Love Rents A Room
Chapter 134: Surprise Help

Chapter 134: Surprise Help

Jonathan wasn’t sure why, but a deep unease coiled in his gut—an instinct, raw and unshakable.

His mind drifted to a fleeting encounter, a man he had met only once, yet one who left an indelible impression.

Philip Winchester.

That old man, with his quiet but undeniable presence, his sheer power humming beneath the surface like a storm waiting to strike. Jonathan had sensed it then—this was not a man to cross.

And now, Joanne had been hurt.

He didn’t doubt it for a second. Philip Winchester would not take this lightly.

Neither would he.

Whoever dared to lay their hands on Joanne, whoever thought they could hurt her and walk away unscathed, had just signed a contract with the devil.

And if they had help? If this was orchestrated?

Then every last one of them needed to be dealt with. Ruthlessly.

Jonathan exhaled, forcing himself to focus. His fury could wait—he needed answers first.

He glanced down at Charlotte, still trembling, her tiny hand clutching his.

His little girl—so much like her mother. Sensitive, kind-hearted. Too young to understand the depths of human cruelty.

But she was brave.

"Charlotte," he knelt to her level, his grip firm but gentle. "If you can be strong for Joanne, you can come with me."

She wiped at her puffy eyes with the sleeve of her shirt, sniffling as she tried to compose herself. She nodded, her small fingers tightening around his hand.

She didn’t want to be alone.

She didn’t want to be left in the dark.

Most of all... she wanted to know if Joanne was safe.

Jonathan rose, taking her hand in his own, and without another word, led her towards the security room.

If the answers weren’t in the crowd, they were behind those screens.

The security room was already in chaos.

Liam stood his ground, his wife at his side, demanding access to the footage. His voice was cold, controlled—but the undercurrent of fury was unmistakable.

They had every right to be here.

The hallway leading to the ladies’ room was well-monitored. Somewhere in those recordings was the truth. Proof.

And if the truth wasn’t secured now, Joanne would never get the justice she deserved.

Jonathan had come here for the same reason.

He paused at the entrance, a smirk curving his lips as he took in the scene—the way the officers were deliberately trying to push Liam and Fiona out.

"It was Tom," Fiona said, her voice shaking but resolute. "He was asking help from the congressman. I’m sure he hurt Joanne."

Jonathan’s gaze sharpened.

Of course. That bastard couldn’t keep his hands to himself. He thought he had a great backup and dared to do such a despicable thing.

The officer blocking the screen kept his stance firm, hiding his emotions. "Ma’am, you need to step away from the footage."

"Only if you move," another officer said, "we can handle the investigation properly."

Fiona didn’t budge. "You mean erase the evidence."

Liam stepped closer, his presence suffocating, his fists clenched at his sides. "We’ll do this together," he said, his voice eerily calm. "I’ll record it myself. Best to have spare copies, right?"

His pulse thundered. His brother had sworn on their father’s grave. Liam had believed him. Like a fool.

His blood boiled at his own stupidity.

Tom had lied. And Joanne had paid the price for it.

Never again.

Jonathan pulled out his phone. If Tom had connections, so did he.

He wasn’t a fool, for he knew what kind of power moved behind the scenes in this town. He knew men like these officers weren’t acting on their own. They answered to someone.

And yet...

When Jonathan made a call, people answered. He was a blue-blood. He had his connections. He rarely used them, but for Joanne...

The moment the officers noticed Jonathan, their postures stiffened. Their grip on control had just slipped. Their face paled seeing Jonathan talking to someone.

"Sir, you should not be here," the cops tried to reason with Jonathan.

"Why not? Today it is Joanne Smith getting assaulted in a public restroom. Tomorrow, it could be some other woman. I have a daughter. It’s my duty to keep this town safe for her."

The cops gulped not knowing what to do or say.

Liam scrolled through the footage, ignoring their tension, his fingers flying over the controls. And then, he found it.

The screen flickered—grainy, black and white, but clear enough.

Tom Sullivan. Entering the ladies’ room. A baseball bat in his hand.

Liam’s heart pounded.

That bastard.

He pulled out his phone and started recording.

One of the cops stepped forward, a hand outstretched. "Sir, you can’t record that. It’s evidence and you’re tampering with it."

"Tampering?" Liam scoffed, his grip tightening around his phone. "I’m securing it."

The officer’s voice hardened. "Sir, stop recording. Now."

Liam didn’t.

A second officer reached for his holster. "Sir, raise your hands."

The temperature in the room plunged.

Fiona’s breath hitched. They were escalating this.

Jonathan moved first.

He smoothly stepped between them, his posture relaxed—but his eyes, sharp as a knife.

"Look here," he said.

The officer turned, and Jonathan snapped a picture of their faces, their badges, everything.

The shift was instant.

They knew what that meant.

Then, Jonathan spoke—calm, confident. Deadly.

"You’re about to receive a call."

Liam’s phone buzzed in his hand. The footage was secure.

He lowered his arms, slipping his phone into his pocket as he felt Fiona’s trembling fingers thread through his.

Jonathan had been right.

The officer’s radio crackled. A voice on the other end. A quiet order.

And just like that, their weapons lowered.

The tension didn’t break, it only shifted. Now, the cops looked at Jonathan.

Jonathan merely smiled. "I’ll be taking a copy of that footage as well."

The officers gave the barest nod. Reluctant. Furious. Trapped.

Jonathan turned to leave, keeping Charlotte close as Liam and Fiona followed.

Only when they were out did Jonathan pause, casting one last glance back.

"I’d reconsider my loyalties if I were you," he murmured.

The officers flinched.

Then, Jonathan walked away, his daughter’s small fingers curled around his.

Liam inhaled deeply, feeling the weight of Fiona’s hand in his. The fight wasn’t over. He was curious why Jonathan offered a timely help considering... everything.

But first...

Tom.

That bastard was trying to leave the country.

And that?

That was never going to happen.

-----

Jeffrey rushed toward the ER doctor, his breath ragged, his pulse hammering in his ears. His entire body felt wired, strung so tight it might snap.

"Is she awake?" His voice cracked. He barely recognized it.

The doctor let out a long, measured breath, his expression carefully composed in the way only those accustomed to delivering devastating news could manage.

"Mr. Daniels," he began, his tone grave, "your wife has suffered a skull fracture. There’s swelling in her brain. The laceration on her head is deep—it requires stitches. We’re preparing to take her into surgery." He hesitated, then added, "We won’t know more until after the procedure."

The words slammed into Jeffrey like a physical blow.

Skull fracture. Swelling. Surgery.

His stomach twisted violently, and for a second, he swayed on his feet. The ground beneath him no longer felt solid.

Surgery.

That meant it was serious. That meant she was in danger. That meant—

His breathing hitched. He gripped the nearest wall, his fingers digging into the cold surface as if anchoring himself to reality.

Joanne. His Jo.

"Mr. Daniels," the doctor pressed, pulling him from the abyss of his thoughts. "We need your consent."

Consent.

As if there was even a choice.

His jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists. His only choice was her.

"Do it," he rasped, his voice barely above a whisper. "Do whatever it takes. Just... just save her."

The doctor nodded and turned away, already moving. The urgency in his stride sent another fresh wave of fear crashing through Jeffrey’s chest.

He wanted to follow. Wanted to hold her hand. Wanted to scream at God to not take her away from him.

But all he could do was stand there—helpless, useless—as the woman he loved was wheeled into the unknown.

Please, Jo.

Please, come back to me.