Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 132: You Should Cherish Every Day With Me

Chapter 132: Chapter 132: You Should Cherish Every Day With Me

The uneasy secretary felt a chill in his heart.

After all, he wasn’t Damian Sinclair’s personal secretary and didn’t have much insight into Damian Sinclair’s private matters.

He only noticed that recently, President Sinclair’s attitude towards Phoebe Grant had clearly changed, shifting from gentle to forceful. Phoebe Grant, the spoiled young lady, didn’t understand the need for compromise.

Every time she came to the company, she would leave in a huff within ten minutes, slamming the door. There were even times when President Sinclair took a call—it went from picking up to hanging up and even to turning off the phone.

"President Sinclair is in a meeting, do you have urgent business with him?"

Phoebe Grant did not respond, pushed him aside, and strode into the building.

Before she had taken a few steps, a traffic police officer caught up with the secretary and sternly stopped her. "Stop, you were speeding in the city center and running red lights. Do you know how dangerous that is? Disrupting public order and seriously threatening others’ life and property safety."

The secretary had a hunch—after Phoebe Grant got pregnant, she would have a driver when going out. If she went beyond the city limits, she would bring a nanny and two bodyguards. Racing to find President Sinclair today meant this wasn’t a small matter; if not earth-shattering, then at least chaotic.

He called the receptionist and the legal department manager over, apologized to the traffic cop, explaining that everything would be handed over to the lawyer for coordination, and hurried to the elevator. Phoebe Grant had already gone upstairs, and the numbers on the display were quickly rising.

The secretary took out his phone and informed the other secretaries in the President’s office, "Is Secretary Troy there? Make sure to stop her, don’t let her rush into the meeting room; the Grant family’s young lady doesn’t care about the occasion when she’s angry, she’ll shout anything out."

President Sinclair had gone abroad and after a few days back, he was making bold moves in the company, fully focusing on the business—with endless meetings, big and small, board meetings, executive meetings, more than a dozen a day, from dawn till dusk.

The board members were stunned, privately praising that another "Cillian" was about to emerge from Sinclair Group.

At this time, with Phoebe Grant bursting in, no matter what broke out, it wouldn’t look good. It would affect the board’s opinion of Damian Sinclair slightly, but more importantly, it would raise doubts about the stability of the Sinclair and Grant union.

Phoebe Grant was very familiar with the internal structure of Sinclair Group, but from the seventeenth to the nineteenth floor, neither Damian Sinclair’s office nor the meeting rooms showed his presence.

The only remaining place was the large conference room on the top floor, used only for board meetings.

Her chest burned like fire, and the small secretaries in the board office treated her like a great enemy.

Phoebe Grant stood in the conference hall, stared at the tightly drawn blinds of the conference room windows for a few seconds.

She turned around, walked to the elevator as if she was going downstairs to wait for him in Damian Sinclair’s office.

This wasn’t how Phoebe Grant usually behaved. The secretaries exchanged looks, and one of them sent a message to Secretary Troy who was inside taking meeting notes.

After a while, footsteps resounded outside, and Damian Sinclair pushed the door open. His suit was meticulously neat, his tie strictly proper. He seemed calmer and more moderate, as if time had tempered him, and his elegance and poise were astonishing.

"What’s the matter?"

Phoebe Grant sat in his office chair, blankly looking out the window at the riverside view in the city center, where the entire city’s prosperity and splendor gathered.

In the past, when she returned to the Grant family, she thought that the prosperous clamor and dazzling wealth were all in her grasp. But in the end, she was just a front, pampered and loved falsely, even favoritism was false, and every bit of her past glory was a joke.

"All of you like her," Phoebe Grant asked, "What’s so great about her?"

Damian Sinclair frowned tightly, looked at her for a long time, "What’s so bad about her?"

Phoebe Grant leaned on the armrest to stand up, but she didn’t react violently.

"She took my place for eighteen years while I suffered in a poor mountain village; shouldn’t she have to suffer too? It’s her who is greedy and shameless, clinging to the Grant family without shame. You’ve remembered and protected her since childhood, but if not for her back then, the real childhood sweethearts would have been us. I’m just taking back what’s mine, yet you all, openly and secretly, still want that fake."

Damian Sinclair looked at her silently for a while.

Phoebe Grant had been spoiled over the past four years. In psychology, there’s a personality phenomenon where inferiority, when met with material abundance, turns into arrogance and becomes inflated, even distorted.

Therefore, Phoebe Grant now could hardly be considered empathetic or respectful and found it difficult to remain calm and articulate these words.

"What is yours? Me?" Damian Sinclair observed her reaction, "In Soldane Province, there are no less than seven heiresses around my age that I grew up with, so what then?"

His tone shifted, "Even if you were with the Grant family for eighteen years, you’re not Eleanor."

"You’ve admitted it, you still love her," Phoebe Grant raised her hand to point at him, the veins snaking under the skin like venomous snakes, leaping up viciously to strangle and ensnare him, "But it’s too late for you; you can’t beat my brother, she is the prize he’s coveted, and you’ve been promised to me for life."

Damian Sinclair’s pupils shrank sharply. He said nothing, his gaze fixed on her face.

Phoebe Grant’s throat felt like it was stuffed with hot sand, rough and hoarse, as she spoke word by word, "Our marriage, as long as my brother isn’t done with her, you belong to me."

Damian Sinclair’s expression turned dark, almost black, as if he was holding back to the extreme.

This expression provoked Phoebe Grant.

She detailed, with malicious intent, "Whatever it takes, you will continue to tangle with me, call me your wife, and let others call me Mrs. Sinclair, praise our love. If someday you manage to shake me off—"

In the gray cracks in her eyes, something akin to a vengeful madness was brewing, "Then you and her would never be possible, and probably for the rest of your life—"

Phoebe Grant suddenly thought of something and abruptly stopped talking, her expression instantly tightening, leaving only her eyes like bottomless black holes, swirling with winds and blades that sent a chill down Damian Sinclair’s spine and filled him with a dreadful premonition.

She got up and as she was about to pass him, with shoulders aligned, she suddenly flicked a speck of dust off Damian Sinclair’s shoulder, straightening his collar, "You should cherish every day with me."

Damian Sinclair watched her disappearing figure at the door, that earth-shattering ominous feeling live and seizing him, making his heart constrict spasmodically until he felt suffocated.

He pulled out his phone, the twitching at his heart provoked a palm filled with cold sweat, the screen swiped several times before he managed to dial, "Auntie King—"

......

After whale watching, Cillian Grant really stayed in Húsavík.

He booked a villa-like hotel at Kristyr Fjord.

Along the wide road stood quaint red brick villas with sharp rooftops, unfenced, unbarred, isolated yet free in the snowy ground.

December is a low season for tourism in Froskar; business is relatively quiet, and few windows glow under the dim light of four or five o’clock sunsets.

Eleanor followed Cillian Grant closely, watching him swipe the card to open the room door, "Your bodyguards still haven’t come looking for you."

Cillian Grant held her by the waist as they entered, turned on the light, and in the dim glow of the hallway light, gazed down, "Don’t you dislike them?"