Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 68: Someone Has Been Secretly Taking Pictures
"Stop making excuses." Cillian Grant’s voice was laced with sarcasm, as if he was utterly fed up with her, like a leech that couldn’t be shaken off. "When Father finds you, you’d better tell him the truth and leave The Grant Family."
Eleanor forcibly pushed away his hand, smoothed her disheveled hair, straightened her back, and stared at him, asking, "You told me to marry, to leave The Grant Family. How am I supposed to marry?"
"Who said you have to be in The Grant Family to get married?"
In that moment, the expression on Cillian Grant’s face was almost enigmatic. The corners of his lips held a faint, indifferent line, which didn’t seem like a smile, more like the natural lines of his lips—a look that invited contemplation and reflection.
Eleanor was at a loss for words, staring at him rigidly, wondering what kind of relentless heart he must have, and what kind of darkness tinted it.
Just like how she couldn’t think of anyone who could help Cillian Grant out of his predicament, without needing her to have the identity of a Grant Family member.
Unless it was someone like Quincy Lewis, or perhaps even worse.
Or maybe someone with peculiar interests, of advanced age...
Half a month ago, she had confidently analyzed with Elaine White, and half a month later, she was forced to admit it herself, going round in circles.
"This is the last time I’m willing to give you a choice, don’t choose wrongly."
............
Auntie King had just finished brewing the black chicken soup and quickly went to knock on the master bedroom door.
Within seconds, the door opened.
Cillian Grant walked past her with a cold face, and Auntie King seized the opportunity to enter and check on Eleanor.
She sat slumped on the sofa with her head down, hair in disarray, her expression hidden, looking even paler and more miserable than the image of yesterday’s maid.
Auntie King was startled, rushed over, held her shoulder, and checked her from head to toe.
Except for a few reddish finger marks on her cheeks, which stood out sharply against her fair skin, there were no obvious bruises on her arms and legs.
"Did he pinch you?"
Eleanor forced a reply, "Auntie King, I’m not in the mood to eat tonight, just want to sleep."
Auntie King opened her mouth, hesitated for a long time, murmuring, "Eleanor, Auntie King watched you grow up, watched you grow up—" She suddenly grasped Eleanor’s hand, "Drink the soup tonight and tomorrow Auntie King will secretly let you go."
Eleanor shook her head, just smiling, "Auntie King, I’m a little tired; let me sleep first, okay?"
"Okay." Auntie King helped her to the bed, "You sleep."
Eleanor couldn’t actually sleep, but she needed some time to compose herself.
These past two days, spending every moment with Cillian Grant, she was suddenly thrown back into the state of four years ago, the constant tense vigilance of day and night, compounded by this new explosive secret of pregnancy she had to mask as her period. Eleanor was on the verge of collapse.
When it came down to it, she was only twenty-two years old, just graduated from college, her peers like Phoebe Grant, were cherished and cared for by others.
Marriage, career, status, wealth were at her fingertips.
Eleanor didn’t hope to compare herself to her.
She envied Tilly.
Staying in bed until the very last moment before work, chasing after buses and buying breakfast along the way, clocking in at work, complaining while working, occasionally discussing TV plots, and gossiping about celebrities.
Once the tasks were completed, getting off work, she would meet colleagues and girlfriends at roadside barbecues, and after the get-together, she would carry leftover beers and stroll home in the evening breeze.
Even everyday worries, high house prices, low wages, too much overtime, nagging bosses, mothers pressing for marriage, and how to dress nicely for Instagram-worthy Sunday outings...
This was what Eleanor had seen—what a normal twenty-something girl’s life should be like, the prime of her youth.
It made her unable to resist fantasizing and comparing, and the more she compared, the more she felt that the winter from the year she was eighteen was especially long, so long that spring seemed like a distant illusion.
Cillian Grant, he was someone whose opponents everyone feared.
Her little schemes, whether or not she was lying, were transparent in front of him. Eleanor couldn’t help but think that the reason she was able to hide her pregnancy until now wasn’t because she was particularly clever.
Purely because, four years ago, the doctor’s diagnosis had taken root in his mind, and Cillian Grant simply believed it.
