Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 120: Never to Be Reborn for Eternity

Chapter 120: Chapter 120: Never to Be Reborn for Eternity

Eleanor surprisingly felt no fear at all.

All along, angering Cillian Grant was terrifying to her, bone-chilling, with unbearable consequences.

He always had so many means, in bed, out of bed, whatever she cared about, he would destroy.

In her freshman year, she participated in a performance as a new student representative, wearing a long cheongsam with a moonlight white satin stand collar, a celadon entangled pattern print, the hem reaching down to her ankles, the slit just above her knees, revealing no skin except her arms.

She didn’t even need to dance on stage; she just sat and played the pipa.

During rehearsals, Cillian Grant found out. In a backstage storage room, she was pressed between the door and his chest while people were bustling outside, even classmates were loudly calling her name.

If Cillian Grant had pushed a little harder, the door would have rattled and exposed them.

That was the first time Eleanor begged him. He relished her pleas and did indeed restrain his strength.

Eleanor thought it ended there and continued to rehearse. But on the eve of the performance, the program was canceled. The choreographer went to the school to seek an explanation, came back hemming and hawing, his gaze lingering on her, yet avoiding eye contact.

Eleanor, having grown up in high society, could easily discern the hints of fear and anger in the choreographer’s demeanor. It was clear to her.

On that day, she took leave to find Cillian Grant. To him, this minor issue wasn’t worth mentioning, not enough to take time off work to see her personally. Only his secretary, named Su, called upon Damon Sharp to take her back to school.

On the way, Damon Sharp offered a suggestion, "Mr. Grant is not targeting the program, everyone’s hard work is visible, you could voluntarily withdraw from the performance."

After Eleanor withdrew from the program, the director arranged for her to serve as a ceremonial guest, accompanying Cillian Grant when he attended the performance.

The partners she rehearsed with received applause on stage, and her fingers felt the sensation of playing the pipa.

The bowstring caressed and plucked, like her tea ceremony and calligraphy, sealed and deprived away.

Cillian Grant grabbed her arm, "You have morning sickness."

Eleanor brushed him off, but Cillian Grant’s other arm wrapped around her waist, exerting no force, yet forcing her back to lean on him.

Eleanor struggled to straighten up, determined to meet his eyes, "Do I seem convincing? Cillian Grant, weren’t you always calling me a good actress, a liar? But every time you see through me, how? Can’t you see through it this time?"

She curled her lips into a malicious smile, eyes unyielding, "Or did I add genuine feelings this time, and you believed it?"

A crack appeared in Cillian Grant’s eyes, where waves surged, expanding until his expression grew cold and sinister.

Since coming to Froskar, the gentle and considerate facade he always wore finally tore apart, revealing the truly dark and frightening side.

"What do you mean?"

Eleanor regarded him, oddly finding this true face more acceptable than his previous false affection.

And more accustomed to it.

"Every time you came close to me, touched me, got intimate, I felt sick, nauseated, utterly repulsed. Especially on that day we bought rings. Marriage is so holy and beautiful; how could someone like you, Cillian Grant, deserve it? Every moment those diamonds dazzled, with you standing by my side, made the world appear utterly absurd to me, nauseating enough to make me vomit."

The room briefly turned into a vacuum, Eleanor feeling the surrounding air squeezed into nothingness by ominous pressure.

No other sound could be heard, utter silence falling, with the wind continually scraping the windows outside sounding like a boundless graveyard, every second sinking into death.

"Cillian Grant, look at you now." Eleanor pried his fingers apart one by one, standing up, retreating to the other side of the couch, "This is who you really are. Sinister, deceitful, vicious, cruel. If I kept this child, it would carry your blood, share seventy percent of its resemblance to you, its character too."

"Being destroyed by you left me with nothing, living every day like a battlefield, chaos can’t describe even a tenth of it. In such a case, would I keep a replica of you, letting it torment me for decades, seeing him every day would be seeing you?"

Veins stood out on Cillian Grant’s face and neck, as if a volcano was about to erupt, its silence now a fiery magma churning and boiling, teetering on maintaining its stability, which was about to be shattered by surging waves, covering the sky and swallowing everything, including himself.

He took a few steps forward, seized her arm, dragging her along, unsure where to, the couch, the bed, or outside.

Just like his raging emotions that couldn’t find a place, couldn’t hold, melting all within his range during an eruption, leaving nothing, including himself.

Eleanor gritted her teeth, staggering as she followed him.

In the direct venting, hatred, like a long-sealed seed, now completely unbound, sprouted in the blink of an eye, rampaging unreservedly through her veins.

Her once-collapsing rationality tumbled as her whole body shivered, recalling the pain she endured every day over those four years, wanting Cillian Grant to feel it, hundreds and thousands of times more severe.

She laughed heartily, yet more mournful than crying, "You returned from Indigo Province without a gift for me, but I had a gift for you that day. My menstrual pain was feigned. If it weren’t for Phoebe running into me at the hospital, I would have aborted then. Unfortunately, she was watching closely during that time, and I couldn’t find a chance. After the medical examination, when I went to an underground clinic, I feared their poor skills might end my life, leaving it as a pending story."

"Until I left, but you discovered it too soon, I couldn’t escape. Luckily, you pushed me, and in my breakdown, it left on its own. That’s the cause and effect, Cillian Grant, are you satisfied?"

Cillian Grant suddenly halted his steps, gripping her chin, eyes meeting, his gaze dark and sinister like a night owl crawling up from the abyss.

He wished he could eat her alive, then grind her bones to dust, never to be reborn for eternity.

"Eleanor." He had not spoken until now, his voice now hoarse beyond recognition, "You are clever, always understanding immediately, quickly discerning favorable paths based on the current situation."

The man’s grip suddenly softened, his palm sticking to her cheek, the calluses and wounds on his fingertips grazing her eye corner, adding a stunning reddening to her furious glow.

"Did my father suggest you go to the hospital?" His pupils were dark like a brewing storm, "And Damian Sinclair, was it his people who took you away from me, and now he sent someone to take you away at the right moment?"

Hatred solidified in Eleanor’s eyes, her whole being freezing into an icy sculpture.

A man’s cunning and schemes can be honed over time, but intelligence is a divinely granted genetic lottery.

Cillian Grant possessed all three, outmaneuvering many old foxes in the world of fame and fortune. His understanding of Mr. Grant, as a son for decades, far exceeded hers.

Eleanor was dazzled by the depth of his knowing gaze, legs turning to jelly as she stubbornly held on, "It has nothing to do with Damian Sinclair."