Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 17: The Physical Exam Director Personally Conducts a Thorough Check

Chapter 17: Chapter 17: The Physical Exam Director Personally Conducts a Thorough Check

At the end of that summer, when she was about to graduate, Cillian Grant was right in the crucial phase of consolidating the market expansion in the North, so busy leaving early and returning late, utterly exhausted.

His surveillance of her dropped to the lowest point.

Only then did she get a chance to secretly run back to Varden, confirm her job, and camp out at the old mansion.

If it weren’t for that, according to Cillian Grant’s plan, she was supposed to continue studying for a master’s and doctorate out of town.

She didn’t mind advancing her studies; Eleanor didn’t object to that.

What she didn’t want was to relive those four university years together with Cillian Grant. And living at the old mansion, under her parents’ watchful eyes, at least she didn’t have to deal with him every single night.

"You knew—" Eleanor suddenly realized, struggling to ask, "you’ve always been watching me, you knew I was secretly interviewing and planning to go back to Soldane Province?"

"I knew." Cillian Grant brushed her cheek with his palm, tracing her brows and eyes with his fingers. "I gave you two choices; you picked the hardest one."

The hardest one.

Was it because she’d exposed her true colors—unruly, disobedient, unwilling to submit, daring to challenge him?

She felt icy cold creeping through her bones, her mind racing through everything that had happened in the three months since graduation.

Cillian Grant’s anger, his fury, time and time again his pressure on her for Phoebe Grant’s sake, and finally, that one hundred million he handed to Mr. Bolton.

He knew perfectly well that her fear of pain was only an excuse, yet he went along with it, excusing her from acupuncture, even the "benefits" of the arranged marriage he’d half-heartedly pretended at best.

Maybe... it wasn’t just perfunctory—it was all for show, for outsiders to see.

One sentence about being afraid of pain, The Grant Family would pay a hundred million to spare her from it. That only made her seem more valuable and the marriage alliance even more tempting.

Realizing this, Eleanor’s face was filled with despair—she could never outmaneuver Cillian Grant’s cunning and depth.

He calculated ten moves for every one he took, while she could finish ten steps and only then begin to glimpse his first plan.

"So, when is Mr. Bolton coming? I’ll do the treatment then."

"Tomorrow afternoon." Cillian Grant raised his hand to stroke her brows and eyes. "Did you forget to answer my question—why don’t you want to be treated?"

Eleanor shivered, which made Cillian Grant’s expression turn cold; once again, he fixed his gaze on her.

"I’m afraid..." Eleanor stammered, "you never do any prevention, so if I’m sick, I’m safer."

She was wound so tight she was nearly undone, panic threatening to spill over, and reflecting in Cillian Grant’s eyes, he suddenly softened, "No need to be afraid—"

No need to fear what—he didn’t say.

Eleanor drifted in a daze, catching a glimpse of his hand out of the corner of her eye. On his index and middle fingers, thin slices of wounds one after another, as if cut by fine blades—not deep, but all oozing blood.

Her mind moved on its own, and she asked without thinking, "What happened to your hand?"

.........

Wednesday, a day of heavy, low-hanging clouds.

Early in the morning, Phoebe Grant personally came upstairs to wake Eleanor.

The physical exam required fasting—no breakfast—so Phoebe simply dragged her downstairs and into the car.

The hospital was already prepared; after bloodwork, Phoebe stayed glued to Eleanor as they entered Room B.

The head of gynecology at First Municipal Hospital was a woman around forty, lean and dry, dressed in a white coat and rimless glasses—a veteran doctor at first glance.

Her eyes skimmed over Phoebe, landing on Eleanor, pausing almost imperceptibly.

Eleanor, sensitive as ever, caught that pause and felt a rush of relief.

"Ladies, which of you will go first?"

Phoebe pushed Eleanor forward. "Her."

Eleanor stood motionless.

Phoebe sneered, instantly mocking, "Scared?"

Eleanor looked at her, and once Mrs. Grant came in, she asked, "Mom, I have a request."

"What is it?" Mrs. Grant frowned.

"I think you’re just stalling for time," Phoebe shoved at Eleanor.

