Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 105: Cillian Grant Never Intended to Let Her Return to China

Chapter 105: Chapter 105: Cillian Grant Never Intended to Let Her Return to China

Eleanor hung her head, numbly hanging up the phone.

Froskar is different from Cryos; it is located on the edge of The Frostfang Circle. There’s no polar night, although daylight hours are short, you can still see the sun.

When the sun rose, it was already noon.

Eleanor ran all night, exhausted to the extreme, holding on until the moment of sunrise, her eyes were like a window fitted with frosted glass, uncontrollably wanting to close, and in the haze was awakened by the brilliant golden light.

At that moment, the iceberg was enveloped in countless rays of light, its colorful shards covering the snow plains, while on the other side, accompanying her through the night, a long and dark coastline meandered into a path of utmost brilliance.

Suddenly, Eleanor’s limbs gained strength amidst the extreme heaviness.

People are always like this, confused for a long time, only to find enlightenment in a few moments.

Desire always ends in boredom. Can Cillian’s words of ’fully accompany’ truly exhaust a lifetime with her?

Eleanor doesn’t think highly of humanity, nor of men, even less of lunatics.

Besides, if she can leave once, she can leave a second time.

The path is indeed like iron, but now I step forward anew.

Starting anew, the mountains are like seas, the setting sun like blood. 𝓯𝓻𝒆𝙚𝒘𝓮𝙗𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝒍.𝙘𝓸𝙢

...............

After breakfast at The Grant Family, Mrs. Grant invited guests to arrange flowers in the little pavilion, while Mr. Grant also had guests in the downstairs reception room.

Cillian came downstairs, coincidentally encountering two groups of guests in the living room.

The lady guest beside Mrs. Grant was a high school classmate who had just appeared at his birthday banquet, Indigo.

Mr. Grant’s guest was more familiar, Jason Xavier’s uncle, Liam Xavier, with a young woman in her early twenties following behind.

Cillian’s gaze lingered for two seconds on her shyly lowered eyelashes before drifting away uninterestedly.

Among the billions of people in the world, those who resemble each other are many. If they are fortunate to bear even a three-point resemblance, a five-point resemblance, then more to seven or eight points, even a perfect ten; beneath the skin, it still isn’t her.

Painted skin, dry bones, instantly repulsive upon sight.

Mrs. Grant was keenly aware of this premeditated matchmaking encounter, as clear as observing a fire.

As soon as Cillian’s gaze paused, she noticed.

With her periphery, she subtly glanced behind Liam Xavier.

Younger, with a gentle and calm temperament, black hair down to her waist, a heart-shaped face, fair skin, sweet appearance.

Mrs. Grant paused, smilingly asked Mr. Grant, "Which family is this young lady by Mr. Xavier’s side from? When there are female guests, why not invite me?"

Mr. Grant and Mrs. Grant, having been married for decades, understood each other’s intentions clearly, many meanings conveyed in just a glance, "Liam, would you introduce her?"

Liam Xavier laughed casually, "She’s my wife’s distant niece, surname Lancaster, given name Yvonne. She graduated in finance from S University, and has been helping me with tasks since."

Mrs. Grant’s face showed no indication of satisfaction, with Indigo standing by her side, looking Yvonne over from top to bottom, generously extending her hand.

"Hello, my father is Edward Yates. You should have heard my name in Soldane Province."

"Miss Indigo." Yvonne Lancaster was also generous, showing a different kind of charming poise, "I’ve watched your show, your broadcast accent is very standard, standing out among hosts in Soldane Province."

Mrs. Grant smiled without speaking.

One was straightforward and forthright, an immediate dominance; the other gentle to resist force, giving assessments.

Upon meeting, it was clear; both parties were competitors, somewhat smart.

Unfortunately, neither seemed enduring.

Fortunately, both were somewhat decent, barely middling.

Mrs. Grant glanced toward Cillian, who stood not far away, wearing a white shirt and black suit, with thick brows and deep eyes, handsome and noble; among the noble ladies, few could be his match.

