Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 85: Cillian Grant Knows Mr. Grant Is Investigating Those Four Years
Eleanor buried her head in her meal. Suddenly called out, her reflexes made her look up—right into Mr. Grant’s gaze.
Just like Cillian Grant, the look in his eyes had the same piercing depth, but its sharpness was much more direct, without Cillian’s obscurity and layers.
Eleanor’s scalp tightened. She lowered her head, pretending to eat.
Cillian set down his chopsticks and wiped his mouth with a napkin. "The answer from a month ago—I think you can recall it."
Mr. Grant still had a trace of a smile on his face. "Why not recognize her?"
The dining room was suddenly put on pause; all sound stopped. Everyone at the table instinctively turned to Eleanor. The unspoken suspicions simmered, every cold and silent second transforming into a battlefield without smoke.
Eleanor held her breath. She didn’t actually want the answer to this anymore, but, bound by the persona of returning to the Grant Family, desperate for love and support, she had no choice but to glance at Cillian.
Last night, Elaine White had brought her home, helped push her luggage inside, and they’d run right into Mr. Grant who had also just returned. The look on Mr. Grant’s face was fleeting, inscrutable—part regret, part satisfaction.
Eleanor understood then: Mr. Grant hadn’t believed for even a second that she’d been staying at Elaine’s place.
So, seeing her bring her luggage back, she’d gone through the motions—putting on a show as if it were all true,
which only led to that ambiguous regret about her woven cover story. On the surface, he couldn’t catch her on anything concrete, yet he was satisfied they could each maintain their own guarded peace, keeping up appearances even more thoroughly.
It made sense, really.
A lie so riddled with holes and pathetic, with someone as cunning and seasoned as Mr. Grant acting out the scene—it was like a celestial general being reincarnated as a pig, forced to endure filth while pinching his nose in disgust.
"Why should I recognize her?"
Cillian dropped his napkin. "Father, your people just left for the North. Nothing’s even begun yet, and you’re already showing your hand. Too hasty."
Phoebe Grant looked blank and confused, glancing at Mrs. Grant.
Mrs. Grant had spoken privately with Mr. Grant many times. While he always hid his real feelings, never giving away his actions, every mention of the North made her increasingly aware of what was going on.
Especially as Mr. Grant, rarely, let his face grow dark, keeping it taut for a long moment before forcing out another trace of a smile. "Eat," he murmured.
Eleanor’s appetite, never there to begin with, vanished completely.
Her cunning, usually razor-sharp, didn’t wander. She didn’t guess wrong.
Mr. Grant really was investigating those four years in the North.
Even more, Cillian had already noticed.
But he neither stopped it nor fought back, simply letting things play out.
In that moment, the food stuck in Eleanor’s throat solidified into a heavy stone, icy cold, sinking straight into a bottomless abyss.
She forced herself not to look at Cillian, gripping her chopsticks tighter, stabbing at the congee in her bowl.
In her lowered gaze, a swath of charcoal-gray suit flickered at the edge of the table, moving along with the steady footsteps of a man walking away.
Most men in this world are thin sheets of paper—a rare few, with depth and experience, are books. Rarer still are the classics: those who can resist the predatory pull of their genes and truly respect women from the heart.
Cillian Grant isn’t among them.
He’s the abyss itself.
Whipping cold wind that cuts to the bone, collecting immeasurable darkness; and within that darkness—countless deadly blades.
You don’t even have to fall in. Just standing at the edge, you’re left shattered, beyond burial.
After breakfast, a servant told Eleanor that Mr. Grant was waiting for her in the study.
Eleanor went upstairs to the study; the door was open.
Mr. Grant was comforting Mrs. Grant in his arms. "You’re too pessimistic. You saw Eleanor come home last night—she brought luggage, which means she really did stay with the White Family’s girl those few days."
"Eleanor grew up in a wealthy family; she knows exactly what consequences each action brings. Besides, she’s only twenty-two, in her prime—no way she’d throw her life away."
Mrs. Grant was mollified, slipping from Mr. Grant’s embrace, catching sight of Eleanor at the door.
In an instant, Mrs. Grant’s eyes grew stormy, but she quickly steadied herself, cold as ice.
Without a word, she passed Eleanor and walked out.
Mr. Grant settled down behind his desk as Eleanor quietly closed the door.
"Things at home have been uneasy lately. I’m sure you’ve noticed," Mr. Grant gestured for her to step forward, "I’d like to hear your thoughts."
Eleanor stood by the desk; separated by the wide surface, her expression was both respectful and sincere. "I’m scared. I don’t know what to do."
Mr. Grant leaned back into his chair, studying her face for a long time. His tone abruptly turned regretful.
"Eleanor, you’re truly smart. With your intelligence, even if you weren’t Grant blood, I’d still nurture you. During Grant Group’s rapid expansion, you could use your talents—manager, VP, regional president, even the board. Phoebe doesn’t compare; what she’d get would never match yours."
Eleanor lowered her eyes.
Mr. Grant continued, "But now it’s no longer possible. Some things, if your father tears them open too directly, would be too ugly. So today, I won’t say a word—I just want to know, do you like the North?"
Eleanor realized—they were about to talk about marrying far away, and he was broaching it with great finesse.
Phoebe’s hostility and Mrs. Grant’s coldness had cast her into chaos these years. Now she learned Mr. Grant had wanted to train her for the company—a path to success, authority, respect, and standing.
He even compared her with Phoebe, hinting Eleanor would one day rise above her.
But in the swirl of suspicion—between real and fake—everything evaporated to nothing; just a mirage.
Mr. Grant was stoking her ambition.
Who doesn’t yearn for status and a life at the summit? Who could accept seeing what should have been theirs slip away because of someone else?
And after losing it all, wouldn’t you hate the one who ruined you so thoroughly?
Eleanor took a breath, showing her sincerity, "Yes. I like the North very much. There’s snow, endless forests and grasslands—beauty that the South could never imagine, all year round."
Mr. Grant tapped his chair’s armrest, a smile tugging at the corner of his eyes, "Endless forests and grasslands—that’s practically the northern frontier. Don’t you think it’s far?"
"Not far."
Mr. Grant’s smile spread to his mouth. He leaned over and pushed forward a card. "Since you don’t mind, you can chat with this young man first. Of course, I’m not forcing you. If you think he’s unsuitable, just refuse, and I’ll find another candidate."
Eleanor took it. Only a contact detail—no photo, not even a name.
She didn’t ask more, instead taking the chance to make her own request, "My leave from the company is up. I’m preparing to go back to work."
Mr. Grant paused. "Of course." His expression was pointed, "Eleanor, you have complete freedom."
.........
Mr. Grant, head of the household, had spoken. She had complete freedom.
Eleanor left the study, immediately using her freedom to go find Elaine White.
It was time for her injection today.
"The treatment seems effective," Elaine pressed a cotton swab to the injection site. "How are you responding? Any nausea, rashes, drowsiness, or dizziness?"
Eleanor shook her head. "I haven’t noticed anything yet."
That didn’t relax Elaine—she was instead more on edge.
Last night, she’d burned the midnight oil, combing through every bit of research from development to clinical trials—every paper, all the follow-up studies.
Among a thousand participants, fetal preservation rates were eighty percent; adverse maternal reactions, ninety-five percent.
The remaining five percent were athletes or long-term fitness enthusiasts—levels of health Eleanor couldn’t match.
