Cillian Grant, "Have you seen Damon Sharp?"
Since early yesterday morning, Damon Sharp had been lurking around like he was newly employed by the property managent, stationed at the front desk in the lobby. Eleanor knew he was surveilling her, but with so many thoughts in her mind just now, she hadn’t noticed.
"..." Eleanor hesitated for a mont, then spoke truthfully, "I didn’t see him."
Cillian Grant’s expression was calm yet sharp, "I sent him away yesterday."
Eleanor was suddenly stunned. What does this an? Removing the surveillance—was this a move to entrap her or was he genuinely planning not to keep her under house arrest?
At the sa ti, Eleanor realized belatedly that Cillian Grant seed to have misunderstood her taking out the garbage as so reconnaissance effort.
Eleanor’s heart dropped, and she lowered her eyes, "Can I go to work then?"
Cillian Grant stared at the swirl of hair on her head for a few seconds, then suddenly laughed, "Others work hard to make a living. Why do you work hard? To earn enough for Cecilia Byron, that second daughter, to go on a vacation to the Maldives?"
The mood was unpredictable and sarcastic.
Eleanor stepped aside from the entrance, "Then I won’t go."
For a long ti, she didn’t see him leaving.
Eleanor looked up at him again, only to find him wearing just a shirt, with casual cotton pants, muscle and bone broad and strong under the dim yellow light by the entryway, more laid-back and relaxed compared to his usual stern deanor when heading to work,
"Aren’t you going to work today?"
Cillian’s tone was impatient, cold and heavy, directly exposing her, "You don’t want at ho."
Eleanor wasn’t planning to provoke him when their relationship was already tense, "Didn’t you say you’re really busy with matters concerning The Xavier Family?"
"The matters of The Xavier Family are for Liam Xavier to handle. I’m not his father; I won’t protect him hand in hand."
Eleanor smirked internally, clearly taking advantage of the situation to take over their family assets, ending up caught in a ss, entangling himself; yet he presents it as if he’s standing side by side with them through stormy waters.
She had nothing to say.
Walking past him into the living room, she saw Auntie King on the balcony, watering the plants.
Eleanor hesitated for a few seconds, then walked over.
It was her first ti on the balcony, and she discovered that about half a ter away from the rose trellis, there was also a swinging rattan chair and a small tea table, hinting at the pleasure of swinging and basking in the sun during leisure ti.
But the re existence of this house could not make one feel relaxed and comfortable.
Eleanor withdrew her gaze and picked up the bucket of water not far from Auntie King, pretending to help.
Seeing her co over, Auntie King moved aside to make room for her.
Their shoulders were close together; Auntie King glanced inside through the corner of her eye, where the man sat at the bar, having opened a bottle of energy drink but hadn’t moved for a while.
She waited a little longer, then whispered to Eleanor, "Isn’t the young master going to work?"
Eleanor had just asked this question and shook her head indiscernibly.
Auntie King, having cald down after breakfast, was full of words but couldn’t say anything as long as the man was around. "Isn’t he supposed to be very career-focused and busy?"
When at The Grant Family, he was rarely seen, and if Mrs. Grant asked, it was either on a business trip or in overti etings.
Eleanor had also asked this question, but Cillian Grant’s answer was extrely evasive; she didn’t want to tell Auntie King.
Auntie King glanced inside again; her watering can was empty, and she hadn’t noticed that Eleanor added a few scoops of water. "Is the young master... surveilling you?"
Auntie King was initially fearful of Cillian Grant, and Eleanor’s reaction that morning made her think through, and every guess about the cause and effect was worse than the last.
The real situation might be entirely different from what Mrs. Grant imagined.
Eleanor’s expression beca rigid, her eyes drooping in silence.
Auntie King imdiately felt a pang in her heart, "Mrs. Grant instructed to pay more attention to the young master’s injuries and report daily."
Eleanor held her breath, not blinking as she stared at Auntie King.
