Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 67: Eleanor, Are You Shameless or Not?
Cillian Grant approached, "What are you doing?"
Eleanor was holding a charger, sitting by Auntie King’s bed. The small window in the maid’s room let in a dim light. Her eyelashes fluttered, casting a faint shadow.
"Auntie King’s phone is broken; I’m fixing it."
"I remember you didn’t study mobile repair in college."
Eleanor blinked, "Do you need to study that? I just look at it and can do it. Can’t you?"
Cillian’s gaze was deep and dark, unfathomable.
Eleanor’s eyelashes trembled, like small dark brushes, not like butterfly wings, nor were they alluring with a seductive powder, only curled up like a hedgehog, with prickly defenses.
Piercing and itch-inducing.
Infuriatingly helpless.
Eleanor deftly fiddled with the connector, and the screen lit up instantly, a green charging animation flowing into the battery icon.
She was surprised and exhilarated, "Auntie King, come quickly, I’ve fixed your phone."
Auntie King hurried in, wiping her hands on her apron, picked up the phone, and was astonished, "Really, Miss Eleanor, you’re amazing, you even know how to fix phones."
Eleanor seriously nodded, "Not that amazing, just a bit more amazing than what Auntie King praised."
Cillian suddenly laughed, the little drama queen demonstrating, teaching an elder actress.
Somehow performing so earnestly and sincerely.
"Auntie King, go make dinner."
"...Yes." Auntie King hesitantly responded.
The maid’s room was narrow, Cillian’s tall and fit physique magnified the pressure in the limited space.
She dawdled, hesitating, entering for a second, leaving for a minute.
A minute later.
The door still closed, Eleanor stared blankly at the door panel.
Cillian’s face stiffened, blocking her view.
Eleanor neither raised her head nor lowered it, just stared at the deep blue suit pants in front of her, the trousers neatly pressed, vaguely showing the leg contours, long and strong.
She quickly calculated in her mind; getting caught fixing the phone was an explanation that even fools wouldn’t believe. The morning’s tricks had all been exposed, continuing to act served no purpose now.
Meanwhile, she wasn’t sure if the black-market clinic had been uncovered by Damian Sinclair’s people.
Staying in this house was too passive; slow progress meant waiting to die, but rushing could expose her intentions, angering Cillian.
Thinking it over, no good idea came to mind.
Eleanor felt deeply exhausted, that kind of internal fatigue that made her not want to think anymore.
At least Auntie King was okay.
Eleanor got up, bypassed Cillian, and wobbly headed back to the master bedroom, sprawling on the sofa, giving up.
Cillian came in a beat later, "Who did you contact? Elaine White or Damian Sinclair?"
Eleanor glanced at him.
For a moment, she just felt more tired, being pestered with a stupid question by a lunatic for four years.
When will this end? How much longer must she endure?
Performing with Auntie King was fun and harmonious, but alone with him, she didn’t even feel like faking a line.
Cillian’s lips pressed into a line.
Eleanor knew this was peak temper.
Confession might reduce punishment; resistance only made it worse.
Though even confession wouldn’t get leniency from Cillian, but resistance would surely bring severe punishment, she sighed, "Elaine."
Cillian, with a cold face, pulled her up, forcing her to be serious, "Why contact her?"
Eleanor, with drooping eyelids, replied, "Just to tell her I’m safe, so she won’t worry you might have beaten me, killed me, and erased me from this world."
"Do you think the police are just freeloading?" Cillian’s frustrated laugh came with a thin anger, "Is that really how you all see me?"
Eleanor raised her eyes at him, then lowered them again, "And how am I seen? Am I a deceitful liar with ill intentions, a delusional fool, a leech craving wealth and status?"
Cillian’s face turned green, "What trick are you up to now?"
At this point, Eleanor felt amused. These four years, not only had she become adept at dealing with Cillian, but his wariness of her had also grown steadily.
What merits or abilities did she have?
