillian tightened his arms around her, rubbing his chin against her forehead, "What do you want to eat?"
Eleanor sucked in a breath, cursing him as a bastard in her heart, a steel-wool demon—his stubble was as hard as pins, every time he scraped her hairline it receded further.
"Steamed buns, soy milk, shrimp dumplings, noodles—Damon restocked the fridge yesterday, I’ll cook now."
Eleanor didn’t want to be too cozy with Cillian in the mornings; being close was too risky, too intimate.
Most of all, she needed to change her period supplies, clean up, and fake it—which would take time.
Cillian didn’t let go, "No need, Auntie King is here."
Eleanor froze in the middle of moving, "Which Auntie King? Here where?"
Her face went pale with shock, not a trace of happiness—pure, abject terror.
Cillian’s easy smile faded away.
The air went cold.
After a long silence, Eleanor scrambled out of bed, ignoring her morning routine and heading straight to the kitchen.
Sure enough, the figure busy with her back to the door was instantly familiar—Eleanor’s mouth hung open but no sound came out.
Anger and fear surged inside her, boiling up in an instant. Just what was Cillian trying to do?
Mrs. Grant had suspected her more than once, and Mr. Grant had yanked her away and married her off—if he insisted on exposing her and someone caught real evidence, she’d be taken care of, vanish without a trace.
No.
No, wait.
He still wanted to use her to break out of his predicament.
Eleanor’s mind lit up—she suddenly remembered the second option he’d given her: right after refusing Mr. Grant, he’d mentioned leaving The Grant Family.
She’d been too busy planning to use Mr. Grant to escape Cillian, and missed those four words entirely.
Leave The Grant Family—then no marriage alliance.
No marriage alliance—how would he trade benefits?
He’d spent so much, one hundred million, The Mayo team, and a whole army of people searching for her.
What did he really want?
"Eleanor?"
The voice came with a loud CLANG as the spatula hit the floor, jolting awake both people standing at the door.
Auntie King’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. She forgot to wipe her hands, rubbed her eyes to make sure, "It really is you, how—how—"
She stammered, unable to finish the sentence.
Eleanor couldn’t speak either.
"She’s been living here all along." Someone walked through the living room—Cillian stepped behind Eleanor, wrapping his arms around her possessively. "From now on, Auntie King, take care of her."
This time Auntie King was completely stunned.
The pot of porridge bubbling on the stove filled the air with fragrance; on the prep counter, a small flowered celadon bowl held shredded ginger, green onions, bits of lettuce.
Not much—enough for one.
Because Cillian demanded to start work before six this morning.
Auntie King had felt he was cold-blooded, driving Eleanor away, so she got lax and really only arrived at six, knowing nothing about another person in the house, completely unprepared.
But after just a few seconds, Auntie King picked up the spatula and asked Cillian, "Should I make another bowl of noodles? Miss Eleanor loves shrimp dumplings and taro buns—do you want some? I’ll steam more if you do."
Eleanor immediately picked up the cue, "Auntie King, do we have eggs? Steam a savory custard, with sesame oil and green onion." She turned to ask Cillian, "You want some?"
From the moment the spatula crashed down, Cillian guessed Auntie King hadn’t run into Damon Sharp—the heads-up was missing, but she played dumb perfectly.
Rare to find someone good at performing on his wavelength; when it came to dealing with him, she really had some talent.
It would be ungrateful not to cooperate with this seamless act. "Sure, whatever you eat, I eat."
Eleanor heard Auntie King’s pot lid clatter again; she helped out, "Did you burn yourself?"
Auntie King, "Ah—mm."
Eleanor hurried over and grabbed her hand, "Quick, run it under cold water."
Cillian’s right index finger twitched reflexively—a place scarred over repeatedly, ugly and exposed.
The smile in his eyes faded, vanishing as his gaze lingered on the hands under the water, then he turned and walked away.
