Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 142: Do You Hate Me This Much?

The duvet in hotel rooms is usually made of down feather, light as down, with the soft touch of cotton, providing excellent warmth. Eleanor was enveloped in warmth and tenderness, with her back pressed against a chest.

"It’s not a game."

He restrained her struggling limbs and spoke again, his voice hoarse and somber, "Eleanor, you were never a toy. Those four years, every matter you brought up, I admit, but what about the ones you didn’t mention? Have I really not been good to you? Is it that you can’t remember, or dare not think, only by not thinking, you can maintain your hatred towards me?"

.........

Secretary Rhodes had just spilled coffee all over himself at 8 AM and changed clothes.

A young woman from the secretary’s office had urgent news to report and stood at the door.

"Just now, several directors called one after another, requesting to postpone the meeting."

The young woman read from the file in her hand, "Director Chase twisted his back while playing golf, was urgently hospitalized, and can’t attend the board meeting."

"President Lewis’s daughter caught a mistress, but was beaten instead. He’s anxious and determined to make his son-in-law suffer, so he can’t make it for now."

"Director Chapman doesn’t have a son-in-law, but his young daughter is having an early love affair in high school. The male classmate is two-timing, and he’s equally anxious to make the boy suffer."

"Mr. King’s second daughter..."

The young woman’s voice grew quieter and finally became inaudible.

Since Grant Group’s establishment for several decades, directors having urgent matters and not attending meetings has happened plenty of times, but the reasons given were always official, formal, filled with a sense of gravitas.

This time it’s really...

Indescribable.

Secretary Rhodes was tying his tie when the young woman’s voice became inaudible, and he managed to create a dead knot, nearly choking himself.

"Give me the file." He ignored the tie, took a look, didn’t dare delay, and immediately went to find Mr. Grant.

"Six directors have matters at the same time. They’re neither attending nor waiving their rights, and they unanimously propose to postpone the board meeting to tomorrow."

Mr. Grant took the file, read through the reasons one by one, and his face turned blue with anger.

Before his anger subsided, the phone on the coffee table rang, displaying as Martin Chase, the director who had twisted his back.

Mr. Grant answered.

Suddenly, there was crying and sniffling through the receiver, "Director Grant, it’s misfortune at home. My elder brother’s daughter brought in a son-in-law, but the man is worthless; he’s been infatuated with her younger sister all along. He keeps making moves in secret, although it’s not obvious in the open. The younger daughter couldn’t stand it and told my brother.

"Alas, my brother only has these two daughters. When he heard, he was truly furious; the anger rushed to his head, and he had a stroke. Oh, now I just got onto the hospital bed with a back injury and had to get up to deal with it; it’s really—it’s really a disgrace to the manners—I can only request to postpone the board meeting by a day—"

Mr. Grant’s face turned all colors of the rainbow with rage, and he furiously hung up the phone.

Secretary Rhodes wanted to bow his head, but learning from past mistakes, he didn’t lower it too much.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the lower half of Mr. Grant’s face, his jaw clenched, his cheekbones sharply protruding, his chest heaving violently, almost giving him a heart attack from anger.

"Well, well, well, my good—son—"

Fire blazed in Mr. Grant’s eyes, and he’d rather be misunderstood as having internal father-son conflicts in the Grant Group, causing internal turmoil and external threats, than let the scandal get out.

Cillian Grant took action to delay the board meeting without any attempt to hide it.

He could almost imagine, with such ridiculous reasons, those six old foxes wouldn’t easily show face. A little whispering on the phone in private, they’d soon realize that the reasons Cillian Grant asked them to give were similar, and in no time they’d figure out why.

Sooner or later, Martin Chase, the most face-conscious bald man, understood the priority, followed the lead, and made this call to salvage the situation, even going so far as a backhanded insult directed at Mr. Grant’s face.

Mr. Grant got up, paced a few laps in the room, calmed down, and then went to sit behind his desk.

Suddenly, he asked, "What is Damian Sinclair busy with recently?"

