Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 134: Thinking About How to Leave Me?

Chapter 134: Chapter 134: Thinking About How to Leave Me?

The gossip about the eldest Grant son and Eleanor was widely circulated among the servants; all kinds of past incidents were dragged out and analyzed anew.

When Mrs. Grant caught wind of it, she came down hard on the talk, so now the staff had quieted down—yet, all that could be said had pretty much been said.

Ms. Lewis knew well where Mr. and Mrs. Grant stood, but ultimately, she was intimidated by the eldest son and no longer dared to rebuke Auntie King so openly as before.

Auntie King was honest and taciturn; she didn’t cross the line, so the two got along harmoniously.

Every day at meal times, Auntie King would make a brief appearance, give a few reminders, and then return to her room—never meddling, never asking questions.

When Damian called, Auntie King was packing her things. She’d spent decades with the Grant Family; this small maid’s room felt even more like home than her own. She hadn’t noticed much before, but now she was stunned—the odds and ends she’d gathered over the years could barely be crammed into four huge suitcases.

The butler advised her to throw away some unnecessary items. Auntie King, sentimental to a fault, refused; instead, she sorted everything into boxes for shipping back to her old home.

"Auntie King—"

She jumped; Damian’s voice was warm and clear, always tinged with a trace of laughter when calling her, rarely so urgent or anxious.

She asked, "Did something happen again?"

Damian gestured for the secretary to step out, postponing the board meeting by ten minutes. "Was there anything unusual at the Grant home today? How is Mrs. Grant?"

Auntie King searched her memory, "This morning, Mrs. Grant made several urgent calls, Director Grant came home, and the two of them were in the small parlor. The staff didn’t dare approach."

Damian’s heart sank. Mr. Grant had all but moved into Grant Group recently, determined to force Cillian back home from abroad.

Coming back at this particular moment—what was he discussing with Mrs. Grant?

Phoebe had repeatedly pressed the question, always asking "why do you all love Eleanor" rather than "why do you," even claiming Eleanor was a prey carefully selected by Cillian.

Damian was no fool.

He’d heard, in the cafe, Eleanor herself confirm that Cillian had spent the last four years suppressing and isolating them—and all for Phoebe’s sake.

But after Eleanor ran away twice and Cillian still insisted on turning the world upside down to hunt her down, this ruthlessness couldn’t simply be for Phoebe’s sake anymore.

He’d thought maybe Cillian had developed feelings for Eleanor through years of possessiveness—so he just couldn’t let go.

Phoebe’s disjointed rant, laced with despair, completely overturned everything Damian thought he knew.

If, from start to finish, Cillian had wanted Eleanor for himself—at all costs, for so long—what would the Grant Family do if they found out?

Auntie King was standing in the dining room doorway, craning her neck for a peek, whispering into the phone with a hand covering her mouth, "The Grant Family is having lunch, Director Grant hasn’t left, and things between him and Mrs. Grant feel... off. They both—"

Suddenly, her shoulder was tapped from behind.

The newcomer didn’t expose her; instead, they gripped her shoulder and quickly led her out of the room.

There was a little-used door beside the kitchen where deliveries came in. Only Auntie King and the butler had keys; but since she’d tendered her resignation, she’d already handed over all her keys—including Mrs. Grant’s supply pantry—to Ms. Lewis.

The person behind her unlocked the door, and Auntie King immediately guessed who it was. She turned to see: sure enough, the butler. "I—"

On the phone, Damian could also sense something off. He didn’t speak, nor hang up—if things went badly, with his status, he could intervene somehow.

"President Sinclair on the line?" The butler took her phone and locked the door behind them.

This part of the Grant residence was behind the main house—not really a garden, not near the garage. Even the staff rarely came this way, and the gardeners barely cared for it.

Plants grew wild here—branches and vines intertwined, forming a natural wall under the sunlight.

The butler pulled Auntie King into a crouch. "President Sinclair, Aunt King is leaving soon. If there’s anything you want to ask, ask me."