But a man must eventually settle down; the longer it drags, the more troubles will emerge, disturbing perceptions.

Mrs. Grant called him, "Indigo and Miss Lancaster are about your age, both are good kids, have a chat with them."

Cillian didn’t move, his face indifferent and bland, tinged with implicit impatience. "Chat about what, mergers?"

Mrs. Grant was momentarily speechless. On his birthday, his reckless words scared off most of the young ladies; the explanations they gave were scarcely different.

His appearance was robust and imposing, too cold and forceful, seemingly disliking women, deeply averse to matchmaking.

The word of mouth spread, and Mrs. Grant was furious, losing her appetite for dinner; returning to her room to contact other young ladies, unexpectedly receiving Indigo’s call, requesting her guidance on floral arrangements.

Upon hearing, Mr. Grant immediately called Liam Xavier, then inexplicably pecked her, complimenting her as a wise, internal support, a great strategist.

Mrs. Grant sensed that he likely had other intentions and couldn’t help but cast a sidelong glance at Mr. Grant.

"Cillian," Mr. Grant’s smile was faint at the corners of his lips, "Your Uncle Xavier has a few words—"

"Father," Cillian’s expression mirrored, "My attitude remains unchanged, today I will go out no matter what, be it threats from The Xavier Family or anything else, I will not bend."

Mr. Grant’s expression shifted, "Are you sure?"

Cillian’s eyes were dark and profound, a kind of dense yet icy gaze more unwavering than complexity, more invincible than complexity.

In mid-air, his gaze collided with Mr. Grant’s, as if there was a thunderous boom.

Mr. Grant inwardly harbored a mix of rage and sorrow, entangled in his eyes, revealing their intentions since Eleanor’s departure, they exchanged blows, their motives glaringly apparent, yet never openly acknowledging or unravelling them.

It’s as if now, before the final battle, the last consultations between the warring sides, whether they want to stop, whether they want to turn back.

Cillian provided the answer.

Suddenly Mr. Grant spoke, "What if I force the issue."

Cillian stepped forward, "I’ll take on the challenge."

Behind him, Mrs. Grant’s face changed drastically.

.........

Eleanor couldn’t understand why this group lingered in Froskar, instead of sending her directly back to her country, they rented a villa.

Playing a game with her, a cold mercenary group’s precious protege, adored by ten foreign strongmen, a young heiress and her troop of male servants, the queen wants the east not the west, but she cannot go out.

Absolutely—without limits.

Eleanor couldn’t stand the atmosphere, and simply shut herself in.

Her room was on the second floor, the window facing a vast ice field. If she ripped the sheets and climbed down, she’d be a dot of black amidst miles of white, more eye-catching than gold bars in the middle of the road.

She thought of slipping away when the darkness closed in, and even tried. As soon as the sheet appeared out of the window, a Slav manservant with a stilted smile hung down from the roof.

Eleanor, "..."

Not naturally inclined to smile, better not force it, especially while upside down, more bat-like than an owl.

She silently closed the window.

The light cast by the floor lamp was hazy and dim, a warm orange glow, swirling around her fingertips. Eleanor leaned back to pull away, her fingers seized by shadows, stretching forward where the intoxicating brightness lightly kissed her.

Yet, it was too fake.

Whether it was the attitudes of this mercenary group or Cillian’s calmness after that phone call, seemingly putting her aside.

Unless Cillian planned it this way, never intending her to return home.

There were initially two groups chasing her. The latter known group belonged to Cillian; the other could only be Mr. Grant.

But her hairpin had a tracker, indicating Mr. Grant was tracing her movements. Then why make a move abroad rather than before departure?

Was it for the convenience abroad to act, intending to end her life?

Eleanor immediately denied it; Mr. Grant was profoundly cunning. Acting abroad? More convenient than at sea? If truly intended to end her life, she would have fallen overboard that night.