Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 74: Cillian Grant Destroyed Everything She Had

Chapter 74: Chapter 74: Cillian Grant Destroyed Everything She Had

Mr. Grant stared at her, his gaze piercing through flesh and straight into her bones. "She values emotion, that’s her problem—she cares too much, she can’t bear even the tiniest flaw in her feelings."

Eleanor squirmed under his gaze as if sitting on needles. "What are you trying to say?"

"This time when I came back, I found your mother is deeply troubled about you. Back then, she was the one who couldn’t bear to see you leave the most. She loves you, loves you deeply. When Phoebe first came back, she secretly favored you more."

Eleanor’s throat felt raw; she opened her mouth but couldn’t make a sound.

Mr. Grant patted her head. "So, when you cast that look of resentment at your brother and Phoebe over Damian Sinclair, an outsider, you stabbed her right in the heart."

It wasn’t the warning she expected, nor a test—it was more direct than a rebuke, cutting straight to the soul, freezing Eleanor’s expression in place.

After a long silence, her voice came out like rusted gears—slow, dull, tinged with disbelief and a fear of touching the truth. "My—eyes?"

"At Phoebe’s engagement party, after you gave your blessing and stepped down, your mother watched you for a long time. The way you looked at Cillian scared her."

Eleanor stared dazedly at Mr. Grant.

It was a surreal shock, shattering every bone in her body—she didn’t know how to stop it, as if her faith was crumbling apart, right this moment.

Just earlier, when Cillian Grant banished her, stripped her of her name, she hadn’t even felt this way.

This—these words, each one turning into a vacuum, sucking the oxygen out of the room, choking and stunning her bit by bit; her heart felt like a pool of putrid blood.

For four years, she’d kept her head down and just endured, never daring to look back.

The first time Mrs. Grant asked her directly if she had resentment toward Cillian, she answered no, clutching her clothes tighter to hide the marks on her skin.

The second time, Mrs. Grant knocked on her door late at night to talk. Separated by only the doorway, Eleanor was pressed against the wall, answering with the cold indifference of night.

The third time, the fourth...right along to the countless times through that half year.

Eleanor’s vision spun—after years of gut-wrenching torment, there exploded, suddenly and catastrophically, a despair and grief that shook the heavens and earth.

Countless times—countless—she’d wanted to ask Mrs. Grant why she suddenly stopped loving her; countless times, Mrs. Grant had sought her out for a reason.

But Cillian.

Cillian Grant was a devil, crushing everything as he walked across her body.

He ripped Damian away from her.

He took her mother away.

He stole the family she might have had.

How could one person, so suddenly, change like that, stripping her of everything, leaving her in chaos and fear, nowhere to go?

He was the root cause.

.........

When a person’s organs are finally hollowed out, the blood flowing through their veins is icy cold, a numb anesthetic without warmth.

The dull pain and numbness spread through every limb and bone, cutting off all sensation and reaction—just enough for the body to survive.

At that moment, nothing is left—not tears, not emotion. Between utter collapse and the sharpest hatred, the soul is drained, leaving only a shell, indifferent, a walking corpse.

All the while, Eleanor was supported by Auntie King.

She knew Mr. Grant still let her stay.

But her old room had been taken over by Phoebe’s pets.

Mr. Grant gave her the guest room at the eastmost end of the first floor, right next to the staff quarters—a place of constant traffic, where Cillian could no longer barge in without warning.

Eleanor wrapped herself in the quilt, lay there for a long while before noticing the cold on her face. She reached up—moisture on her fingertips, a refined anesthetic, now letting her feel the sharp pain, suffocating her from within, scattering the numb haze.

Auntie King came in with a midnight snack, pulled away the quilt to check her forehead and dry her face, then started tugging at her pants.

Eleanor grabbed her tight. "Auntie King, I cried, but I didn’t wet my pants."

Auntie King paused, but kept tugging. "I need to check anyway."

They both went still for a moment after that.

