Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 5: Caught at the Prenatal Checkup

Eleanor couldn’t help speculating.

Is he testing her?

Or is he planning to end this relationship?

Her flicker of joy was instantly snuffed as she recalled that Cillian Grant was never one for idle words: every syllable had its purpose, its meaning.

He asked about her marrying in the future.

That meant, at the very least, he was considering her marriage prospects.

Eleanor shivered. "Who would I marry?"

"Who do you want to marry?" Cillian Grant lifted her face. "Phoebe’s married now; mother will turn her attention to you next."

Eleanor was truly perplexed. "And what about you?"

No matter the age or importance, as the Grant Family’s eldest son and heir, Cillian’s marriage wasn’t just imminent—it was a matter of utmost urgency.

Cillian Grant smoothed aside a strand of her hair, tucked it behind her ear, his pupils reflecting her pale face, a little mole on the tip of her nose. "I’m looking."

Eleanor sucked in a breath.

This was driving her insane.

Misfortune never comes alone; all the bad things were piling up together.

She not only had to deal with the medical exam and her pregnancy, but also guard against being the other woman.

"You don’t want me to get married?" The man gazed at her, eyes deep and dark, probing.

Eleanor didn’t get it—what was there to dig into?

Whether he married or not, her opinion mattered the least.

Or did he, like Phoebe Grant, fear she’d ruin his marriage?

Eleanor was cautious. "Who have you got your eye on?"

He fixed his gaze on her, repeating, "I’m looking."

Eleanor understood. He was warning her in advance.

But he was overthinking it—she wished she could be farther away from him; she least wanted to be entangled.

"Then are we—" Eleanor probed, "supposed to end this?"

"You want to end it?" Cillian Grant smoothed her hair, his expression unreadable.

Eleanor couldn’t figure out his stance, so she suppressed her delight. "If you have a wife, I’ll stay out of your way, and won’t cause trouble."

She still kept a guard up, not spelling everything out.

Cillian Grant was strong-willed and aloof, liked being in control, and hated being picked apart or rejected.

Cillian Grant studied her for a while, his gaze growing more inscrutable, his face darkening.

The blade of a guillotine, glittering sharp, hung overhead.

Eleanor’s joy vanished without a trace; she was on tenterhooks, mumbling, "My documents."

She regretted it bitterly—if only she’d asked for them right after the kiss, while catching her breath.

And now, having delayed, it would only get harder.

Sure enough, when she looked up again, the man was colder, enveloped in icy veneer, but a fierce, boiling rage seethed underneath.

Eleanor trembled, not daring to bring it up again.

Afraid the ice would crack and she’d be burned alive right inside the car.

As soon as they arrived downstairs at the company, she hurried out of the car and fled far away.

"Eleanor."

Her coworker, holding a bag, came running from another direction. "Weren’t you on leave today? How come you’re here at work?"

Eleanor’s scalp tingled; reflexively, she glanced behind— the car had already driven away.

Cillian Grant hadn’t overheard her asking for leave.

She breathed a sigh of relief. "Just had some errands nearby. Passing through."

"What kind of errand makes you come fight rush hour so early in the morning?"

Eleanor finally felt at ease.

Since joining this company, she had never mentioned her connection to the Grant Family. The driver usually dropped her off five hundred meters away at a small alley; she’d walk in on her own, terrified of being found out.

The connection never got exposed, and Eleanor even managed to smile. "A friend wanted to meet me here."

As she spoke, she waved to the street. 𝑓𝑟ℯ𝘦𝓌𝘦𝘣𝑛𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓁.𝑐ℴ𝓂

Her coworker watched as Eleanor got into a black Mercedes coupe and quickly disappeared into the morning traffic.

They couldn’t help whispering to others, "Isn’t Eleanor pretty aloof? When did she snag a boyfriend—looks like he’s loaded."

The supposed ’wealthy boyfriend’—short-haired Elaine White—pulled the car to a stop at a private hospital entrance.

Leaning over, she helped Eleanor unbuckle her seat belt. "I’m helping you with such a big thing, and you still won’t tell me who that irresponsible bastard is?"

Eleanor pulled her hat and mask on, got out of the car. "A third-rate scumbag. Don’t mention him, spoils my mood."