Eleanor, "Playing tricks that you can see through in an instant. Doing it many times, I’m tired, it’s meaningless, I’ve given up, do with me as you will."
Cillian watched her slowly close her eyes, looking all resigned, her whole demeanor lifeless.
He forcefully tore open his shirt, his rage burning hot, the indoor heating stifling, making him want to erupt.
Eleanor, despite being in a flaccid state of giving up, still had the instinct to sense danger. Noticing his scorching gaze fixed on her face, she opened her eyes to stare at him, "Cillian Grant—"
Her last bit of hope for the Grant Family turned to void, she suddenly wanted to ask for clarity.
In this world, nothing changes out of nowhere, emotions don’t just cool down suddenly either.
Clearly, the day before that stormy night, she was late returning, and Cillian was waiting for her in the living room until late at night, even reheating the milk she drank before bed, which had cooled and warmed repeatedly, making Auntie King scold her for worrying him.
Even earlier, when Phoebe had just returned, he’d consider her feelings, taking her to concerts, bringing her along to Grant Group in case she felt left out.
On her birthday, when Phoebe made her public appearance in the banquet hall, he silently accompanied her to the backyard to watch the stars.
At that time, Mrs. Grant was still affectionate to her, wouldn’t force her to attend banquets, was tolerant of her and Phoebe’s little tiffs. Mr. Grant, when returning from business trips, would even bring her favorite doll collectibles.
Back then, Eleanor stayed because she genuinely believed the Grant Family could become the five of them.
So after that sudden change that night, for a long time, Eleanor was trapped in self-reflection.
Was it because she didn’t do well enough, wasn’t patient enough with Phoebe, that Damian was never hers to begin with, that everything just returned to its rightful place?
But no matter how she corrected herself, it was never right, there was always something wrong with being humble.
In the first year’s nights, after dealing with Cillian, she’d lie on her side at the edge of the bed with her back to him, tears slipping over her nose bridge, flowing into her other eye, then onto the pillow, soaking it, making her hair damp, the chill spreading from her face through her whole body.
During the day, she’d lay her heart and organs out for Mrs. Grant, Mr. Grant, Phoebe, Cillian, and the housemaids to see.
Then at night, she’d take them all back, stitch up the wounds, and lay them out again the next day.
Until there were too many wounds to mend.
The remaining warmth in her blood was barely enough to survive.
"Is blood relation really that magically important?"
The night wind rushed in through the window, Eleanor’s voice was light, drifting and floating, entering the ears abruptly, resonating, shattering everything like an earth-shaking collapse.
Cillian’s face twisted with anger, suddenly froze into a thick shell of ice, solidifying his shock and rage.
His temper fully erupted.
"Are you still daydreaming?" Cillian yanked her chin up. "These four years, wasn’t it clear enough?"
Eleanor felt his grip tighten, almost crushing her jawbone.
"Was all this recent enthusiasm still for the Grant Family?" Cillian sneered, "Eleanor, are you shameless? Is my mother’s attitude still unclear, or was Phoebe not ruthless enough? Is there anyone in the Grant Family who welcomes you?"
Eleanor pried his hand away, "I just want an answer."
"You lived the reality firsthand," Cillian didn’t believe her, "isn’t that clear enough? Do you need to ask?"
Eleanor’s emotions collapsed completely in her eyes.
Her expression, like fragmented debris after an ice collapse, at this early evening moment, sank entirely into darkness.
"I will never ask again."
Cillian wouldn’t let her go, gripping her hair, forcing her to look up at him, "I thought you not fleeing with Damian Sinclair abroad meant you’d come to your senses. But now it seems you were just acting, waiting for my mother or father to reach out to you?"
"No."
Eleanor, in a state of numbness, couldn’t feel the scalp’s pulling pain over the aching numbness seeping from her bones. The Grant Family had raised her body and bones, and now every cell was exploding, shattering, a complete mess.
