Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 109: Auntie King Is Hit by Phoebe Grant

Chapter 109: Chapter 109: Auntie King Is Hit by Phoebe Grant

After breakfast, Eleanor hurried to the bathroom.

All along, she had a kind of superpower—it was that everything, in the end, would develop beyond her control.

When she was getting the antenatal injection for signs of miscarriage, Elaine White reminded her to closely monitor her own reactions, but she was rushing to go abroad at the time and really couldn’t spare the attention.

But as days went by, like a lengthening thread, coiling and looping, building up more and more, the signs now were impossible to ignore.

She had truly and completely lost all desire to eat.

No taste, no sense of hunger; when she forced food down, it landed in her stomach like a ton of iron, leaving her bloated and heavy, unable to sit still.

Still, Eleanor dared not throw up, and was even more afraid to skip meals.

It wasn’t just to keep things from Cillian Grant—it was for her daughter; the fetus needed nutrients to develop.

Eleanor twisted open the faucet, bracing herself against the sink with one hand while cupping water to splash on her face with the other.

The door opened behind her.

The air in the bathroom was stifling, but there was no acidic smell of vomit. The faucet was turned to cold water, and Eleanor’s fingertips poked at the stream again and again, most of the water collecting at her fingers as she redirected its flow, with a spray of droplets dampening her shirt over her lower belly.

Cillian Grant’s brows furrowed tightly. He strode over, wrapped his right arm around her, applying a little force so Eleanor’s feet left the ground as he shifted her to a different spot.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his other hand forcefully twist off the faucet.

"If I recall, I’ve warned you more than a hundred times: no cold water."

Eleanor tilted her head up from the crook of his arm. "I’m infertile. Cold water doesn’t make any difference."

Cillian Grant’s gaze lingered on her face. His eyes, always unreadable, still deep and black, where Eleanor could only ever find her own tiny reflection and no other ripple of emotion.

In the past, Eleanor always thought he was a nutcase, his temper nastier than a ghost; say one wrong word, he’d leave in the morning with a scowl, and if he came back with a normal face, it meant he’d gone elsewhere to vent it out.

Emotionally unstable, narrow-minded, such a frustrating man.

At this moment, Eleanor actually found herself missing that old lunatic, at least she had experience dealing with him, and could always handle whatever came up.

Unlike now— he was completely unpredictable, clouded and misted, silently invading beneath her skin, probing the heart within.

A strong woman knows when to bend or stand tall; in a crisis, you have to lower your head.

Eleanor gave in. "I saw a jewelry store in town earlier. Are you still buying that ring?"

Cillian’s eyes crinkled slightly with what almost looked like a smile, which spread into his gaze. "You want to go out?"

"You’ve been so busy these past few years—you rarely relax. Froskar has auroras, you can go whale watching at sea, hike glaciers, visit the blue ice caves." Her expression softened, serious. "If— you’re not planning to leave soon, I mean."

The front bit was dry; the last sentence was what mattered.

Cillian Grant looked at her intently.

Eleanor thought once again she wouldn’t get an answer, but suddenly the man’s lips curled up into a smile, slowly spreading across his face. "Didn’t you and Damian Sinclair make a promise? That you’d watch the auroras only with him for the rest of your life?"

Eleanor paused, a little stunned. She and Damian Sinclair had made so many promises—sky to sea, even trips to Mars. Back when she was feeling invincible, she’d vowed to take Damian back in time and conquer the ancient world, make him a Prime Minister by day and have him climb up to the dragon bed at night.

But the past can’t be chased.

Thank goodness, the infuriating man she knew was back again.

Eleanor: "So are you watching or not?"

She was getting impatient, her eyes curving upwards, sly like a little fox just having its nose poked, about to pounce all over her face.

Cillian Grant’s voice carried a smile. "Not watching."

Eleanor paused for a second, pushed him away, and walked out.

Cillian reached out, scooped her back, trapping her between his arm and chest, wrapping her up tightly as he marched her out. "No auroras today, today we buy rings."

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

After New Year’s Day, Soldane Province had bright, clear weather.

Damian Sinclair arrived at the Grant Family’s home at nine in the morning to take Phoebe Grant to the hospital for her NT scan.