Elaine White threw an arm around her shoulder. "A scumbag? Damian Sinclair?"

Eleanor was caught off guard and choked, confused. "Do I seem so hopelessly hung up on him? Why does everyone think I’ll cling to him for dear life?"

Elaine White smiled but said nothing; maybe Eleanor wasn’t, but Damian Sinclair definitely wasn’t ready to let go.

Elaine White was Eleanor’s high school bestie. She had studied medicine abroad during college, and her family owned this private hospital.

Eleanor didn’t have any documents; she was relying entirely on Miss Elaine’s connections.

The initial bloodwork went smoothly, but they hit a snag at the final step.

The doctor studied the ultrasound, his tone cautious. "Have you been checked before? Your uterus isn’t in good shape— if you lose this baby, chances are you won’t get another one in the future."

Elaine White frowned, leaned in to check again, her expression growing more serious.

Eleanor’s chest clenched. "Is surgery still an option?"

Elaine signaled the doctor to leave, locked the door. "I wouldn’t recommend it."

She offered a metaphor. "A lot of people are desperate for money and go crazy wanting to win the lottery— but there’s only one ticket, and only one chance. Miss it, and you’ll spend the rest of your life lonely, full of regret."

Eleanor stayed silent and gloomy.

She couldn’t care less if her future would be bitter; if she couldn’t survive this, she’d be dead on the spot.

"Also," Elaine admitted the dilemma, "for most people, an abortion is a minor procedure. The doctor I found is absolutely reliable. But your uterine situation is complicated. From the imaging, surgery is extremely risky—at least needs a senior doctor to operate."

Eleanor understood: a minor surgery, Elaine could cover up for her.

But if a senior doctor got involved, Elaine wouldn’t be able to keep it from the Grant Family.

"So, who’s the scumbag?" Elaine couldn’t help pressing. "I know about your connection to the Grant Family, but if this bastard would step up and you married for that? With Phoebe Grant’s own out-of-wedlock example first, the Grants wouldn’t do anything to you."

"Phoebe Grant is Phoebe Grant. I am me. You can’t compare."

Eleanor got off the bed and suddenly staggered.

Elaine hurried to support her, noticing her limbs were trembling, and couldn’t help frowning. "What’s going on with you?"

Eleanor’s face was paper white. She ignored the question. "I’ll think over what to do about the baby. Thank you so much for today. Please, you absolutely must keep this a secret for me."

......

At the same time, Cillian Grant pressed the elevator in the hospital lobby.

Earlier that morning, right after Eleanor got out of the car, he’d received a call from Mrs. Grant—Phoebe was emotionally distraught, suffering constant abdominal pain. Her pregnancy had been unstable, so of course Cillian took it seriously.

He skipped going to the company, went straight back home, and drove her to the hospital himself.

The White Family’s private hospital’s OB-GYN department was famous in upper circles, with a stellar reputation.

After Phoebe got pregnant, the Whites specially assigned the director to personally oversee her case.

After the checkup, Phoebe went to the restroom.

It just so happened that on her way out, she ran right into Eleanor standing by the elevator.

Eleanor had her bag slung over her shoulder, eyes fixed on a nearby screen looping pregnancy tips. The video showed a pregnant woman stroking her belly. Eleanor unconsciously lifted her own hand.

Phoebe’s eyes followed her motion—Eleanor stroking her belly—and panic surged. She rushed over, grabbed Eleanor’s hair. "What are you doing here? Are you pregnant too?"

She attacked from behind: Eleanor wasn’t ready, got her hair yanked, and was dragged down to the floor.

"Whose baby are you carrying?" Phoebe demanded, both hateful and afraid, hauling her up. "Is it Damian’s?"

Eleanor fought back, flipping over to struggle free. "Have you lost your mind? What baby?"

Phoebe’s eyes were bloodshot. "You dare say you’re not pregnant? If not, why are you here at obstetrics?"

The White Family’s hospital prized privacy and service. Gynecology and obstetrics were on separate floors—third floor, obstetrics; second, gynecology.

If you weren’t pregnant, normal people would never show up on the third floor.

Eleanor was left speechless.