Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 119: What Makes You Think I Will Keep Your Child

Chapter 119: Chapter 119: What Makes You Think I Will Keep Your Child

Cillian Grant’s gaze fixed sharply on Eleanor.

She stood against the floor lamp, her silhouette rigid and frozen, her fingers clenched into fists, her slender shadow drawn taut like a bowstring at its breaking point, as if any slight movement from him would unleash an invisible arrow piercing through his skin, bones, and heart.

She herself would shatter, fragmented.

He replied, "Yes."

Eleanor suddenly collapsed onto the floor, and Cillian swiftly sidestepped the sofa, his arm threading under her armpit to lift her up.

But then he met Eleanor’s dark eyes, with the moist, glistening sheen gone, her eyeballs burst with fine, dense bloodshot threads, each one stabbing into his heart like a venomous needle.

Through the phone receiver, Mr. Grant’s laughter thundered, "I know about your plans in the Grant Group, it’s a pity you’re so composed, courageous, and ambitious, while Liam Xavier is just useless. He’s abandoned everything. Cillian, you’ve failed at the brink of success."

Cillian’s expression remained as steady as a rock, he set down the phone, his other arm sliding under Eleanor’s legs, holding her horizontally to gently place her on the sofa.

"Success or failure, remains to be seen."

Mr. Grant laughed heartily, avoiding further argument, "Is Eleanor beside you?"

Cillian frowned, picking up the phone, "No."

"I am."

Eleanor’s face was cold, indifferent, as hard as frost, "Do you need something from me?"

Mr. Grant seemingly hadn’t expected her voice, his tone suddenly gentle, with some laughter, some heartache and consolation, "Child, why did you travel to Froskar so far while pregnant? Ms. King mentioned your bleeding several times, the child was almost lost, how is it now?"

In a fleeting moment, Eleanor suspected something, but the thoughts bursting within her were absurd and groundless. She couldn’t discern whether it was her desperate longing to leave Cillian that brought about delusions, or if she had over-mythologized Mr. Grant’s methods and cunning.

This is why she imagined so much from a single ambiguous display of concern.

But she was already at a dead end with no alternatives, even if she caused heaven and earth to collapse, what could be worse than now?

"It was lost." Eleanor looked up at Cillian, saying deliberately, "After returning to the Grant Family, I was emotionally tumultuous, too intense, there were signs of miscarriage, and it couldn’t be saved."

Cillian didn’t react, to this day he was fully confident, not believing it one bit.

Over the phone, Mr. Grant drew a sharp breath, a hissing sound as if he were shocked, yet he responded smoothly, "Father recently understood the details of your pregnancy, he found no records of you visiting the hospital."

Eleanor clenched her hand tightly.

In the Grant Family, Mrs. Grant was cruel and heartless, Mr. Grant was cruel, but outwardly always kind. Eleanor was absolutely certain her pregnancy was a troublesome matter within the Grant Family, a stormy sea, no one would acknowledge the child.

Naturally, Mr. Grant hoped the child was gone, it would save him time and effort to confirm this with a question was understandable.

Yet Eleanor had a premonition, and such a premonition always came true.

She laughed as if crying, "A bastard doesn’t need to go to the hospital."

Mr. Grant exclaimed, "You’re not caring for yourself, you must go to the hospital after a miscarriage..."

Cillian directly ended the call, leaning down to pick up Eleanor, settling back down on the sofa.

Eleanor curled up on the man’s lap, her face pressed against the second button of his shirt, at the position of the heart on his chest.

Since arriving in Froskar, the crisp scent of pine on him had faded day by day, now it was enveloped in body warmth, softening to a fragrance as faint as water.

Beneath the button was a solid chest, hot and firm, where her face lay, rising and falling with breaths, the button chafing her ear, accompanying the heart’s vigorous beat beneath the chest bone, pounding amidst the indescribable hoarseness of his voice.

"Eleanor, the child is not a bastard."

Eleanor didn’t struggle, didn’t refute.

She was half convinced that Mr. Grant was implying something.

With Mr. Grant’s character, even if he believed her, with the child gone he would at most offer comfort, urging her to take care of her body.

But he would never show the kind of womanly concern, nagging her to go to the hospital.

So, the focus was on the hospital?

Implying she should go to the hospital?

Eleanor quickly pondered, whether or not Mr. Grant had that implication, she was willing to use the miscarriage to provoke Cillian to get him to take her to the hospital for a checkup, it couldn’t hurt.

She trusted not Mr. Grant, but Damian Sinclair and Mr. Ghost.

The note said Mr. Grant would send more people to Froskar after confirming, Mr. Ghost was waiting for this.

Now that Mr. Grant knew, he could still call and confront Cillian, given Mr. Grant’s calculated character, additional personnel would have already been deployed.

And hospitals are bustling places, Froskar is not a lawless place, mercenaries would be restricted, especially with Mr. Grant’s people there.

Mr. Ghost’s chance to take her away amidst chaos would drastically increase.

With this in mind, Eleanor decided to gamble.

"Cillian Grant, I will crawl away from you if I must, what makes you think I’d keep your child?"

Before she finished speaking, Eleanor felt his heart skip a beat.

Cillian was usually calm, and his heartbeat steadier than most men, such an obvious pause showed he was thrown off balance.

The next moment, eyes gathered on the top of her head, deep and blazing, like a probe drilling through her, "The child is still there." 𝑓𝓇𝘦ℯ𝘸𝘦𝑏𝓃𝑜𝘷ℯ𝑙.𝑐𝑜𝓂

"Not there." Eleanor said expressionlessly, "The day after returning to the Grant Family, you were to take me to the hospital. You saw with your own eyes in the car, how much bleeding occurred indicating miscarriage, I didn’t go to the hospital, do you think it could be saved?"

Froskar, this small town, didn’t have the bustling energy within the Soldane Province, the constant flow of traffic day and night, the skyscrapers, the clouds and mist. Froskar was desolate, with only the sound of wind sweeping across the barren ice fields.

It was nearing noon, the sky dimly brightened, casting a pale, eerie blue upon the window.

In stark contrast to the deep, chilling night she saw through the window upon returning to the Grant Family, as though dawn was breaking, light approaching.

Eleanor, on the contrary, had reached the point of revelation, pregnancy exposure, trapped in this small space, watched over until childbirth. In every way, it seemed the bottomless darkness.

"You don’t believe?"

She didn’t lift her head, nor did Cillian speak. His chin rested atop Eleanor’s head, the pressure neither light nor heavy, the stubble had been shaved in the morning, not prickly.

Eleanor couldn’t lift her head, her voice was locked within his embrace, muffled, "Cillian Grant, you know the sound of explosions can affect the fetus. You’ve learned about pregnancy, haven’t you? Then what do you think would happen with the signs of miscarriage, then going out to sea, a long flight, followed by being chased and driven by two gangs of thugs, driving through the ice-field at night?"

The breath above suddenly grew scalding, arms didn’t tighten, but wrapped a furious intent around her.

Eleanor took a deep breath, struggling out from his embrace.

The man’s face was cool, not exhibiting outward hostility, silent, with eyes alone, ominous and turbulent, threatening the castle in a storm.

"After you caught me, there wasn’t a trace of blood, no pain or heaviness in the abdomen, still able to run in the snow, do you know why?"

Cillian’s temple to his jaw instantly tensed into a straight line, veins surging beneath the skin.

Eleanor also saw his fists tighten, the sound of creaking audible, veins like snakes writhing beneath the flesh, about to burst, devouring whomever comes near.