Damian’s voice, steady and bleak, sounded from the phone’s speaker. "It’s nothing. I just suddenly thought of Phoebe. No need to worry, Ms. Lewis."

He was about to hang up, but the butler stopped him. "Mr. Sinclair, are you asking about Miss Eleanor?"

There was silence. Damian’s breathing was almost inaudible. The butler’s was rushed. Auntie King gave a startled gasp, staring at the butler in shock.

"I’ve been with the Grant Family for thirty-seven years. I’ve never uttered a word of their private affairs." He looked conflicted, hesitating, "But I watched Miss Eleanor grow up. As for the rest, the family pays me—I won’t say a thing."

The butler gritted his teeth. "But taking one life is bad enough—if two are lost at once, I’ll never have peace."

Damian’s arm, gripping the phone, tensed until it bulged. He snapped upright, poised to demand more, but the butler ended the call.

Damian had guessed Mr. Grant wouldn’t want Eleanor’s child, and he’d already told Mr. Ghost to watch out for anyone Grant sent who contacted local hospitals.

Mr. Ghost’s acquaintance was involved in smuggling in Froskar—humans, guns, you name it—but he was only a small-time lackey, powerless when it came to big things, though low-level favors could sometimes be arranged.

Damian believed this was still a useful contact. If he could reach the people at the top, it would be much more effective than Grant and Cillian’s official international efforts—far more reliable. 𝐟𝗿𝐞𝚎𝚠𝐞𝚋𝕟𝐨𝚟𝐞𝕝.𝕔𝕠𝚖

No matter the time or place, a local kingpin will always beat an outsider. Gangs that had survived here so long must have roots tangled deep beneath the surface—hidden networks and dark corridors—more than enough for one person to disappear into, reemerge with a new identity, a new life.

But the Grant Family’s cruelty had outstripped what he’d expected. The butler spoke of two lives lost at once—did that mean they wanted both Eleanor and her unborn child dead?

The secretary stepped in, "President Sinclair, the ten minutes are almost up. The board members are back and waiting only for you."

Damian stood, gripping his phone, Mr. Ghost’s icon flashing on the screen. "Cut out any unimportant part of the meeting—just make it a briefing and finish within half an hour. Push all other meetings to tomorrow. Clear my schedule for the afternoon—I have something urgent."

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

In December, the sun barely rose in Froskar.

As the end of the month approached, sunrise was at 1 p.m., sunset at half past four. By half past five, the tourist center’s long street was deserted—streetlights shining through a blizzard, the buildings silent. Under the yellow-white glow, only the two of them remained.

Eleanor trudged through snow that came up nearly to her knees. The streetlamps cast their stretched shadows, heads slanting together in overlapping silhouettes.

While Cillian wasn’t paying attention, Eleanor edged away, stepped into a snowdrift, and fell hard on her backside. Her down jacket compressed, expelling all the warmth from her collar in a rush.

The gust blew over her frozen-red cheeks, and for a second, Eleanor felt as if she were back inside, somewhere temperate and heated.

Suddenly, a memory popped up—Tilly barging into the office from outside, grumbling about how this damned weather was as cold as a rotten man’s heart.

She couldn’t help it—broke into a laugh, giggling at the thought.

Cillian’s hand, reaching to steady her, paused midair. His face, angry a moment ago, froze as well. "What’s so funny? You’re laughing after falling?"

His voice was half-scolding; usually, Eleanor would talk her way out of it.

But right now, she was plotting a fake death and her final escape—once and for all, rid of this maniac. For the first time, she held the upper hand against this twisted bastard.

She looked up and laughed. "I was thinking about you."

Cillian’s body stilled for two seconds, then he bent over, his face hovering inches from hers. The backlight didn’t hide the sharp clarity of his gaze, black on white, burning as it fixed on her—and in that instant, a tempest blew up inside those eyes.

"Are you thinking about how to leave me?"