Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 110: Cillian Grant Asks Again If She’s Pregnant

Chapter 110: Chapter 110: Cillian Grant Asks Again If She’s Pregnant

"I wasn’t overthinking." Phoebe Grant retorted sharply, "That bitch is pregnant, not with your child, but my brother’s. At the White Family Hospital, I didn’t hit her by mistake."

Damian Sinclair’s grip tightened, veins bulging.

Phoebe Grant saw this, feeling both hatred and satisfaction, "You can’t believe it, can you? Back then, she abandoned you and climbed into my brother’s bed in an instant. Now, Mom and Dad have sent people to investigate the doctor from that health check at First Municipal Hospital, the gynecology director, and Elaine White... This time, that bitch is doomed."

Damian Sinclair stood up, not quickly, as his legs slowly gained strength, his spine straightened, extending an invisible dominance, breaking through warmth, leaving rich remnants behind.

"Calling her a bitch at every turn." His face was expressionless, "Are you introducing yourself?"

Phoebe Grant was shocked and terrified, her eyes wide with disbelief, her hand trembling as she pointed at him, her mouth open but unable to make a sound.

Damian Sinclair’s expression was gloomy, like a cluster of black smoke that spilled out, toxic in nature, every wisp reminiscent of each day in those four years, "Your brother calls me a coward, and I agree. Politeness, kindness, and friendliness are for others. Phoebe Grant, some words are too harsh; I can’t compare to your brother in being able to say them, let’s leave it at that today."

Phoebe Grant shivered all over, "You—you—"

Her chest shook, flesh and blood turning into pus, surging forth, shattering reason, yet she couldn’t bring herself to curse at Damian Sinclair.

Grievance, anger, and a degree of unwillingness to accept it, ultimately tears broke through. She pushed Damian Sinclair away, rushed to find Mr. and Mrs. Grant.

Damian Sinclair didn’t chase after her, walking down the stairs step by step, through the living room and the garden.

In the garage, the driver saw him approaching, quickly got out of the car to open the door for him.

Damian Sinclair got into the back seat and made a phone call, "Arrange a meeting with Jason Xavier and the doctor from the Grant Family’s previous health check."

.........

Froskar.

One in the afternoon, the sun was fully up.

Cillian Grant drove the car himself, taking Eleanor out.

The town where they were had buildings generally low.

Three-story small buildings, none higher than four floors. The facades were gray or white, well-maintained, with roofs red or green, matching the square main shape, long-framed window designs like transforming a fairy tale into reality—comfortable, dreamy, and free.

Cillian Grant led her down the main street, where the asphalt road still held bits of ice, Eleanor’s every step came with a crunch, irritating her, prompting her to tug at her scarf.

Cillian Grant quickly grasped her hand.

Eleanor held back, "It’s wrapped too tightly, I can’t see the road."

Cillian Grant adjusted the scarf, "Hold onto me, follow me properly, and you won’t fall."

Eleanor’s expression was stiff, "I want to walk on my own."

"You don’t want to."

Cillian Grant separated her fingers to hold them together again, sensing her resistance, "Half melted ice makes the ground even more slippery, are you sure you want to fall?"

Eleanor’s heart skipped, falling back a step, watching him.

Cillian Grant wore a long down coat, a knit hat, and the scarf was gray, half covering his chin, revealing calm eyes, his mouth a subtle curve.

No sign of the domestic suit and tie sternness, cold and formal; this time he seemed relaxed, somewhat indifferent.

Not appearing to have ulterior motives.

Eleanor frowned, still feeling deeply uneasy, ultimately obediently led through the long street, arriving at the jewelry store at the corner.

This town wasn’t considered a tourist spot in Froskar, and the only jewelry store was privately owned by the proprietor.

With little foot traffic, the display cases had limited styles, Eleanor’s gaze swept around, finding mainly diamond rings, silver jewelry was the highlight, gold was scarce, and there were no jade pieces.

She immediately wanted to leave.

Cillian Grant led her to sit at the diamond ring showcase, raising a hand to remove her scarf.

