Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 139: Eleanor’s Conclusion—He’s a Psycho

Chapter 139: Chapter 139: Eleanor’s Conclusion—He’s a Psycho

Eleanor’s gaze fixed on the plates, the table’s pattern resembling a black-and-white chessboard, a design seemingly favored by Europeans and Americans.

Starting from the racing flag’s black-and-white checkered design in the 1970s racetracks, this speed and passion-evoking image further influenced street culture, becoming a symbol of youth trends. 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝙚𝙬𝓮𝙗𝒏𝙤𝒗𝙚𝙡.𝒄𝒐𝓶

The visual impact is extraordinarily strong.

Eleanor didn’t get the racing culture behind it; her perspective was more antique and conservative, still seeing a chessboard.

Attack and defense, a back-and-forth struggle, invisible blades and swords paving the way, ultimately seeing who strategizes better and wins victory.

"I have simple thoughts. I often find myself silly until tears, yet can’t bear to scold myself." Eleanor hung her head, revealing thick, dark hair, and Cillian couldn’t see her expression. "But you, shrouded in mist, harbor deep thoughts and stratagems."

Cillian focused his gaze on her.

His view was of her full head silhouette, long hair cascading down, obscuring her cheeks, the tip of her ear revealed amidst the strands, soft and white, like jade.

Both transparent and cold, untouched by sentiment. If she discerns something bad, during a long relationship, she doesn’t soften or waver for a moment and goes to great lengths to leave.

She never stops or changes direction, looking at him, approaching him, contacting him, understanding him.

"Well, I was sincere before." Cillian leaned against the chair back, having shed his heavy coat, now wearing a form-fitting cashmere sweater, his chest broad and lean, showing no signs of whether he’d eaten moments before.

"Do you believe me?"

Eleanor lifted her head. His posture wasn’t upright; it even hinted at laziness or casualness, yet it was enveloped in something immeasurable.

Impossible to express in words.

Eleanor’s mind unexpectedly drifted to the time before leaving the country when he promised to support her, causing such a shock.

Eyes met, and Eleanor suddenly asked, "Do you feel tired?"

A small spotlight hung above the dining table, illuminating everything on the table, leaving no escape under its amber light.

She resembled a tightly encoiled hedgehog, a slight tap from outside gradually revealing an unexpected looseness, she glanced at him.

Eleanor saw, his smile spreading from the corners of his eyes, forming lines at the edges, "Tired, yet not tired."

At this moment, he was not nervous, speaking straightforwardly, ready to answer any question. She was not mad, remained calm, and faced the issues.

Actually, Eleanor always felt their relationship over the past four years had been downright strange and exceptionally tiring.

The more critical the explosion, the sharper and more real it became. The more warm and peaceful, the more distant it felt.

He had his schemes, she had her plans.

Both harbored hidden agendas.

The same stood now.

Her logic for undergoing submission conditions was still missing a crucial piece.

Cillian’s gaining and giving were disproportionate.

All just to marry a woman neither precious nor rare, and wage a battle against the world.

It sounded like a tyrannical CEO falling in love with me — utterly absurd and outrageous romance, controlled by a foolish author orchestrating a storyline destined for a brainless love affair.

Did Cillian fit this description?

Eleanor thought not while reflecting on these past four years.

Cillian was too real; he was nearly thirty, and the aloof indifference only grew clearer and more forceful, filled with human complexity.

He possessed humanity’s primal desire to attack, to kill, plunder, expand ruthlessly. Despite such intensity, he remained exceedingly cold, distanced from people, refusing intimacy.

Eleanor hadn’t specialized in psychology, but the personality contrasts were stark — either schizophrenia or an extremely dangerous personality, simply put, abnormal.

They enjoy challenging lives, the harder the better, and Eleanor seemed like Cillian’s life’s challenge, the forefront goal.

"Right now—" Cillian leaned forward, gazing intently at her, "you’re cursing me."

A certain tone.

Eleanor raised her hand to signal the server, replying, "I’m considering your cleverness."

Extremely dangerous personality, emotionally indifferent, exceedingly intelligent.

The server approached, "Hello, what service do you need?"

Eleanor unceremoniously gestured to Cillian, "He’ll pay the bill, and please bring my clothes over, thank you."

The first part was matter-of-course; the second was humble and kind.

Usually, Cillian would laugh, but today his smile didn’t surface for reasons unknown, handing his bank card to the server.

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

The next day.

Eleanor didn’t go out. She preliminarily finalized plans with Damian; he needed time to renegotiate with the gang, and she needed to rest properly now, conserving energy to deal with Mr. Grant.

The light boat has traversed many mountains, beyond The Serpent-Spine Mountains are mountains beyond mountains.

Moreover, Mr. Grant’s mountain beyond mountain seems dangerous, but is certainly not simple.

She had breakfast, then took an early nap and woke up.

The curtains inside were dappled, creating a dim haze, a patch of vague shadow by the bedside sofa, illuminated by the dim light from the computer screen.

Eleanor turned over and sat up, "Why don’t you go to the study."

Downstairs, in the villa, was a small open study with a wide wooden desk and soft chairs, much more comfortable than being cooped up in the bedroom’s cramped sofa.

Cillian lifted his head, his voice slightly hoarse, "Will you sleep again? If not, open the curtains."

Eleanor reached for the bedside table, searching for the curtain remote, "What time is it?"

Her voice was also hoarse; the nap wasn’t restful, akin to the calm before a storm, suppressed calmness, able to endure, wasn’t truly relaxed peace.

Cillian put down the computer, walked to the bedside, and handed her water, "Eleven, are you planning to go out this afternoon?"

Eleanor drank a sip of water, shook her head; concerning the hospital, even if the gang agreed to her plan, implementing it within a day would be swift.

But she had already arranged with Mr. Ghost to leave tomorrow noon after meeting again.

Mr. Grant’s men had already arrived in Froskar; he was bound to make moves domestically, urging Cillian’s return; should she delay, further depleting Cillian’s patience.

Angering him might lead to other extreme measures, attracting change, preventing her escape, and she’d suffer losses.

The curtain’s clip made a barely audible "click," opening completely. Froskar had no sunrise at this hour; outside the glass was profound night, complete silence.

Cillian’s brows carried a hint of fatigue, bloodshot eyes, darkened circles, and an overwhelming sense of fragmentation indicating exhaustion, "What about tomorrow?"

Eleanor stared at him for a while, wanting to say something but hesitating.

Cillian’s phone rang; he picked it up, the screen flashing a domestic number, somewhat familiar but unnamed.

Eleanor couldn’t recall immediately.

The man lifted his hand to rub his brows, "There’s food downstairs in the kitchen, I’m taking a call."

Cillian exited the bedroom, heading to a small balcony on the second floor; though labeled as a balcony, the space was no larger than two square meters, seemingly reserved for gentleman’s smoking.

Connor Sullivan’s assistant, upon connecting the call, dashed to the secretary’s office without a delay.

These past few days, contacting Vice Director Grant was incredibly difficult; online computer communication was sporadic, phones seldom answered.

Connor simply shared his alternate number with the assistant, instructing a call every hour; if unanswered, wait for the next hour.

He hadn’t expected that a casual call at seven o’clock actually got through today.