Secretary Rhodes leaned over, "President Sinclair is very motivated; he’s been pushing various Sinclair Group projects recently."

Mr. Grant said nothing, squinting his eyes like a tiger waiting for the right moment before a hunt.

"Even if Cillian wants to make it public, with so many opportunities and excuses, why use Damian Sinclair as the entry point?"

Secretary Rhodes frowned and pondered.

Back then, Damian Sinclair and Miss Eleanor were a fairytale alliance of prestigious families, childhood sweethearts, deeply in love.

The first son now has ideas about Miss Eleanor; thinking of the past, how can it not be a thorn in his heart.

Moreover, Damian Sinclair has repeatedly helped Miss Eleanor in secret, from helping to conceal her pregnancy to assisting Miss Eleanor in escaping, piece by piece. Once the first son knows, he’s bound to resent it at heart.

Taking it out at this point is no surprise.

He didn’t speak, but Mr. Grant saw through his thoughts and shook his head, saying, "Cillian has always been methodical in his actions. Simply wanting to make public his purpose to delay the board meeting, he wouldn’t use Damian Sinclair. The Sinclair family values its reputation; to confront me at such a critical moment, he really has no need to provoke the Sterling family."

Secretary Rhodes remained silent.

No matter how methodical the first son is, he’s still a man.

Concerning women, men only come in two types: those who get jealous, like pickled preserved vegetables, and those who get even more jealous, like aged pickled peppers.

When there’s too much jealousy in sauerkraut, it’s at most sour. The first son’s type, the pickled pepper, with jealousy stewed for four years; that spice, that sourness—showing even a hint will immediately choke people.

Mr. Grant tapped the desk with his knuckles and suddenly straightened up, thinking of something, "Unless Damian Sinclair did something again to provoke him. He’s protecting Eleanor in Froskar, and to provoke his temper so much, Damian Sinclair must have made moves in Froskar—"

Mr. Grant’s eyes sparkled brightly, "Well, I thought we had trapped him this time. Now it seems I wasn’t wrong to be suspicious before; his supposed whale-watching tour is not about clearing my people but creating opportunities for Eleanor to connect with Damian Sinclair so she can escape."

Secretary Rhodes was shocked.

Mr. Grant saw through it; though exasperated, he could remedy the situation, feeling more relaxed.

"If he’s letting Eleanor escape, he must have arranged for someone to follow and monitor. You should send more people immediately. If anyone intervenes at the hospital, quickly counteract it. The operation must be witnessed in full to prevent any tampering; this time, it must be foolproof."

......

The next day, morning, in Froskar.

Eleanor lay curled in the duvet with her back to the door.

She had refused any communication with him since yesterday, refusing to be in the same space with him.

Her resistance was abnormally fierce.

So fierce it made the past four years’ silent endurance seem like smoke, a dream, all his own delusion, forcing Cillian Grant to retreat.

Up until now when he came in, her face—partially exposed as she slept—was paler and more haggard than ever.

He circled the foot of the bed, about to take a step in.

Eleanor suddenly opened her eyes, reflexively sitting up, her eyes veined deeply with blood, swollen and red.

At this moment, she stared at him with intense hatred and vigilance, silently, not making a sound.

Yet her whole body was so tense it trembled, as if if he took another step, she’d leap up and sink her teeth into his throat.

Cillian Grant retreated to the foot of the bed.

"Still want to go out?"

Eleanor remained motionless, not believing a bit.

Given how things stood between her and Cillian Grant, would he let her go out and have the chance to meet Mr. Ghost to leave?

"Ten kilometers away, there’s a Whale Museum. On the way to Húsavík, I made a reservation already; every whale you wanted to see is there, and seals too."

Eleanor still stayed silent.

Outside, the polar night was dense, and the row of standalone villas was silent in the wind. It was as if only their window was lit in the world, and the world inside seemed to have only Cillian Grant.

His face, like Eleanor’s, was pale, unshaved, with a thick bluish-gray jaw, making him appear even more haggard.

From his eyes spread layers and layers of gloom, crawling all over his face.

"Do you really hate me that much?"