Auntie King grasped her wrist, "I think those injuries seem serious; they still need to be properly treated, wrapped in gauze or band-aid, and they should heal in a few days."
Eleanor waited for a long ti without her saying anything else, not even ntioning her situation, and from Auntie King’s expression and gaze, it seed she wouldn’t ntion it to Mrs. Grant either.
Eleanor held her breath for too long, and besides clutching her hand tightly, she couldn’t utter a single word, breathing heavily.
Gratitude, fear, and a deep sense of undeserving mixed into a bitter-sweet and spicy sensation, penetrating her heart and lungs, stinging her to tears.
There was a sudden noise at the entrance; Eleanor turned her back, quickly wiped away her tears, rubbed her face, and then looked towards the hallway.
Damon Sharp stood by the door, and at his signal, a group of people in professional attire entered carrying suitcases.
They headed in the direction of the master bedroom, and soon ca back out, bowing and saying goodbye to Cillian Grant before leaving.
Eleanor was completely confused; after everyone left, she went into the living room.
Auntie King followed her out, imdiately called away by Damon Sharp.
The main door closed, leaving only her and Cillian Grant inside the house.
The man was sitting steadily on a high stool, one foot on the ground, the other on the footrest. The energy drink beside his hand was opened but barely touched.
Eleanor felt that it was most likely untouched.
In everyday life, Cillian Grant didn’t smoke or drink, ate light, while n his age indulged in the world of chaos and temptations, he refrained from those dirty habits.
He restrained himself like a monk living in a shielded, ascetic manner.
To the extent that the inscrutable coldness and asceticism radiating from him were so authentic and solidified that they wouldn’t give anyone a false impression or mismatch.
"Do you need any treatnt for your hand injuries?" Eleanor didn’t actually want to ask a single word.
The last ti with those two bandages and that sentence of wishful thinking made her resolute that if she showed concern for Cillian Grant again, it would an she was a fool.
But now, since the injury beca Auntie King’s performance asure, what Eleanor could do was try to reduce her burden within her capacity.
She might as well bark twice.
"Did Auntie King ask you to inquire?"
Eleanor took a step forward, gradually approaching him, boldly taking his right hand, "Auntie King is honest and kind-hearted; she wouldn’t use to cover her tasks."
Cillian Grant, even when seated, was taller than her, but the height of the high stool was limited, not much taller.
So, their eyes were almost level, close enough to clearly see her curly eyelashes and bright black pupils, extrely focused.
Eleanor cradled his hand, turning it over, spreading and squeezing his fingers.
After several passages, Cillian Grant showed no impatience; instead, she began to suspect he might be sick.
ntally ill.
Specifically manifested in self-harm due to excessive stress and nowhere to release it.
The last ti at the billiard hall, when she gave him a bandage, he only had four scars on his index finger, two on the middle finger, none too deep, within the range a bandage could heal.
Now, looking at his hand, Eleanor only wanted to send him to a hospital.
"Does the cut on your index finger need stitching?"
"I’m not going to the hospital."
Eleanor fell silent.
A few seconds later, seeing that Cillian Grant hadn’t withdrawn his hand, she tested again, "Then—should I apply so ointnt and wrap it with gauze?"
She held her breath, waiting for his reaction.
If Cillian Grant refused again this ti, turned hostile, and scolded her as delusional, Eleanor would definitely walk away and never dean herself again; at most, she’d spend the rest of her life supporting Auntie King.
Cillian Grant gazed at her, the other hand lifting to rest on the bar, enclosing Eleanor in a square inch of space. His dry, warm body heat radiated through his thin shirt, heating and pressing against her, making her restless.
"The bottle of iodine you bought," Cillian Grant suddenly approached her, his breath hitting her cheek, moist and warm, "what was it for?"
Eleanor’s heart skipped a beat; the iodine bottle she bought hadn’t been used, yet it beca a critical flaw.
Without a wound, purchasing iodine was utterly illogical; it couldn’t possibly be because she foresaw an upcoming injury,
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