Eleanor turned sideways, dodging her hand. "Mom, if the results show I’m not pregnant, Phoebe must apologize to me."

Mrs. Grant paused, then replied, "We’ll talk about it at home."

Eleanor didn’t believe it. Not just "at home"—she feared that even after the exam, she wouldn’t even be allowed to bring up the apology.

Mrs. Grant disapproved.

Eleanor stayed perfectly still.

Phoebe yanked her forward a step; Eleanor fought her way right back.

In front of outsiders, this level of stubbornness, narrow-mindedness, and disregard for respect made Mrs. Grant furious. "Are you trying to rebel?"

Eleanor stared straight at her. "Mom, the way you protect her... is it because you think all the humiliation I’ve endured for four years isn’t worth a single apology?"

Phoebe spit at her, "The results aren’t even out yet. Who’s wronged you?"

Mrs. Grant still refused to give in.

While they argued, someone knocked on the door. Cillian Grant’s voice came from outside, "What’s going on?"

Phoebe opened the door, eyes red with anger, "Eleanor insists I apologize to her."

Cillian was composed, politely turning slightly to the side, his eyes never venturing into the room. "Did you get the results?"

"Didn’t do it yet." With her support here, Phoebe almost burst into tears, "She won’t do it unless I agree to apologize."

"Then just apologize."

"What?" Phoebe was stunned, "Brother, you—"

She couldn’t bring herself to say the rest, yesterday’s suspicions coming back twice as strong, roiling inside her.

Her brother was twenty-eight, to the point of being obsessively chaste.

He brushed off all the heiresses making advances in their circle, never showing the slightest interest.

His secretary, assistants, private advisors, drivers—anyone around him was male, and there was no "white moonlight", no old flames. Whenever a female business partner invited him out, he’d only meet them at the company canteen.

His self-restraint was inhuman for a normal man.

Phoebe glanced at Eleanor again. The main reason she’d been relentlessly pressuring Eleanor was because Eleanor didn’t seem like a regular girl.

Or rather, not like a girl who’d never known a man. Often, she’d carelessly catch glimpses of that seductive, womanly charm at the corners of her eyes and mouth.

If that wasn’t due to Damian Sinclair, but rather...

Phoebe’s heart jumped in panic. She opened her mouth to tell her mother.

Cillian cut her off first. "After last night’s ruckus, the Sterling Sinclair have opinions about you."

His tone was gentle, but absolute. "Damian Sinclair will someday inherit the Sterling family. A proper matriarch should resemble her mother. You’re too emotional—it’s not a good look."

Mrs. Grant immediately got the hint. Phoebe’s two outbursts yesterday—Mr. Sinclair might not say anything, but he must be upset.

If, today, Eleanor was cleared and Phoebe apologized right away, then her past excesses could easily be explained as a young woman’s jealousy in love, not a fundamentally impulsive, suspicious temperament.

Mrs. Grant turned to Eleanor and agreed, "If it’s proven you’re not pregnant, Phoebe will apologize."

Eleanor sat on the examination bed. In that narrow crack before the door closed, a man’s tall, lean figure blocked the light, his expression gloomy and stern.

She was startled.

The door closed, but a sense of foreboding crept in.

The gynecology chief’s hand was steady, inch by inch, meticulously checking every spot on Eleanor’s abdomen.

The exam was exceedingly thorough.

Mrs. Grant watched, well satisfied.

Phoebe stood behind the doctor, her face tense—she’d attended several of these exams and seen fetuses on ultrasound herself.

But Eleanor’s uterine wall wasn’t like the average woman’s; each time Phoebe saw something unusual, she asked, and the doctor explained.

Eleanor’s own heart hung by a thread.

You can bribe the doctor, but not the machine.

Phoebe was determined to observe the scan of every inch, every corner.

No matter how the chief tried to avoid it, the uterine cavity isn’t so big—where could she possibly hide it? Sooner or later, it would be found. 𝑓𝘳𝘦𝑒𝑤𝑒𝘣𝘯ℴ𝘷𝘦𝓁.𝑐𝑜𝑚

Just then, Phoebe suddenly squinted at the monitor, eyes narrowed, "What’s this?"