"Damian Sinclair." The man behind him warned, "I’ll tolerate your reckless words this once—don’t think you and your Sterling Sinclair can overstep your bounds."
Damian paused, his breathing ragged and harsh. Catching the flicker of emotion as Eleanor lowered her head, he drew a deep breath and stepped away.
Eleanor listened to his footsteps as he descended the stairs, then reached back and shut the door to the billiard room.
Cillian Grant stood unmoving, the light only illuminating his gem-blue suit—crisp, upright, an innate force that always pressed down on others.
"Sothing you want?"
Eleanor kept her left hand behind her. "Nothing now."
When she ca, she had it all planned out—to show concern for his injury with those little crepe bandages, soften his attitude till he thawed, then take the chance to ask about Mr. Bolton.
But thinking and doing are worlds apart. However clear-headed she fancied herself, the pain was still real.
Eleanor turned to tug at the door.
"Stop." Cillian demanded, "What’s in your hand?"
Eleanor drew in a breath. "It’s nothing."
"If it’s nothing, why hide it?" His voice moved closer, a broad chest pressed right up behind her, seizing her left hand. Eleanor instantly shielded it with her right, refusing to let him see.
"Open it."
"I have nothing." Eleanor turned her face away.
There were no lights at the billiard room door; dim and murky, Eleanor’s hair tumbled dark and heavy, making her profile look startlingly pale. Her jaw was delicately shaped—like white paper, fragile, easy to tear.
Cillian pressed his lips together, his tone gentler. "Give it to yourself. Don’t make repeat myself."
Among n, his voice was rare—magnetic and deep. But he spoke sparingly, his words always decisive, so that resonance beca iron and stone, absolute.
Even when he softened now, Eleanor still feared him.
Her hand trembled as she opened it—two shriveled crepe bandages in her fair palm.
Cillian took the bandages, fanned them out. The dry adhesive side was splashed with tiny cartoon ducks—soft yellow, silly and charming.
His two fingers, still sore from a blade, curled up reflexively. "For ?"
Eleanor couldn’t help the bite in her voice. "I’m not that delusional."
The man’s face went dark; his voice turned cold. "If they’re not for , what imaginary thing are they for?"
Eleanor lowered her head, silent.
Cillian’s fingers tightened, squeezing the crepe bandages into a wad, tossing them into the trash. "If it’s anything not ant for , I never want to see it again."
Suddenly Eleanor darted forward—Cillian’s eyes flashed. "Stop!"
But Eleanor ignored him, digging the crepe bandages out of the trash. The non-stick fabric on the adhesive had peeled off, the bits of tape sticking together, totally useless now.
She clutched them tight. "Pretend I didn’t co here today."
Eleanor opened the door, but the man grabbed her by the wrist.
Eleanor tried to wrench free. She’d just begun to move when he overpowered her, locking her whole body in his arms.
"You did co." Cillian pried open her fingers, took the crinkled bandages, forcing her to look. "This is proof. It shows you heard my words. And you’ll rember them from now on."
He flung the two scrunched bandages back into the trash.
Eleanor stared, dazed. Rember them...
The truth is, she’d rembered all along.
It was just this ingrained habit from childhood—it would take having her soul ripped out, dying and living again, for her to be able to control it.
Even the insincere care she showed today—with those little bandages—he ground into dust without rcy, turning it into a warning. His contempt for her couldn’t be clearer.
A deep fissure opened in Eleanor’s heart. From now on, she really could let it go.
"Noted." Eleanor pushed him away. "Can I go now?"
No retort, no resistance, this docile obedience.
A hint of a smile curled on Cillian’s lips. "Besides the bandages, anything else you want to say to ?"
Eleanor startled, tilting her face to observe him. "Do you think I have anything else?"
She’d failed in her plan, never even got to ask. Did he see through her from the mont she ca in?
"Do you?" Cillian let her look, her gaze lingering for a mont; his voice grew strangely husky.
"You’ve been good this ti. I’ll grant you one request."
Eleanor didn’t like it. If anything, her scalp tingled.
Cillian liked setting traps. Back when Eleanor was naïve—he’d smile, gentle-eyed, ask if she wanted anything, and she’d blurt out, "My papers."
The outco was always the sa: she’d tried to steal her passport more than once and escape. That single question confird her intent, and the aftermath was hellish.
She skipped a week of university exams.
The instructor suspected she’d gone missing and called Mrs. Grant. Only then did Cillian let her off the hook.
"No requests."
Cillian paused, seeming a touch disappointed. Lifting her chin, eting her gaze, "Phoebe’s wedding date is set—ninth of December. Mother’s giving her three percent of Grant Group’s stocks as dowry, three villas in Soldane Province, twenty-six apartnts, untold gold, silver, jade. She’s your age... you really want nothing?"
Eleanor watched his expression, analyzing his intent at lightning speed.
Listing Phoebe Grant’s rich dowry—a warning that Grant Family took the wedding seriously; a signal to not cause trouble.
Bringing up her age—reminding her it’s ti she married. Eleanor thought of Mr. Bolton’s one hundred million—that kind of investnt must want swift returns.
But outwardly she knew nothing of the money—if she showed eagerness for marriage, Cillian’s sharp eye would catch sothing off.
Eleanor clenched her fist. She couldn’t ignore the question either. "Nothing I want."
The topic had shifted—she got an idea. "I’m still not well enough for marriage. Better wait for Mr. Bolton’s opinion."
Cillian’s brows drew together; Eleanor’s heart skipped. "What is it?"
Cillian touched her cheek, his palm dry and warm, calluses dragging lightly, a barely detectable restraint.
"Mr. Bolton was in a car accident. He can’t co for now."
Eleanor’s heart jolted: she forced herself to keep it together. "How—when did it happen?"
"This morning on the way to the airport—twelve-car pileup on the river bridge. His car was last. He’s unconscious."
Eleanor quickly schooled her expression, putting on an anxious sympathy. "Was he badly hurt? Did the doctors say when he’ll wake?"
Cillian gave her a long look. "You care about him a lot?" He paused, then answered himself, "You’ve always had that soft spot."
Eleanor didn’t respond. In truth, for Mr. Bolton’s accident, she was supposed to feel pity, but underneath was mostly joy—relief at dodging another disaster.
Cillian had more to say, but just then a servant knocked on the door. "Young master, madam is calling you to dinner."
.........
Eleanor spent the entire al in heavy silence.
Phoebe Grant teased her at the table, but Eleanor gave no reaction at all. As soon as it ended, she rushed upstairs.
Mr. Bolton, the hardest obstacle, was unexpectedly bypassed.
But Grant Family had wealth and power. Phoebe Grant’s pregnancy mattered most. Without Mr. Bolton, there’d be Mr. Chase, or Mr. Lynch...
Who knows—another might turn up tomorrow.
Eleanor knew her luck wouldn’t hold forever. She had to quickly find a way out—a thod that wouldn’t get her caught halfway, wouldn’t let them catch her in the end.
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