Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 92: Mrs. Grant Finds Out About Her and Cillian Grant’s Four Years Together

Chapter 92: Chapter 92: Mrs. Grant Finds Out About Her and Cillian Grant’s Four Years Together

Eleanor was taken aback.

She had been busy lately, but Flora’s saying, used to brush off the matchmaking arrangement introduced by Mr. Grant, was still fresh in her memory.

The kind of inexplicable greasy feeling the other party had, the words weren’t wrong per se, but between the lines, there wasn’t any fondness, sticky and obstructive, making it impossible to continue the conversation.

"It seems I was a bit presumptuous," Simon Fenton chuckled softly.

"I knew it was Miss Eleanor before, but I didn’t want to listen to the family’s arrangements. I’m sorry those words made you uncomfortable."

"It’s nothing, my response was—also perfunctory."

She couldn’t help but glance at him a few times, finding it hard to associate him with those words.

After leaving the urban village, Eleanor proposed saying goodbye.

She planned to visit Stonewell in the afternoon. The black clinic had been exposed, so there was no fear of rumors, but she wanted to see the project group, see the Jolly God, Tilly.

Cillian Grant was a strict person, and his subordinates wouldn’t appear amiable either. He had managed to scrutinize her minor moves in the company in such detail, surely repeatedly asking difficult questions.

Simon Fenton wasn’t exactly a true gentleman, cultured and refined, yet he had a certain elegant and dignified presence, upright without losing grace, "I was rude first, and besides, we’re still on the same route. I hope you’ll give me the chance to apologize."

Eleanor still refused, "I don’t blame you, where’s the need for an apology—"

"Don’t blame him for what?" Cillian Grant, who had apparently arrived sometime earlier, stood a short distance away, observing them.

The barren cherry tree leaves along the roadside greenery seemed cold and wintry; his face was even colder, with a faint smile on his lips, barely a smile at all.

"Fenton—" He strode over, calling Simon Fenton’s name, appearing as if he couldn’t remember.

Waiting for an introduction.

"Simon Fenton," Simon Fenton shook his hand, "I’ve heard much about Vice Director Grant."

Simon Fenton’s self-introduction on WeChat mentioned he was 1.87 meters tall; Cillian Grant was 1.88 meters, with only a centimeter difference, standing face to face, it wasn’t noticeable.

But Cillian Grant was robustly built, dressed in formal wear, his shoulders and back straight, exuding a sense of strength and authority, vastly differing in demeanor, gentle versus sharp-edged, people might prefer gentleness, yet involuntarily respect sharpness.

"Last night, I gave you time to calm down, and this is what you came up with? Going on a matchmaking date?" His gaze moved from her to Simon Fenton, "How’s it progressing? Does she like you?"

Simon Fenton replied politely, "Eleanor is a kind-hearted, vibrant and interesting girl. We’re currently getting to know each other."

Cillian Grant’s lips maintained a trace of a smile; however, his expression was serious and grim.

Eleanor also looked at Simon Fenton, who was resistant to parent-led matchmaking; thus, his words sounded as if he recognized it.

"Currently getting to know each other?"

The sharpness in Cillian Grant came from his battles in the business world.

Especially when he was expressionless, his eyes deep and dark, appearing terrifyingly tense, a crisis looming.

Eleanor clenched her hand, feeling the cage imprisoning her tighten, revealing his sinister intentions. She could only submit, becoming a bird in the palm of his hand, owned by him from body to soul, loyal to the point of dreaming only about him.

At this moment, a matchmaking date was like hitting where it hurt him the most, touching his bad luck. But Eleanor didn’t want to explain; she needed an excuse to cover her true purpose of being in the urban village.

"Cillian Grant," she tugged at his sleeve, "this is father’s arrangement."

Cillian Grant squinted, having experienced stormy seas earlier than his peers, not yet thirty and only a step away from the peak. His presence could be as commanding as possible, and under his piercing gaze, everyone found it impossible to remain composed.

