Cillian took a deep breath, suppressing the urge that threatened to detonate inside him. He set her down, stroked her cheek, and left without looking back.
Eleanor listened to his footsteps fade away, her body collapsing like silk unwinding, gasping for breath.
Elsewhere, at The Grant Family’s house.
Cillian walked into the living room, carrying with him a chilling, repressed intensity.
Mr. Grant stood up as soon as he saw him, waved his hand, and headed upstairs. "To the study."
It was still before breakfast ti. Mrs. Grant hadn’t gotten up yet. Only a few maids were cleaning the corridor. Cillian didn’t go upstairs right away; instead, he went to the kitchen. Auntie King was holding a morning eting for the two new chefs.
She was saying, "—The eldest miss has gone abroad, and Miss Eleanor is—no longer at The Grant Family, so for today’s breakfast, just prepare portions for Mr. and Mrs. Grant and the young master."
At the door, one chef suddenly bowed in greeting, "Young master."
At the sa ti, signaling to Auntie King.
Cillian nodded coolly but with a slightly softer tone to Auntie King. "I won’t be staying ho these days. I can’t get used to eating outside, so please co over to take care of for a while."
Since the employer had spoken, Auntie King didn’t dare refuse outright. She hesitated, tactfully saying, "But the madam—"
"I’ll talk to her."
After the man left, the two new chefs let out a sigh of relief at the sa ti. "Ms. King really is sothing. Chase said the young master never shows favor to anyone—except for you and the butler, it’s different."
Auntie King’s smile was stiff. The butler is the butler—how is she, the one in charge of the kitchen, any different.
The Grant Family really did treat her differently—she’d watched those kids grow up, seen them get chased off rcilessly.
.........
The study lamp cast a pool of light. Mr. Grant stood in front of the bookshelf, a book in hand.
When Cillian entered, he didn’t speak, simply sat on a single sofa near the shelves.
"What’s going on at the hunting club?" Mr. Grant didn’t look up, flipping a page. "Phoebe told not only are you the boss behind the scenes—but you’re famous there, everyone knows your shooting is precise, your skills strong, you keep a group of rcenaries to play war gas with you."
Cillian leaned back into the chair. "Work is stressful. It’s how I let off steam."
Mr. Grant snapped the book shut and put it back on the shelf. "You might get away with that line with your mother, but don’t try excuses with ."
"Father, do you want a detailed report on my personal stress managent?"
Mr. Grant sat across from him, scrutinizing him intently. "After I got back, your mother was in tears—her own child, whom she raised, has built an invisible wall—rejecting her approach, guarding against her concern, leaving only a façade of respect."
"A son grown avoids his mother." Cillian remained calm. "I’m nearly thirty. Does Father wish for to cling to Mother’s side and beg for affection?"
Mr. Grant narrowed his eyes.
Out in the world, everyone envied that he had a successor—a brilliant son who’d brought Grant Group to its peak. Yet inside the ho, it was a loss of control. The fledgling hawk in the nest had grown; the bonds of the cage no longer sufficed.
He backed down a little. "Your mother is hurt by how forceful you were over Eleanor’s marriage. Even if it’s for Grant Group, be more mindful in the future."
Cillian crossed his legs, resting a hand on his thigh. "Eleanor is no longer part of The Grant Family. Mother doesn’t need to concern herself with her marriage from now on."
"On this, I disagree." Mr. Grant’s tone hardened. "After more than twenty years, you send her away just as you’re pushing for The Xavier Family, and with such force. How do you think outsiders will judge us? What are they going to presu about The Grant Family?"
Cillian half-closed his eyes. "No need for outsiders—Mother is already imagining all sorts of things. I sent her away for Mother’s peace of mind."
"And what about the hundred million you gave Ivan Bolton?"
The showdown was here. Cillian’s face grew ugly.
"And you hired Mayo’s neurology team for Ivan Bolton," Mr. Grant pressed, driving the point ho. "All to cure Eleanor’s infertility."
For a long ti, the study was silent.
Father and son stared at each other. As Mr. Grant’s expression grew darker, Cillian suddenly smiled.
When the trace of a smile faded, he said, "Father, you’re right. I do want her cured badly, and as for her marriage—I’d rather no one interfere."
Outside the door, Mrs. Grant covered her mouth—her other hand clenched on the handle—almost petrified.
Inside, Mr. Grant asked, "Then is your mother just imagining things?"
"What does Father think?" Cillian replied. "Does Father believe I’d get involved with Eleanor, even go as far as cure her infertility—just so she’d bear my child?"
Mr. Grant was stunned.
Truthfully, when Mrs. Grant cried her heart out before, Mr. Grant had believed it—sowhat.
But now, pressed by the son’s rhetorical question, he woke up. Whatever Cillian might do—he wouldn’t get reckless over bloodlines and heirs.
A thing all harm and no benefit—surely he wouldn’t actually marry Eleanor.
"Your mother is just a little too concerned—I’ll help reassure her. As for Eleanor, she can’t disappear at a sensitive mont like this. I’ll have soone bring her back. Since you all won’t have her here, then she’ll be arranged a marriage far away. No need to damage our family’s harmony because of her."
Having finished, Mr. Grant took the lead leaving, putting an arm around Mrs. Grant, softly calming her as they went downstairs.
Breakfast was already on the dining table. Cillian followed behind and sat down after them.
Mrs. Grant saw he’d barely touched the corn sandwich—just drank a cup of coffee and nibbled so bacon. "Cillian, why aren’t you eating the main course?"
Cillian: "I don’t like corn."
Mrs. Grant was shocked. "Since when did you change your taste?"
"Yesterday."
The abruptness of it, with a specific ti—even Mrs. Grant found it odd.
But Mr. Grant had just said she was getting overworried, so she tried not to overreact. She instructed Auntie King to replace Cillian’s Western breakfast with the sa Chinese breakfast as theirs.
.........
Damon Sharp felt like he was dood.
If he didn’t let Eleanor go out, he had to buy won’s personal essentials for her instead—sanitary pads, sothing as dangerous as forbidden contraband.
If he did let Eleanor out, he’d be disobeying a direct order from his boss—if anything happened to her on the way, he’d be skinned alive, if not killed.
"Maybe you should order a runner on your phone?"
Eleanor looked at him, torn.
Damon’s eyes dropped to her unchanged clothes. "Don’t you want to change?"
"I washed them," Eleanor said.
Damon was confused. "Don’t you need to change clothes?"
Eleanor was puzzled too. "But I can’t exactly touch anything here, can I?"
Damon had been at Cillian’s side for four years—perfect at reading between the lines of his silent, to-the-point orders. A master of comprehension—never any misunderstanding.
"This apartnt was a gift from Mr. Grant to you." Damon regretted his earlier indirectness. "The master bedroom already has all your clothes and essentials prepared."
Eleanor felt as if lightning had struck her.
Seeing her expression, Damon quickly switched gears and offered evidence: "The property deed is in the master bedroom’s study. If you don’t believe it, you can check yourself."
In a daze, Eleanor closed the door, examined the property certificate, then toured the master bedroom.
The curtains, bedding, and carpet—all the interior touches, as long as they didn’t interfere with the design, were as similar as possible to the ho she’d shared with him for four years in The North.
She ca back out and stood at the edge of the carpet in the living room, staring at the twisting peony pattern and the agapanthus on the balcony. She’d imagined the one to defeat Cillian would be a hero—yet after everything, it turned out to be herself.
A chill ran over Eleanor.
What exactly does Cillian want?
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