Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 153: Cillian, What Are You After With Eleanor?

Chapter 153: Chapter 153: Cillian, What Are You After With Eleanor?

After Mrs. Grant finished her call with Mr. Grant, she went to the hospital.

Cillian Grant was staying in the premium intensive care ward next to the main hospital building, commonly referred to as the VIP Wing.

Government officials, or patients of high status, would be arranged here.

The wards were all suites, with evergreens two or three meters tall planted in front and behind the building, and gardenias lush in the greenbelt; the environment was exceptionally quiet.

The first and second floors were the orthopedic and respiratory wards. Mrs. Grant rode the elevator to the third floor, and as soon as the doors opened, a bodyguard in a black suit was standing stiffly at the door, blocking her way.

"Sorry, ma’am. Mr. Grant is resting and is not receiving visitors."

Mrs. Grant let out a snort of laughter. "A visitor? I’m his mother."

The bodyguard, of course, recognized Mrs. Grant, but considering the complications right now, knowing her honestly made things harder than not knowing her at all.

He kept a stern face. "Please present your credentials."

This time Mrs. Grant couldn’t even laugh out of anger. She clenched her purse and shoved the bodyguard aside. "Damon, get out here."

The bodyguard ultimately didn’t dare to physically stop her. Mrs. Grant stepped out of the elevator.

Damon Sharp had just crossed the corridor halfway, but seeing that she had come in, he didn’t rack his brains to block her like the last few times.

"Mr. Grant is in the middle of an online board meeting. Director Grant is presiding; Mr. Grant’s attendance is required. You may need to wait a moment."

Mrs. Grant frowned and walked to the door, peering in through the window.

The lights were on in the ward, and the window was open too. Cillian Grant was leaning against a thick pillow, with a small table set up in front of him, his laptop on speaker.

The voices drifting from the room were very faint, but Mrs. Grant instantly recognized it was Mr. Grant speaking.

"...The general project manager, Liam Xavier, is now absent and unaccounted for. The manager’s post can’t remain vacant for long, so I propose Jason Xavier as acting manager..."

Cillian Grant did not object.

Sunshine outside the window slid off the evergreen treetops and shot into the room, shrouding half of his profile—cold, severe lines, features lean to the point of harshness, brows knotted. The warm sunlight couldn’t thaw the pallor of his face; he was ashen, bleak, and silent.

The laptop broadcast the board resolution, "More than half... Jason Xavier will officially take over in three days..."

Mrs. Grant’s hand tightened uncontrollably.

Cillian Grant covered his mouth to cough, not violent but persistent. His hand curled into a loose fist, touching the tip of his nose, and the IV in the back of his hand suddenly filled with blood. Mrs. Grant’s heart clenched; she nearly burst in.

He paid it no mind and put his hand down, his voice hoarse to the extreme.

"When Liam Xavier was in charge, I was responsible for oversight. Now projects under his supervision have had continuous issues, and he’s fled to avoid consequences. I’m responsible as well. I propose to spin off the problematic projects and take charge of patching the gaps myself. Whatever losses Grant Group has suffered, at most a month, I’ll report back to everyone’s satisfaction."

"I second."

"I second."

"I disagree..."

This motion took a long time; Mrs. Grant stood at the door so long the soles of her feet went numb in her heels before the proposal finally passed.

The tiny spark in her chest that Mr. Grant had just snuffed out now suddenly reignited into a blazing inferno.

Meanwhile, Mr. Grant was not to be outdone.

When the proposal passed, he gave off an oppressive, eerie chill.

He promptly declared the meeting adjourned. Secretary Rhodes followed him back to the chairman’s office. After a long silence, he couldn’t help but sneer.

"People who don’t know the inside story would think I won big this time. But the truth? My son here, spares me nothing—doesn’t give an inch, goes straight for the kill. If he hadn’t pulled the rug out from under me today, I wouldn’t have realized just how many cards he was hiding, how deep they’ve been buried."

Secretary Rhodes said nothing.

At this stage, even with Mr. Grant’s money, he couldn’t fairly judge which of the Grants, father or son, was the more ruthless.

One had plotted the power grab long in advance—today, Mr. Grant’s sure-thing was overturned. Some board members, some connections, can’t be buried without a long time.

The other destroyed the thing his father held dearest: two lives lost—no hesitation, no mercy.

The Grant family’s pride and stubbornness had, in the end, ruined the innocent girl Eleanor.