The proprietor was a stout middle-aged white man, who looked at them through the glass for two seconds and asked in English, "Are you from H-Country?"

Cillian Grant promptly corrected in English, "Therasian, we’re from Therasia."

He spoke with a very standard British accent, his voice deep and steady, changing languages without altering the underlying pressure and displeasure in his tone.

The proprietor examined him for two seconds, different from the generally flat and smooth features of Asians.

His eyebrows were high, eyes deep, outlines stark and sharp, dressed simply and understated, yet exuding an indescribable sharp edge, quite dazzling.

Not someone to be trifled with.

The proprietor formally apologized sincerely, noting Cillian’s expression slightly thawing, unwilling to face him directly, turning to Eleanor instead, "What style of ring do you want, engagement? Or wedding?"

Eleanor’s scalp tingled; stepping into the jewelry store, she realized a massive mistake.

She only intended to use it as an excuse to probe Cillian Grant, to gain a chance to leave, but overlooked that Froskar wasn’t domestic, jade might be here but not the kind she wanted.

Too careless, she would never be so sloppy before.

"No." Eleanor stood up, "We came to the wrong place."

Cillian Grant’s arm circled behind her, placing a hand on the counter, her sitting position appropriate in distance, standing up her back pressed against his chest, for a moment like becoming a furnace, she within it destined to burn to ashes.

"The rings here aren’t suitable."

Globally, "A diamond is forever, true love is eternal" propaganda entrenched the diamond ring in matrimonial significance,

But given her relationship with Cillian Grant, giving him a diamond ring was too ironic, too piercing.

Made her feel nauseated.

"Suitable." Cillian Grant pressed her to sit down, gesturing to the proprietor to bring rings for them to try on.

He picked out matching pair rings, radiant, not particularly large in carats but with good hue. One men’s ring featured a twisted, entwined vine design, its sharp spikes formed a cage, clutching the central diamond tightly.

Eleanor watched him pick it up, feeling coldness seep into her bones.

Uncertain if he aimed to soothe or explore at a deeper level.

If to soothe, showing her this ring as a grand promise,

—See, a diamond ring, implying wedding meaning, obediently stay at The Emerald Residence, the future’s bright.

If to explore.

—Pregnant, for the child’s future, should meekly obey, win his favor.

What’s called mutual pursuit, Cillian Grant draws a pie, she eats; that’s mutual pursuit.

Yet why.

Why him.

Thinking marriage is a pie for her, laid out, she’ll consume.

Eleanor endured the shivers spreading densely, yet couldn’t hold back the sudden tumult in her stomach.

She pushed away the tray holding rings, unable to further push Cillian Grant, the acidic bile rose past her teeth.

"Ugh," she vomited all over Cillian Grant’s chest.

The proprietor was startled, hastily bending to pull paper from beneath the counter, "Please clean up, the restroom’s to the left of the counter."

Cillian Grant lowered his head to gaze at Eleanor, lifting his hand only to hesitate in the air for an imperceptible moment before resting it on her back, helping to soothe her, not responding to the proprietor.

Since Eleanor became pregnant, her vomiting response was minor, never having thrown up until now, with her first time breaking the dam, a tidal wave of continuous acid.

She clenched her hand, fingernails cutting into the flesh of her palm, threads of pain piercing deep, acid barely contained.

Cillian Grant remained silent, Eleanor perceived his unbelievably gentle force, several degrees of preciousness, seriousness, and an unclear dark tide, like a fierce current washing ashore in waves, relentless, gathering into a tsunami near the sea, ready to devour everything.

Eleanor’s limbs froze, her tense breath came to a halt.

Desperately weighing pros and cons.

She raised her head, directly meeting Cillian Grant’s inscrutable gaze, "A diamond ring, I will never give you, nor ever submit to you; thinking of being kept at The Emerald Residence, continuing to cohabit with you nauseates me."

Cillian Grant’s hand soothing her paused, first silent, quiet as a solidified tsunami, his eyes distinctly sharp, penetrating her, peeling away layers to reach the deepest part.

Eleanor heard him hoarsely ask, "Pregnant?"