Actually, the twelve-week checkup should’ve happened a week ago, but Eleanor had been preparing to leave then, and Damian didn’t have the energy to deal with Phoebe, while Mrs. Grant was busy worrying about Cillian Grant’s matchmaking and couldn’t attend, either.

Since returning home, Phoebe Grant had been pampered and spoiled endlessly; now, with no one to accompany her to such an important check, she kicked up a fuss, delaying until today.

As soon as he entered the living room, Phoebe was throwing a fit upstairs on the second floor while the maids crowded the hallway. In the center of the throng, Auntie King’s voice could just be heard, trembling and faint, indecipherable.

Damian Sinclair’s brows knit together. He strode upstairs.

"You old thing! The Grant Family gives you a job, pays your salary; your whole family lives off this money. So since you’re not loyal to the Grant Family, you help that bitch Eleanor steal from me?"

Damian Sinclair parted the maids.

Auntie King was slumped on the floor. Phoebe Grant yanked her hair, looming over her. "I know theft doesn’t get you many years in jail, but if I call the police now, your kids will never get government jobs in their lives. They’ll hate you forever. That’s what you get for siding with that bitch, left old and helpless, wandering the streets."

Auntie King shook all over. "I didn’t steal, Eleanor’s not pregnant, that medicine has nothing to do with me."

Standing next to Phoebe was Ms. Lewis, who immediately spoke up, "I always clean Miss Phoebe’s room. The regular maids can’t go in. Lately, you were the only one who went in that night to deliver soup, and right where you put the bowl, that’s exactly where Miss Phoebe’s medicine was. Don’t try to deny it."

Damian Sinclair understood. He stepped forward to shield Auntie King. "I took it."

Phoebe was stunned.

Damian cast a glance at Ms. Lewis. "I remember asking you to tell Phoebe: My mother is overly concerned about Phoebe and the baby, so I took the medicine to reassure her."

His gaze shifted to Phoebe, as he took her hand. "Mom met a doctor overseas. I gave her the medicine so she could ask directly—only then would she be at ease."

Anything else Damian told her, Phoebe would believe, but if it involved Eleanor—that cunning woman who could even claim her brother—Phoebe was anxious beyond reason.

"Does your mother really care that much about me?"

Damian glanced around; the maids packed the hallway, creating a clamor. Mr. and Mrs. Grant surely couldn’t miss the commotion, yet hadn’t shown up at all.

His heart sank.

He dialed Mrs. Sinclair with determination. "You wanted to check Phoebe’s antenatal injection last time. Do you have the results? Is it safe?"

Mrs. Sinclair paused, almost imperceptibly. "Yes, you can relax. The Biliton medicine is good, minimal side effects, no harm to the baby."

Biliton is the name of the antenatal drug. Phoebe Grant knew for certain Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair had never asked, but—it was possible Damian had told them in private.

Damian could see her remaining suspicion. "Your daughter-in-law doesn’t believe you actually care about her, she—"

Phoebe’s face changed abruptly. At lightning speed, she lunged forward, snatching the phone to explain, "Auntie, I didn’t mean I don’t believe you, Damian’s just joking."

Mrs. Sinclair’s voice was steady, smiling. "Still calling me ’Auntie’? Looks like I’ll need to prepare a very generous red envelope for you to change how you address me."

Phoebe’s voice sweetened, continuing to chat with Mrs. Sinclair.

Damian told the maids to leave, helping Auntie King up. "I’m sorry I was late—you were scared because of me."

Auntie King was stiff, utterly defeated, her face waxen under the light, lips trembling as she looked at him for what felt like ages, the words and sentences all falling apart. "Eleanor— that child, she’s good— she’d never be pregnant."

Damian’s jaw clenched tight, murmuring, "I understand."

He didn’t escort Auntie King out personally; he watched her hobble step by step down the stairs.

Turning back, Phoebe Grant was handing him the phone. "Auntie has something she wants you to do."

Damian took it. Mrs. Sinclair was annoyed. "Come home tonight and explain to me."

He grunted, ended the call.

After heading into the room, Phoebe started packing things for her checkup, and Damian helped her gather everything one by one.

His downcast eyelashes were long and straight, casting a thick shadow and concealing the chill in his gaze, "Next time, don’t throw such a fit. Eleanor’s infertility is a fact, you always overthink it, and end up just working yourself up."