Love Rents A Room
Chapter 132: In The Midst of Ghouls

Chapter 132: In The Midst of Ghouls

Jeffrey covered her with his suit jacket and snuggly gathered her into his arms, lifting her as if she were the most precious thing in the world—because she was.

The moment he stepped out, the crowd gasped.

The noise of the stadium had dimmed, but this—this was a spectacle. People stared. Murmurs rippled through the sea of faces.

And then...

A flash.

Then another.

Flashes. Phones. Recording.

Jeffrey’s blood boiled.

How dare they?

How dare they turn this into a show?

How could they stand there, gawking, as if Joanne’s pain—his Joanne’s pain—was nothing more than entertainment?

She had loved these people. Treasured them. Given them her time, her dedication, her everything.

And yet, when she was at her most vulnerable—when she needed just one ounce of the kindness she had so freely given—this was what they did?

They stared. Recorded.

As if she were a spectacle.

Was privacy too much to ask? Was basic human decency too much to ask?

Something inside Jeffrey snapped.

"STOP RECORDING!" he roared, his voice a violent storm crashing through the crowd.

People flinched, some lowering their phones in shock. Others hesitated, lingering like vultures feasting on someone else’s tragedy.

Jeffrey’s fury burned through him like wildfire. His body shook—with helplessness, with grief, with the unbearable weight of seeing the woman he loved shattered in his arms.

She had given so much.

To this town.

To these people.

And yet, here she was. Hurt. Alone. Bleeding.

And all they did was watch.

His chest heaved, his grip tightening around her fragile body.

She deserved more than this.

More than their whispers. More than their indifference. More than their goddamn cameras.

"You people are disgusting!" he spat, his voice raw, broken. "Ghouls!"

But his words only seemed to feed them.

Some still held their phones high, recording even now—watching him break, as if they were entitled to his agony.

Rage surged through him like a tidal wave.

"Disgusting!" he roared. "You praise her. You call her the fire of this town. You bask in her warmth. And yet, when she needs you—when she is lying here, bleeding—you do nothing but gawk."

He gritted his teeth, the pain in his chest unbearable.

"You use her. You let her burn bright for you. And then you throw your filth at her." His voice cracked with emotion, his arms tightening protectively around her limp body.

"DISGUSTING! DISGUSTING!"

But none of it mattered.

Not a single word mattered.

These people—these demons—would never care.

They would take and take and take until she had nothing left to give.

No more.

Jeffrey turned away, his jaw clenched, his mind already shutting them all out.

The only thing that mattered now... Was her.

With long, determined strides, he carried Joanne away.

Away from their cruelty.

Away from their callousness.

Away—to safety.

Liam had long abandoned the announcer’s booth after ensuring Fiona was safe. The crowd was too thick, an ocean of bodies pressing in, making it nearly impossible for him to reach Jeffrey.

But even from a distance, he saw it.

Blood.

Joanne’s face, her dress—soaked in it. Deep red drops still trickled from her wounds, staining the floor beneath Jeffrey’s hurried steps.

And the crowd?

They stomped over it. Over her blood.

Like it was nothing. Like it was dirt beneath their feet.

Liam’s stomach twisted with disgust, his fingers itching toward his holster. A sharp, violent urge rose in him—he wanted to fire a shot into the air, scatter the parasites, make them remember what fear felt like. How dare they? How dare they treat Joanne—Joanne of all people—like this?

Then came Jeffrey’s outburst.

Liam stopped, his breath catching as he watched.

Fury poured from Jeffrey like a tidal wave, raw and merciless, his voice thundering over the murmuring crowd. Liam could feel his pain in every word, in every desperate plea for Joanne’s dignity, for her humanity.

His heart clenched.

He had worried for Joanne because of who she had chosen to love.

Philip Winchester himself had come to his house, asking him to keep an eye on Jeffrey. It made Liam wonder what kind of man must Jeffrey be, for his own grandfather to fear him?

But now...

Now, he saw it.

Jeffrey truly, deeply, irrevocably loved Joanne.

Otherwise, who else would stand before a sea of scavengers, raging against their cruelty? Who else would beg for privacy in a world that thrived on exploiting pain?

Liam clenched his fists.

None of these people mattered. They were insects, leeches. They didn’t deserve a second thought.

But one person in this crowd did.

One person, Liam knew, had to be here.

Because culprits always return to the scene.

His sharp gaze scanned the faces around him, dissecting each one, searching for the one who would be watching—not with concern, but with satisfaction.

Then, amidst the shifting bodies, he saw it... A shadow darting away... That person running in the opposite direction.

Tom.

Liam’s entire body went rigid.

He recognized his brother by the way his head tilted when he ran, by the hunch in his shoulders—a posture of guilt.

A posture of a coward.

His blood turned ice cold.

Without hesitation, Liam turned to Fiona. He grasped her shoulders, his expression dark. "Stay here. Don’t move."

She looked up at him, confused, but she heard something in his voice, something dangerous.

"Liam~"

"I’ll be back." He pressed a quick kiss to her forehead before turning away. His gun was already drawn.

Fiona’s heart pounded as she watched him disappear into the crowd. But she couldn’t stay still.

Her instincts screamed at her. Something was wrong.

And when she saw Liam stalking after a man—his own brother—she followed.

Tom moved fast, slipping into the parking lot, shoving his hands into his pockets like a man trying to act normal.

But Liam was faster.

Tom had barely yanked open his car door when...

Click.

The cold barrel of a gun pressed to his temple.

The safety turned off.

Tom froze.

"What did you do to Joanne?" Liam’s voice was death itself.

Tom’s entire body went stiff, but he fought to keep his face blank. "Why would I do anything to her?" he asked, feigning ignorance.

But Liam wasn’t fooled.

"You piece of sh*t!" Liam snarled, grabbing Tom’s wrist—his right wrist. He twisted it, forcing Tom’s fingers into an unnatural position. His pinky bent outward at an odd, crooked angle.

The same pinky Liam had broken years ago.

A warning Tom had ignored.

"Was this not enough?" Liam growled, his fingers digging into the old wound.

Tom’s face twisted with pain, but he refused to let it show.

Memories crashed into him—memories of a younger Joanne, trembling in fear, of Liam’s fury that night, of the moment his own brother had shattered his bone to protect her.

Liam had thought it was enough.

But it wasn’t.

Because Tom never learned.

"I would never..." Tom said, his breath unsteady. "I swear on our father’s grave, Liam. I didn’t touch her."

Silence.

A long, suffocating silence.

Liam stared into Tom’s eyes, searching for the lie.

Tom held his gaze. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

Liam wanted to believe him.

But he knew Tom.

And Tom knew how to lie.

"I hope you’re not lying," Liam said coldly, releasing his wrist. He turned on his heel and walked away, his rage still burning but contained—for now.

Tom exhaled sharply, his knees nearly buckling.

His hand trembled as he reached for his chest, patting it, trying to calm the wild beating of his heart.

That was too close.

Too damn close.

He needed to leave. Now.

He glanced back at the stadium, at the place where his life had started falling apart.

That b*tch.

Joanne.

Even bleeding on the floor, she was still ruining him.

He needed to escape this country.

Because if he didn’t...

He wouldn’t survive.

He needed to make a phone call.