"Are you feeling smug right now?" She rushed over with her hand raised high. "Damian isn’t going to marry anymore, and you still dare to deny you’re pregnant?"
Eleanor dodged back, Phoebe Grant’s arm slicing the air with a sharp sound, the force making her stagger.
Eleanor caught her just in ti—not out of so saintly kindness, but because Phoebe Grant was too ’precious’ now. If she fell and hurt herself in front of her, even if she was completely innocent, she’d still end up blad.
"Cut the fake act, you bitch!" Phoebe Grant flung off her arm and shot her other hand up, bringing it down quick.
Eleanor, fed up, grabbed her wrist hard. "It’s barely morning and you’re having another episode. Damian not marrying you, what the hell does that have to do with ? As for the pregnancy, there’s video proof! Are you blind or just have mory loss?"
"I don’t believe it!" Phoebe Grant snarled. "You tampered with the video."
"Can’t you stop with the bullshit accusations?" Eleanor stared her down. "With how crazy-suspicious you are, I don’t believe for a second that you didn’t check Damian Sinclair’s whereabouts after getting back from the hospital. In the last six months, I only saw him the other day in a traffic jam, with two car doors between us, and a traffic cop watching. What, do I get pregnant by sheer willpower? Or is Damian Sinclair a dandelion, his seeds just blow over and land on ?"
"That’s enough, Eleanor." Mrs. Grant strode over, shoved her aside and shielded Phoebe. "Whether Phoebe’s paranoid or not, just go to the hospital for a blood test. Once the results are out, everything will be clear."
Eleanor stumbled back a few steps, barely keeping her balance, but her heart was pounding out of her chest.
She noticed Mrs. Grant’s attitude had changed. She’d always indulged Phoebe but only half-believed the pregnancy rumor.
But right when Damian Sinclair backed out, that doubt shot up from fifty to ninety percent.
Eleanor knew there’d be no easy way out this ti.
She shivered. "Mom, you raised . My temper, my values, my character are all because of you. You taught self-respect, told to have dignity. You know better than anyone— you really don’t believe now?"
Mrs. Grant stayed silent.
But her silence wasn’t compassion; it felt more like a cold default.
Default that Eleanor had to get a blood test, to prove she had nothing to do with Damian Sinclair.
Eleanor dug her nails into her palms so hard her fingers curled in tight. She looked past Mrs. Grant toward the man standing at the entrance to the dining room.
Cillian Grant seed to agree too. Their eyes t across the room, his dark brows set above piercing eyes.
Eleanor never expected him to take her side, but today there was no other way out. Any scrap of hope, she had to seize it.
"Cillian Grant." Her voice shook. "You said you’d believe —does that still count?"
Seconds ticked by in silence.
Eleanor’s heart went cold.
Cillian Grant walked over, iron-faced, his expression chilly and detached. "Damian Sinclair got a master from Serenity Temple to step in, delayed the wedding by saying there are no suitable dates in the next six months. Did you know about this?"
Eleanor’s eyelid twitched hard.
In high society, they cared about fortune and divination. A mismatched wedding date could an sothing, or nothing. If the couple were solid, it wouldn’t matter. But if one side wants out, that excuse could drag things out until everyone just quietly accepts the breakup.
Whatever Damian’s motive was, Eleanor couldn’t afford to be dragged into it.
"Should I have known? You flip-flop and won’t trust , but at least trust what you saw. Since I got back from the hospital yesterday, I’ve been under the whole family’s noses. Does that sound like I’m in on it?"
Phoebe snapped, "If you didn’t do anything, why are you afraid of a blood test?"
"Who says I’m afraid?" Eleanor shot back. "If I was, I wouldn’t’ve agreed to the health check! But what about this ti? The hospital’s crawling with people. If word gets out, Phoebe Grant, have you thought about the Grant Family’s reputation?"
Eleanor forced herself to stay calm, studying Cillian and Mrs. Grant’s faces.
Cillian was unreadable as ever, but Mrs. Grant looked hesitant.
Damian Sinclair was originally Eleanor’s fiancé, only to be snatched by Phoebe soon after their engagent. Everyone’s still gossiping about it, even now.
If word got out Damian had delayed the wedding and Eleanor then went for a pregnancy check—
Connect those dots, and you had a scandal bombshell.
The ssier the love triangle, the more people love to gossip.
Even if Mrs. Grant wasn’t calm right now, she could still see where this might lead.
Eleanor latched onto that mont of hesitation. "Besides, what’s the difference between a blood test now and a checkup in three days? No reason to trash The Grant Group’s reputation over this. If a scandal kicks up and the stock price falls, the board suffers. When all hell breaks loose, are you going to help Dad and Cillian Grant hold it down?"
"You’re exaggerating—" Phoebe Grant choked out. She never could win an argunt with Eleanor.
Mrs. Grant was clearly swayed. However much she favored her daughter, she couldn’t risk the family’s future.
She turned to look at Cillian, knowing her brother would always support her no matter what. "Brother."
Eleanor looked at Cillian, too. For a second his gaze was strange: eyes dark and bright, full of interest, unreadable, almost stuck to her.
Eleanor’s scalp prickled.
Then, suddenly, everything about him was cold, his face and voice both hard as steel—a mont ago felt like a dream.
"There’s a psychological phenonon when soone suddenly takes the moral high ground and tries to force everyone else to go along: either they’re genuinely noble, or they’re hiding sothing. Which one are you?"
Eleanor nearly snapped back, but managed to stop herself.
A few long seconds. Phoebe imdiately declared, "See? Nothing to say. You’re guilty!"
Eleanor balled her hands tight. She couldn’t panic, couldn’t rush an answer.
Cillian was a master at interrogations, and even more so at negotiation. There’s a saying in the business world down south: Better to drink yourself under the table than sit across from the Grant Group at the negotiating table.
He was a pro at verbal traps. Two options—on the surface, the first looked safe. If she chose ’for the family, for the Group,’ it ant admitting she was taking the moral high ground to shield herself from the blood test.
Then, the bit of hesitation in Mrs. Grant would disappear for good.
The Grant Family had money and thods. If not the hospital, they could get a private doctor or just a pregnancy test stick at ho.
Phoebe was too stupid to get it, but Mrs. Grant would figure it out once she cald down.
She had to get Mrs. Grant to agree, right now, that there’d be no blood test.
Eleanor lifted her head, striking before Phoebe could finish her off. "You’re half right. I’m silent, but it’s not because I’m hiding anything."
"Mom—" She turned to Mrs. Grant, "I’m just—hurting. Every ti Phoebe picks a fight out of nowhere, you always think I’m disrespecting her, bullying her, grabbing the upper hand. I don’t want to be like this. But it’s the only way you ever look at ."
"Angry or disappointed, it doesn’t matter— at least you look at ."
Every word was true, pouring out in a rush. Eleanor felt her spine slump, almost too weak to stand.
"You were the one who kept , Mom. If you’re sick of now, just let go. Don’t humiliate like this—don’t leave with no dignity as a person."
"Dignity is sothing you give yourself." Mrs. Grant was unmoved.
The timing of Damian Sinclair’s postponent was just too perfect.
Eleanor’s gut-wrenching confession was a knife, stabbing into the insecurity and doubt in Mrs. Grant’s heart.
"If you want dignity, then take the test. The facts will prove your innocence."
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