Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 77: Cillian Grant Uncovers the Black Clinic Prenatal Exam
Phoebe Grant glanced at Mr. Grant.
His smile did not falter; unlike Mrs. Grant’s loss of composure, he remained calm and collected, even a touch gentle.
She caught her breath, "I went downstairs, my brother was standing in the middle of the corridor, at the end was Eleanor’s room—I, I..."
"Phoebe." Mr. Grant put his arm around Mrs. Grant’s shoulders. "Speculation breeds suspicion, and if you do it too often, it’s like crying wolf. But you’re still young, and you’re only worried about your brother—so Dad won’t scold you. Just remember the lesson. It’s late, go back to your room and rest."
The footsteps upstairs faded, and Eleanor collapsed weakly onto the floor.
Before she could catch her breath, someone twisted the door handle. Auntie King stretched her arm in, handing something over.
"Eleanor, your medicine."
.........
Liam Xavier sped back home under the night sky. When he reached the Emerald Residence, the horizon was just tinged with the pale white of dawn.
Damon Sharp led him into the study.
Behind the unusually spacious, austere desk, Cillian Grant leaned over, a long leather tool roll at his side. Inside the black sheath: rows of gleaming carving knives—flat blades, push chisels, round tips, diamond points, trumpet rods...
Liam Xavier counted them at a glance; it was far too complete for a jade carving novice.
He chuckled, "Weren’t your hands all bandaged up just days ago? I thought you’d wait for your wounds to heal before continuing."
The man was absorbed in his delicate work, the custom spotlight blazing across the desk, highlighting every detail in the half-finished Jade Button in his hand.
The jade itself was top-grade, an old-mine, glass-type piece, but the carving was stiff, mechanical. The new strokes—more off than on—felt forced, even violent.
Liam Xavier felt a pang in his chest. "So you’re willing to ruin the finest jade Jade had hidden away for years."
In the glow, Cillian Grant’s face emerged from shadow, his brows set and unyielding.
His bone structure lent him an innate sharpness and spirit; at this moment, his rigor lent him an untouchable solemnity.
It made Liam Xavier seem even more flippant, with his own little one-man show growing stale. "Back then you stole it, said it was a gift. What kind of decent gift is this—flawless jade, shoddy carving? Is it a wedding present for your little sister? Some pure-hearted gesture, all for love?"
Frivolous.
Cillian Grant switched to a push chisel, glanced up coldly. "You need something?"
"Nothing." Liam Xavier pulled at his jacket, feigning indifference. "I just got back from abroad."
Cillian Grant paused his carving, stared at him for seconds. "Did you do it?"
Liam Xavier lifted his hand to touch the bruise on his cheek, the just-healed scratches on his neck. "Did it. Did some talking too. Sarah’s fierce when she gets going—totally overwhelmed me, had to give her everything I had."
Cillian Grant caught the innuendo, his face tightening. "Get lost."
"Heartless." Liam Xavier leaned casually against the desk. "I came only because you always supported me and Sarah. Wanted to share the good news."
Cillian Grant lowered his eyes, focusing on the Jade Button in his hand. "How did she forgive you?"
Liam Xavier looked startled.
After all these years working together, the depth of Cillian Grant’s scheming was matched only by his icy core: from head to toe, in his very bones—always cold-eyed, judging from afar. His heart was cold, his guts were hard; his emotions were a dead sea, undisturbed by any waves.
Gossip never touched him.
"Because of the child." Liam Xavier’s eyes softened, the urge to share winning out. "Before Sarah came to the Xavier family, she drifted everywhere with her mom, always struggling. I crossed oceans with all my sincerity, laid everything out for her—she’s too soft-hearted, forgave me easily for the kid’s sake."
Cillian Grant’s knife slipped, blade slicing deep into his index finger—right where the scab had just formed, now gushing blood.
Blood welled up immediately, spilling across his palm and pooling a dark red on the desk. The Jade Button in his hand was now clouded, its luster hidden by the blood.