Auntie King was honest, never took advantage of anyone, but sometimes words, when spoken straight from the heart, can veer wildly off course.

"I just want to check—" Auntie King let go. "If you’re bleeding."

Earlier that afternoon, when Eleanor came out of the study, she was silent and grief-stricken, so pale it startled everyone. Cillian was unwavering, and that was that.

Auntie King felt like ants were eating her heart—the dangers in the Grant Family these days were breathtaking even for someone who had lived half a lifetime.

Eleanor was still just a girl, and pregnant—this kind of emotional shock could be fatal.

Eleanor instinctively checked the door, saw it locked tight, and finally let out a breath.

That breath yanked her from a world that felt upside down—she felt the pain rush out, indescribable, as if flesh and bone were turned inside out, reshaped completely.

Every part of her body stung and ached, but her lower belly was beyond feeling, like she couldn’t tell if it was hollow or still hurting.

She couldn’t care anymore that Auntie King was watching; she pulled down her pants.

From between her legs, a smear of red, about the size of a fingernail.

Her heart clenched tight, panic overwhelming her, fear taking over—she could only look at Auntie King. "I—Auntie King—I..." Her voice shook out of control, ragged, on the edge of tears. "I’m bleeding."

Auntie King had expected this—she was just as flustered, but more experienced.

In moments of disaster, when there’s no one to rely on, experience counts for everything.

"Don’t be afraid." Auntie King pulled the quilt over her lower body. "Don’t be afraid, Eleanor. I’ve had two kids—spotting is normal early on as long as it’s not too much and doesn’t keep going, it’ll be fine."

"Just lie down for now, Auntie King’ll find you some clean clothes and get some medicine. Phoebe had bleeding too—her stuff’s a mess. I’ll grab a few pills, she won’t notice."

A jumble of words—their lips were both trembling.

Eleanor bit down hard, her body collapsing into the quilt. All the unspeakable words churned through her lungs, softening her heart, only to burn it full of holes that bled.

Twenty years.

Auntie King had worked for The Grant Family for twenty years, kept the kitchen, handled the keys to Mrs. Grant’s secret store of tonics, never taking even a penny. She was pure, upright, always lived with peace of mind.

Now, after years of secrecy, she was being dragged into theft because of Eleanor.

In these peaceful times, everyone is supposed to live happy and safe, but those who get close to her—one risks the family, another is forced into crime.

She was a sinner.

A sinner.

............

After Phoebe Grant got pregnant, her schedule was an early-to-bed, early-to-rise nine-to-seven. Now it was almost eight; she hung up Damian’s overseas call and was just about to go to sleep.

Auntie King suddenly appeared in her doorway, genuinely startling her.

"Miss, Madam’s made ginseng soup today—that’s especially good for the baby. Want a bowl?"

Phoebe didn’t take it, her eyes sharp and suspicious. "Auntie King, you’ve always liked Eleanor best, and now you’re buttering up to me?"

Auntie King’s lips twisted into a stiff smile. "Miss, I’ve finally figured things out. The Grant Family has treated me with kindness. I can’t harbor intentions for anyone else."

"Intentions?" Phoebe was interested. "What do you mean by that?"

"There’s only one miss in The Grant Family." Auntie King walked in. "The young master made himself clear today, all the staff downstairs understood."

Phoebe snickered, pointed at the desk. "Put it down. Auntie King, you’ve been here for many years, retiring soon—you should know where you stand. No matter how long you raise a barnyard hen, it won’t become a phoenix. No matter how low a phoenix might fall, it’s still nobler than any hen. That’s blood—my brother makes it crystal clear." 𝕗𝗿𝕖𝐞𝐰𝗲𝕓𝐧𝕠𝕧𝗲𝐥.𝚌𝐨𝚖

Auntie King paused with her back to her, then turned around. "I remember."

She slipped out the door and hurried downstairs.

But stopped suddenly at the landing.

The dangling chandelier scattered rainbow light, dazzling across the tall, imposing figure standing there.

Blocking the middle of the stairs, utterly motionless.