Suddenly, Mr. Grant’s phone rang. He picked up.

On the other end, Mr. Sinclair sighed. "Tomorrow’s wedding for Phoebe and Damian—I’ve been thinking, it’s best we postpone. Cillian is in the hospital, and the Grants are short a person. Damian is ill too. Too many troublesome coincidences; perhaps the day isn’t auspicious."

Mr. Grant snorted, "And the guests?"

"I’ll notify them. The delay is the Sterling Sinclairs’ responsibility."

Mr. Sinclair finished and hung up at once.

Mr. Grant’s gaze was icy cold, but his face showed no anger.

He and Mr. Sinclair were of the same generation. Back then, Grant Group rose on light industry, Sterling Sinclair was an indispensable partner on the supply chain. The Grants depended on the Sinclairs a bit more, but both were major companies in Soldane Province.

After he married and took charge of Grant Group, he transitioned from light industry to real estate, brought Sterling Sinclair along, and cashed in on over a decade of Soldane Province’s property boom—becoming the benchmark for the province, and the Sinclairs, having feasted well, now depended on the Grants in turn.

By Damian Sinclair’s generation, after Cillian Grant went to develop the Northern market, his sharp instincts led him to invest in the Internet sector.

The Grant Family seized another era’s momentum, doubling the family’s assets in just four years. The Sinclairs followed late, trying to shift as well, but missed the golden hour. Before the New Year, Mr. Sinclair, desperate for success, ignored warnings and fell into a Hong Kong businessman’s trap; Mr. Grant bailed him out.

It could be said, the Sinclairs’ transformation now relies entirely on Grant Group. Later, they invested heavily in the Grant And Xavier partnership—supporting him and Jason Xavier. With their interests so closely tied, there’s no way Mr. Sinclair would actually abandon the marriage alliance.

This call, in the end, could only be because of Damian Sinclair.

Damian, with his mild temperament, always struck Mr. Grant as lacking in man’s courage, boldness, and aggression. Now that he’s showing some backbone, Mr. Grant’s suspicions, if anything, only deepened.

"What’s the status of our Froskar personnel?"

Secretary Rhodes shut and locked the door, coming closer to Mr. Grant. "The eldest young master’s men are giving relentless chase. They’ve pursued out of Froskar now. That other temporary crew—the eldest young master has hired an international legal team. For them, the minimal sentence is twenty years. Those who drove into Miss Eleanor—life imprisonment. All the temps have dirty records; multiple charges combined, little hope of escaping conviction."

Mr. Grant waved a hand. "I don’t bail out criminals. It was just an employment relationship; they did the job, I paid. That’s it." He set his hand down and leaned close to Secretary Rhodes. "Send another team to confirm Eleanor’s death. If there’s no mistake—cremate the body on site."

Secretary Rhodes looked puzzled. Mr. Grant’s expression was unreadable; he didn’t explain.

For some reason, he suddenly recalled—Eleanor had once mocked Mrs. Grant on the phone, sounding as if she had long believed Mrs. Grant was heartless and never intended to spare her life.

Mr. Grant paused, sitting up straight. "Let some information leak to a small circle—claim Eleanor died in an accident abroad. Pay close attention to the White Family’s reaction, especially Elaine White."

Eleanor left several times, including hiding her pregnancy. Elaine White and the White Family had helped a lot from the shadows. If Eleanor were alive, she’d definitely reach out to that friend.

And if the hospital incident was just a shell game by Eleanor and Damian Sinclair—an earth-shaking plan like this, would they not alert Elaine White first, let her act devastated?

Mr. Grant didn’t think Eleanor would do that.

At the hospital.

As soon as Cillian Grant closed the video conference, Mrs. Grant could hold back no longer. She burst into the room, rushed to the bedside, and inspected Cillian from head to toe before reaching out to touch his hair.

Cillian Grant leaned back, evading her touch.

His gaze was cold and unfamiliar.

Mrs. Grant’s hand froze in mid-air, withdrawing after a few breaths. "How’s your health? I spoke to the doctor. He refused to tell me anything—just said you need rest."

Cillian Grant said nothing.

Mrs. Grant had prepared herself before coming, but truly facing his resentment, all kinds of emotions surged uncontrollably within her, wave upon wave, making her eyes redden.

Her throat choked up at last, truly unable to understand. "Cillian, what did you ever want from Eleanor? Four years ago, when Phoebe came back, why did you—why did you—"