Love Rents A Room
Chapter 170: She Held Her Chin up

Chapter 170: She Held Her Chin up

The invite belonged to the one who carried the Winchester blood, even though that invite was handed to her by Philip. She would have been happy to carry if for Jeffrey if he was open with her but Joanne wanted to tell Jeffrey that she knew.

Jeffrey paused, confusion flickering in his eyes. Then he saw it—the name, the crest, the unmistakable seal. And then, more startling than any of that, he saw her face.

That look in her eyes.

Calm. Certain. Quietly knowing.

No accusations. No fury. Just this: I know.

A cold ripple moved through him, slow and sharp.

She knew. She had known.

How long had she carried that knowledge in silence?

And yet, she’d said nothing—not then, not now. She held the envelope out to him not to expose him, not to shame him, but to acknowledge him. To tell him, I see you. I’ve always seen you. And I’m still here.

He could see it. How her reaction contrasted with his reaction when he learned who she was! He almost got her killed, and yet, here she was, with quiet understanding.

He took it from her hands as though it were far heavier than it looked.

"Joanne..." he started, voice low, uncertain. His heart sank. His hands trembled.

But she only smiled—a small, soft curve of her lips that held more grace than he deserved.

"Let’s go," she said gently. "We don’t want to block the way."

She was about to open the door, with her chin lifted, every inch the queen the world refused to expect. Even if her invisible crown felt like it might be shattering under the weight of everything she couldn’t say.

What else could she do? Break down? Cause a scene?

No, that was not her.

She was carrying trust now—not just Jeffrey’s, but Philip Winchester’s. Philip had given her that invitation. He had trusted her to represent his family. She would not let him down.

Jeffrey moved to follow, but paused as his hand reached for the car door.

"Wait," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "Let them open it for you."

Joanne blinked, then nodded. She had forgotten—where she came from, she opened her own doors. Here, everything came with ceremony and eyes that never looked away.

And so, she waited.

Not for validation. Not for approval.

But because this was a world she’d been invited into.

When in Rome, do as the Romans do.

The doorman in his pressed uniform stepped forward swiftly, pulling the car door open with the kind of precise grace that only years of repetition and training could produce. Joanne offered a small nod in thanks, a quiet smile brushing her lips.

As she stepped out, the cameras nearby flicked once, twice—low, respectful, but always watching. Her heels met the ground like punctuation marks. Even the air seemed to pause to acknowledge her entrance.

Jeffrey followed a beat behind. He was watching her—not with possession, but with awe. That woman, with so much pain she didn’t speak of, so much truth she chose not to throw at him... she was walking forward like she belonged here. Not because the world told her she did, but because she decided to.

But she stopped. Let him walk in the front.

Their escort, a Wimbledon representative in a tailored navy suit with silver embroidery on the lapel, welcomed them quietly and led them along a special path cordoned off from the general crowd. The light breeze toyed with the loose ends of Joanne’s curls as she walked past hedges pruned to perfection and white fences lined with flowers in full bloom.

Tennis legends from decades past were etched into marble along the corridor. Their names whispered legacies. Joanne’s heels clicked in elegant defiance, as if daring history to make space for a new kind of presence.

Then came the staircase—red-carpeted and discreetly guarded—leading to the most exclusive balcony in Wimbledon: The Royal Box.

The usher motioned for them to ascend. The rest of the crowd parted like water.

Joanne’s heart pounded. She was never before treated this way. It was unnerving. Without knowing, she had bowed her head.

"Chin up, Jo..."

Jeffrey gently placed his hand on Joanne’s lower back as he walked, brushing her shoulder. She wasn’t supposed to walk behind him, always by his side. She didn’t flinch this time at his touch. He noticed.

Joanne was glad he was by her side. Although resentment was simmering in the deeper part of her heart, her love for him was strong enough to extinguish the flames. She knew he loved her too.

Inside, the Royal Box was more refined than opulent—tastefully decorated, exuding authority without extravagance. Velvet green seats, gold embroidery, polished oak trims. A crystal decanter gleamed under the midday sun, flanked by servers in white gloves. T

The dignitaries seated within exchanged glances, some curious, some surprised. One woman, lowered her sunglasses and tilted just so, leaned to whisper something to the man beside her, her eyes flicking to Joanne.

Joanne, unbothered, held her poise. Her lips didn’t tremble. Her gaze didn’t waver.

If they knew who she was, or rather who she wasn’t, they didn’t show it.

Philip Winchester’s seat stood empty.

Jeffrey hesitated before it—an old, familiar space that now felt strange, heavier somehow. He had dreamt of returning to this place, to this legacy, for so long. And yet, standing before it now, something gnawed at him. Guilt. Fear. The weight of truths he hadn’t yet spoken.

Joanne looked up at him, her expression calm but certain. A small nod.

That was all he needed.

He stepped forward and took the seat that was meant for her. The invitation—Philip’s trust—he slid it into his breast pocket like one seals away an old truth that can no longer be denied.

Joanne sat beside him without hesitation. She was proud. He belonged here.

He was a Winchester. And he should be respected as one.

The match hadn’t begun yet. The arena buzzed quietly with anticipation.

But across the box, more than one pair of eyes had turned to them.

One of them, a silver-haired man with hawk-like precision, leaned toward his assistant and murmured, "That’s her, isn’t it?"

A second voice, rasped by age and smoke, answered from the shadows behind: "Yes. And it looks like the Winchester boy has returned to the fold. Philip does favor him."

But the silver-haired man’s gaze sharpened, cutting through the distance like a blade. There was no warmth in his stare. Only retribution. Jeffrey had cost him too much. And debts like that demanded repayment.

Another gaze lingered—venomous, silent.

Heather.

Her fingers clenched her designer purse like it was a weapon. That should have been her place. She had walked these halls. Sat in that seat. Worn the name, if not the crown. Now, a girl from nowhere, with rough hands and a proud spine, was sitting where she belonged?

Unacceptable.

Joanne, for her part, heard none of it. But she felt it—the weight, the eyes, the invisible current of judgment in the air. Her back tensed. Her spine lengthened.

Jeffrey, sensing it, gently placed a hand on her back in silent support.

She sat taller. Chin up. Composed. She had long learned how to fight battles in silence—long before she ever picked up a gun.

The royal procession began. A gentle stir moved through the box as the monarchy entered with quiet grace, their presence elevating everything in the room.

The match began.

Joanne, ever the learner, pretended to understand the rules. She’d read about the game. Watched videos. None of it stuck. But she followed the ball with intent, hiding her confusion behind sleek sunglasses and a serene smile.

Then, beside her, movement.

A woman leaned forward, asking to exchange seats with the woman next to Joanne.

Joanne turned slightly, curious.