.........
At the same time, in the dining room.
Auntie King brought out the last dish, and turned back towards the kitchen.
Cillian Grant suddenly asked, "Does she like chestnut cakes?"
Auntie King paused, not turning around, "She should like them."
"From Hopper’s on The Aztil Walk and The Peridian Way?"
Auntie King was stupefied. She had known many patisseries through Mrs. Grant: The Royal Patisserie from Isle of Astera, The Founder’s Fortune on Central Street, and The Osmanthus Pavilion in front of city hall—a high society afternoon tea destination.
But she had never heard of Hopper’s on The Aztil Walk.
Unable to comprehend for the moment, she was puzzled as to where this man, who had never so much as lifted a finger towards food, had learned about such a place. She muttered ambiguously, "Chestnut cake, Miss Eleanor does eat that."
Cillian Grant said no more.
When Auntie King came back out, there was no sign of the man at the table, and fearing that Cillian Grant was causing trouble for Eleanor again, she quickly served a bowl of chicken soup and headed for the master bedroom.
In the end, the master bedroom was quiet; only a small bump on the left side of the bed was visible. Auntie King relaxed, gently pulled down the covers, and Eleanor was asleep, deeply curled, arms wrapped around her abdomen, knees almost to her chin, in a defensive and uneasy posture.
Auntie King watched for a few seconds, then before leaving, went to the bathroom to take out the trash.
.........
Hopper’s is situated among the shops on The Aztil Walk, flanked by dining establishments, with BBQ tables set up on the curb, and street snack stalls nearby.
The street was narrow, crowded with people out for late-night snacks, and Aaron Chase made it only a third of the way before getting stuck.
Cillian Grant instructed him to park on the side and got out to walk to Hopper’s; a new batch of chestnut cakes had just come out, steam filled the shop, masking the chestnut aroma with the greasy sweetness.
There was a long queue, and in the midst stood Cillian Grant, with an outstanding posture, dressed in a black suit, exuding a stern and icy demeanor. His presence was imposing, catching eyes but warding off approach.
When his turn came, the shop owner’s scalp felt tight—The Aztil Walk had become an affordable night market in the past years.
He had seen a few idle second-generation rich kids, but this man, with his aura of elegance and commanding dignity, was truly unprecedented.
"We just made some taro and purple potato fillings; would you like to take some as well?"
"No need."
"Oh come on, big boss, take some. They don’t cost much, but the taste is exceptional. The taro and purple potatoes are grown in our own rural fields."
Cillian Grant paid for the chestnut cakes, "If she likes it, she’ll have it, not interested in anything else."
"Your taste is quite specific, but after a while, you’ll get tired of it. Why not try some other flavors—" 𝐟𝕣𝕖𝐞𝐰𝕖𝚋𝐧𝗼𝚟𝐞𝕝.𝗰𝐨𝐦
"Won’t get tired of it."
His voice turned cold, firm and authoritative; the shop owner dared not speak further and handed over the food bag with both hands.
Cillian Grant took it, returned to his car.
His phone suddenly rang; it was Mr. Grant.
Cillian stared at the screen for a few seconds and pressed the mute button.
Outside the car window, the riot of colorful signs was hazy in the smoke, and the cluster lights from the BBQ stall cast spots of light inside the car, where the man’s dignified and handsome face was caught between shadow and light.
Aaron Chase faintly sensed a hint of impatience, an undercurrent of irritation and an inexpressible gloom.
This gloom had lingered for a month back at the end of summer,
Aaron’s phone buzzed with activity.
The call was from the butler.
Receiving a signal, Aaron picked up, "Where’s the eldest young master?"
After consulting, "Mr. Grant is already resting."
The butler seemed to be consulting over there too, momentarily, "Remind the eldest young master to return home tomorrow without fail; Mr. Grant has matters to discuss."
Aaron agreed, hung up the phone, and started the vehicle.
Amid the bustling crowds left behind by the car, a figure slipped through, clutching a phone, giving chase to the corner.
The murky figure went unnoticed by Aaron.
Nor by Cillian Grant.
