"Aren’t we supposed to eat?"
Cillian Grant put away the suitcase, "Dragging your feet, waiting for Damian Sinclair?"
Here we go again.
Eleanor’s face stiffened, "Why would I wait for him? You’ve already warned —he’s your brother-in-law. If getting back into The Grant Family depends on it, I’ll keep my distance from him."
The man opened the passenger door, braced himself against the fra, and stared at her without moving.
"Draw a clear line."
His gaze was still coercive, piercing, but no longer had the ferocity of soone about to devour her alive.
Deep down, Eleanor was annoyed. This clumsy probing felt more like coddling him. "We won’t et, we won’t talk. If he’s here, I’ll leave; if he leaves, I’ll stay."
She actually ought to do just that.
Damian Sinclair was responsible, fond of children. Back during their teens, romance novels were wildly popular; the leads were either from orphanages or volunteered there.
Just at that ti, they followed trends. With money and goodwill to spare, they fancied themselves as dazzling as the protagonists.
But reality is always dull. Real orphanages weren’t filled with children’s bell-like laughter, or little angels brimming with energy.
The buildings were old and the basic facilities functional at best.
For easier managent, all children under five—regardless of gender—got the sa haircut and wore similar clothes.
Each little face, eyes wary, nervous, unsociable, movents timid.
A bunch of heirs, raised in luxury, lost interest after one or two visits.
Only Damian Sinclair persisted.
Soldane Province had twenty-one orphanages—new buildings, new daily support, new managent. From the mont he walked in and his smile vanished, it really began.
So even without that letter, Eleanor knew—the mont Phoebe Grant got pregnant, it was Damian’s answer of farewell.
Eleanor had said goodbye four years ago; this ti she got to take the lead and sever things completely.
She didn’t want his effort, nor his support.
That’s all.
Like two parallel lines, heading onward in this life.
Never to intersect.
Cillian Grant’s expression remained clouded, but his gaze softened. "He threatened —if I push you any further, he’ll take us both down."
Eleanor stared at him for a few seconds, sensing the clever choice of words.
If he pushes her, Damian Sinclair will go down with him.
Or, that she will.
She guessed it was the latter; Damian Sinclair wouldn’t say such extre things as the forr.
"Hardly taking you both down—most likely just eggs against stones."
She replied just as shrewdly; no subject, leaving it to his interpretation.
Cillian paused for a few seconds, his face softening, and tapped the car door. "Get in. Don’t make invite you."
Eleanor didn’t trust him, reluctant to move, scrambling for excuses.
The man’s eyes grew dangerous again, when Elaine White ran over, breathless. "Is your phone on silent? I called so many tis the operator’s about to call a slavish idiot, why won’t you check even once?"
Eleanor steadied her and walked toward the back of the car. "I was too focused, didn’t notice."
She flipped open the trunk; Elaine instantly grabbed the luggage.
Perfect sync, quick getaway.
Cillian Grant didn’t even stop them. Eleanor sensed his gaze fixed on her back—can’t quite call it cold, but it carried a spine-chilling undertone.
Eleanor breathed a silent sigh of relief.
This asshole really was about to take her to the hospital for tests.
Cillian Grant watched Elaine White’s rcedes taillights vanish at the exit. The smile at the bottom of his eyes was snuffed out.
It left only limitless mockery and icy detachnt.
He called up Mr. Grant. "I told Aaron Chase to pick up four bottles of vintage from the west-side cellar. You and Sinclair can get drunk tonight. I’ll cover for you with Mother."
Mr. Grant chuckled, "What’s the catch?"
"Tie up the Sterling Sinclair alliance for good."
Mr. Grant caught on instantly, "You an Phoebe’s marriage?"
"Have it at the end of this month. If her belly gets any bigger, the wedding dress won’t look good."
Mr. Grant didn’t buy the excuse, "You’ve never cared about won’s clothes. Tell the truth."
Cillian Grant started the car; with the engine’s roar, he chuckled softly, "I think a big belly makes a wedding dress risky—that’s the truth. Of course, maybe I just want to stir things up with Liam Xavier. Will you drink the wine?"
Mr. Grant seed to be thinking, a touch hesitant.
Cillian Grant pulled out of the parking garage. "If you aren’t drinking, I’ll call Aaron back."
Mr. Grant, "No need, it’s minor. Happy to cooperate."
Cillian hung up.
The green light ca on. The car rolled into the intersection; golden sunlight filtered through skyscrapers, cross-lit the scene, through the window, illuminating the taunting sneer at his lips.
............
The next morning, as Eleanor got up and washed, she noticed the bleeding had decreased again.
She gently touched her lower abdon—the dry, wooden ache had almost faded.
A ripple of relief inside; looking up, she saw the woman in the mirror wearing a smile, and her nearly rusted eyes shining with moisture.
At breakfast, Phoebe Grant was even more jubilant, positively giddy.
"My wedding just got moved up—only twenty-so days left. Dress, rings, the guest list, all have to get moving—can we handle it?"
Eleanor paused, perplexed.
Phoebe went on, "And Damian still has to fly to Afreia in the anti. When it’s ti for wedding rehearsal, he won’t even be there."
This ti Eleanor understood—Damian Sinclair and Phoebe Grant’s planned post-New Year wedding was now set for the end of the month.
Cillian Grant sat diagonally opposite, lifted his eyelids, glanced at Eleanor, saw her chopsticks pause, then lower her head and continue eating.
Daylight poured in outside, the dining room bright as a theater; her profile soaked in light, porcelain and delicate, beautiful and petite, neither tense nor grieving.
No trace of anger or regret, just the calm after the storm—a matter already past.
"Cillian?" Mrs. Grant raised her voice. "Cillian, what are you thinking? Phoebe called you several tis."
"What is it?" The man’s tone was surprisingly gentle.
Phoebe picked up on it, even happier. "Brother, you can’t bear to see go, right? But I’m almost twenty-three—it’s exactly the right age for marriage. I’ll visit often, so you won’t miss too much. So hurry up—give it to ."
Cillian picked up a shaomai. "Give you what?"
"The jade." Phoebe Grant set down her chopsticks, sketching a big circle in the air. "That ti you went to Indigo Province for work—you bought a piece of old mine glass jade at The Xavier Family’s Jade House for and Mom. Isn’t that my wedding gift? Brother, give it to now, so I can have jewelry made in ti and wear it on my wedding day."
"Who said that was for your wedding gift?" Cillian Grant bit into the shaomai, but before swallowing, frowned and set it aside.
Phoebe was startled. "If not for , then who?"
Cillian’s Adam’s apple bobbed; he didn’t answer.
Phoebe scanned the table. "Is it for Mom, then?"
Mrs. Grant shook her head with a smile, "If it was for , he’d have given it to already."
Mr. Grant, seated at the head, suddenly looked up to scrutinize Cillian, his expression inscrutable—neither joy nor anger, just a depth that made your spine crawl.
His gaze flickered to Eleanor, then back. "That ti, why didn’t you give Eleanor a gift?"
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