Eleanor had seen it many times, developing a sense of resistance, nodding apologetically to Simon Fenton, "Mr. Fenton, I’m sorry for today’s awkward situation; I have other matters, and won’t linger."

Last time, she corrected herself to call him Simon; now it reverted to Mr. Fenton.

Simon Fenton immediately understood this as a polite rejection, a hint of regret flashed in his eyes, and he stepped back to maintain a safe distance between them, no longer with matchmaking intentions.

"Miss Eleanor, please go ahead."

Courteous, gentle, respectful.

Eleanor nodded again, walking away, seeing she had reached five or six meters; Cillian Grant remained motionless.

Facing Simon Fenton, the atmosphere was confrontational.

Both displayed remarkably calm expressions; Simon Fenton’s calm masked a realization of something unusual, tempered by curiosity.

Cillian Grant’s calm was a kind of indifference; with his keen intelligence, he understood she rejected the matchmaking, and Simon Fenton had stepped back to a safe distance, so his warning presence faded.

Motionless, waiting for her.

Waiting for her to lower her head, admit her fault.

Within lovers’ context, men’s tears are encouragement, swagger is endearing, pouting is cute, women bowing their heads is coaxing, willingly admitting faults.

But what if there is a grudge?

It becomes repulsive.

Eleanor stepped off the pedestrian path, hailed a taxi, and left in haste.

Cillian Grant watched as the taxi’s tail lights merged into traffic, several overtook, disappearing into the endless flow.

The hand hanging at his side silently clenched, his right index finger pierced with pain, clear and intense, like a barb growing from the bone, impossible to remove, or dissolve.

Simon Fenton was about to politely take his leave, noticing the blood staining the bandage on his hand, couldn’t help expressing concern, "Vice Director Grant—"

Cillian Grant’s phone buzzed, casting a cold glance, he answered.

Simon Fenton intelligently held back from speaking, with street noise preventing him from hearing what was said on the other end.

Only faintly urgent repetition of words like car accident, heavy bleeding, suspected miscarriage...

He hadn’t yet reacted, witnessing Cillian Grant’s sudden change of face, turned swiftly, and hurriedly boarded a car, dashing away amid roaring engines.

.........

At the same time, in The Grant Family.

Since the news of Eleanor dorming off-campus for four years at university came to The Grant Family, Mr. Grant shut himself in the study for a whole day and night.

Mrs. Grant, after repeatedly calling with no response, reached the peak of her anxiety, ordering security to break down the door.

As the door swung open, a suffocating thick cloud of smoke aggressively rushed towards Mrs. Grant. 𝗳𝐫𝚎𝗲𝚠𝚎𝗯𝕟𝐨𝘃𝚎𝗹.𝗰𝗼𝗺

She rushed behind the desk, pressing Mr. Grant, her eyes rimmed red, partly from the smoke, partly from anger, "What’s going on? Is it a major crisis in the group? Or have you fathered an illegitimate child outside?"

Mr. Grant had shared affectionate decades with her; an illegitimate child was out of the question, and he never dwelled on what women outside looked like.

But now that Mrs. Grant would say such a thing, evidently showed genuine anger, leaving him no choice but to be truthful.

"Cillian and Eleanor—" He couldn’t say it, opting for a different approach, "Eleanor has been dorming outside for those college four years."

Mrs. Grant, having led the elite circle of ladies for over a decade, was anything but stupid; her experience with romantic affairs far exceeded Mr. Grant’s.

"With whom—" She trembled, "Was it Eleanor..."

"This is all we’ve found at the moment." Mr. Grant quickly supported her, offering stability, "Don’t be hasty; whether they’re willing or unwilling, may defy our guesses, so it’d be wise to hold on until everything is clear, then decide."

"I can’t hold on," Mrs. Grant’s red-rimmed eyes expanded into her eyeballs, with blood vessels swelling, breathing heavily, "Call Eleanor, get that wretch back here. I want to ask her—"

She raised her voice sharply, uncontrollable shivering, "Ask her, I raised her for eighteen years, in luxury, yet have I bred ingratitude, have I fostered animosity, repaying kindness with betrayal?"