Liam Xavier jumped up in shock, raising his voice. "Damon, first aid kit!"
Cillian Grant showed no emotion, tossed the tool aside, and set the Jade Button into a nearby velvet box, gesturing brusquely to Damon Sharp, who had rushed in with the kit, "Clean it."
Damon set down the box, no words or delay, lifting the velvet box to clean it right away.
Liam Xavier watched with envy. "Your assistants hardly speak, but they’re all so capable. How did you recruit them?"
Cillian Grant wrapped his finger in gauze. "HR did."
Liam Xavier sounded intrigued. "I’ve been a CEO for years—there’s all kinds of people and all kinds of workplaces. Finding real talent is like fishing the ocean. Grant Group’s HR must have some magical radar, laser precise?"
Cillian Grant fixed his gaze on the gauze, voice cold as he dismissed him. "Anything else?"
Liam Xavier choked silent.
After he left, Damon Sharp returned to the study with the velvet box. "Mr. Sinclair’s secretary’s whereabouts have been tracked down. Aside from arranging Miss Eleanor’s departure overseas, she also..."
He shot a cautious glance at the man, sorting through the timeline. "Half a month ago, there was talk at Stonewell—a female employee claimed she saw Miss Eleanor getting a prenatal checkup at a shady clinic on The Peridian Way. That was the same day you met Miss Eleanor at the bus stop. Mr. Sinclair must’ve heard the rumors, so he sent his secretary over."
Cillian Grant’s expression slowly hardened.
Damon Sharp kept his gaze away, fixed squarely on his own toes.
The room gradually filled with dawn’s golden light, landing on the edge of the windowsill bookcase. The thick spines, gold-lettered, shone almost blinding.
Wuthering Heights.
The Phantom of the Opera.
Suddenly, Cillian Grant rose. "Look into it."
Damon Sharp obeyed.
Before he got far, the man called him back, "Arrange for a hospital. Avoid any connected to the White Family."
............
Early in the morning, Eleanor woke up and found the bleeding hadn’t stopped.
Auntie King came to check on her, growing anxious. "That family doctor Phoebe Grant arranged said that if the medicine doesn’t stop the bleeding, you need to get to the hospital right away."
"I understand, Auntie King." Eleanor changed her clothes. "What’s for breakfast today? Is Father still having Cantonese tea?"
Auntie King replied, "Yes, lately it’s shrimp roe and fish-egg siu mai, salted egg and dried scallop sticky rice, red rice rice rolls. But Madam won’t let us make too much, it’s too many carbs."
Eleanor followed her into the kitchen. "I’ll make some shrimp roe and fish-egg siu mai. Auntie King, did my mother seek you out yesterday?"
"No."
The kitchen was busy; Auntie King directed the chefs prepping Western breakfast to another area before whispering, "Not only no—she didn’t even send anyone to ask me anything."
Eleanor’s eyes flickered.
Mrs. Grant was never one to let things slide. Last night’s near-caught-in-the-act should’ve led to a storming in—she wouldn’t risk upsetting Cillian Grant, but sparing Eleanor herself wasn’t her style. Dragging her out for three rounds of questioning was standard procedure.
And Mr. Grant.
Mr. Grant brought her back with the intent to marry her away.
The reason for marrying her off was suspicion that she and Cillian Grant were entangled. So he picked the quiet approach—to resolve things peacefully.
On that basis, it was Secretary Rhodes who caught her at the Emerald Residence entry.
Any way you look at it, this is nightmare mode. Go any further, whether it’s checking the Emerald Residence cameras or verifying with Elaine White—Eleanor’s cornered.
But all Mr. Grant did was have some heart-to-heart talk in the study.
It was too strange.
Eleanor had grown up in the Grant Family, and Mr. Grant’s intricate tactics were ingrained in her.
With people this cunning, you have to learn to elevate your perspective—not just watch actions, but dig for motive. The fundamental logic beneath every move.
