Love Rents A Room
Chapter 171: The Change In Him

Chapter 171: The Change In Him

The woman was dressed with effortless grace—too perfectly poised for someone simply asking to swap seats. Her eyes flicked toward Joanne, not unkind, but far too curious. Too calculated. Like a chess master considering her next move.

She ignored everyone else. And they, in turn, looked at her with a quiet reverence that spoke volumes. Though she was disrupting the order of the royal box, no one dared to correct her. She carried herself with the sort of dignity that made space without asking for it.

Something had shifted.

And Joanne felt it in her bones.

There was something familiar about her—her face, her bearing. Had she seen her in a magazine? An interview? A red carpet event? Joanne couldn’t place it.

The woman finally settled into the seat beside her. "Hello, there..." she said, as if just now noticing Joanne, despite her clearly orchestrated maneuver to sit right next to her.

Joanne blinked. So she had come here deliberately. But even so, her poise was disarming—her meticulously styled hair, her pristine outfit, her voice—soft yet commanding. A woman born and raised in power. She wore no wedding band. Unmarried, then.

"Everyone’s curious about you, Miss," the woman said with a graceful smile. Even her curiosity was elegant.

Joanne matched it with a polite one of her own. "Hello, I’m Joanne Smith from—"

"Smith?" the woman interjected with a raised brow. "From...?"

Joanne hesitated. That was what she had been about to say. But the woman’s tone made it sound like she was parsing each word for deeper meaning. There was a restrained impatience beneath the surface, masked by impeccable manners. Curiosity that wanted to pry, but had been taught to wait—barely.

"Elsa..." a voice interrupted.

Jeffrey leaned in from the other side, a dry edge in his tone.

"I know you’re thrilled to meet my girlfriend," he said, "but not everyone knows who you are."

He turned to Joanne with a lopsided smirk. "Jo, meet Lady Elsa Lostarry."

Joanne smiled, polite. "Hello, Lady Elsa Lostarry..."

She noted, again, how Jeffrey’s tone bordered on rude—but Lady Elsa didn’t seem fazed. She waved it off like one would a child’s tantrum.

Then it hit Joanne.

"You’re the editor of Mode et Maison," she said, recognition dawning in her voice.

Lady Elsa turned to Jeffrey, lips twitching in triumph as if to say See? Even she knows me. Everyone does.

Jeffrey just pressed his lips into a tight line.

Just then, staff entered with refreshments—artfully plated hors d’oeuvres and gilded trays of chocolates. Jeffrey rose slightly, intercepting before the treats reached Lady Elsa.

"You don’t want her drunk," he muttered to Joanne, grabbing chocolates for the two of them.

Joanne blinked.

Was there history there?

"Look who finally grew up," Elsa scoffed, unbothered. "Inherited your grandmother’s scummy attitude, I see."

Jeffrey let out a low chuckle. "And look at you, Elsa. A big girl now, are you? My grandmother’s not even in the room and yet she’s living rent-free in that head of yours."

Elsa rolled her eyes, elegantly of course. "She ruined three designers and my mother’s birthday brunch in a single afternoon."

"Sounds like a skill," Jeffrey muttered under his breath, popping a chocolate in his mouth. "And for an old lady, you sure remember what happened thirty years ago with crystal clarity. I admire my grandma more and more every day..."

He chuckled to himself, pleased, as if he’d just lit a match and tossed it into a powder keg wrapped in pearls.

Their banter crackled, sharp and laced with decades of buried grudges and social warfare, as the match began in the background—almost an afterthought compared to the verbal fencing happening in their row.

Joanne sat between them, lips sealed, eyes wide—realizing fast that the real entertainment had nothing to do with tennis and everything to do with the aristocratic sass match unfolding beside her.

"So, you’re staying at Philip’s estate?" Elsa asked, finally turning her gaze to Joanne with the kind of curiosity that felt far too casual to be innocent. She gracefully ignored Jeffrey, who was still sniping at her like it was his full-time job.

"You trying to lose that magazine of yours, Elsa?" Jeffrey leaned in with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. "My grandma’s not fond of people putting my grandpa’s name in their mouths."

Elsa stared at him—and in that perfectly measured look, Joanne caught it. A flicker of something deeper. Not rage. Not spite. Hurt.

Oh.

So that’s what this was.

Joanne glanced at Elsa, then at Jeffrey. Matters of the heart, indeed.

Philip Winchester might be older, but he was handsome, impossibly powerful, and rich enough to casually buy a vineyard just for the aesthetic. Women probably lined up to fall in love with him. Apparently, some never fell out.

The match wrapped up, though Joanne couldn’t recall a single rule. What she did remember was Jeffrey and Elsa trading barbs like it was a high-society fencing tournament, complete with veiled insults and chocolate ammunition.

Afterward, they were escorted to a garden luncheon. Joanne immediately felt the weight of wandering eyes. She tried—really tried—to stay away from Jeffrey, but the man was latched onto her like she was oxygen and he’d been drowning for days. Every time someone tried to strike up a conversation with him, he pulled her in tighter.

Meanwhile, Lady Elsa was floating from group to group like a social butterfly in stilettos, sipping sparkling water and leaving ripples of admiration wherever she passed.

As Jeffrey turned to chat with someone from the royal box, Joanne noticed two women heading her way. They weren’t even subtle about it—whispering, smirking, the whole cliché movie-villain entrance minus the theme music.

Joanne sighed. Here we go.

One of them lifted a wine glass, and for a split second, Joanne could see it coming—the "accidental" spill, the gasp, the scandal.

So she stepped aside like she was dancing.

The second girl, caught off guard, tripped on Joanne’s skirt hem. The wine-bearer yelped as she stumbled forward and landed flat on her designer heels—face-first onto the gravel path, red wine splashing across her own gown.

Joanne blinked innocently and bent down to help. "Oh dear... careful. These garden paths can be so tricky."

Soaked and fuming, the two women slinked away like defeated hyenas.

"You are not some country bumpkin, as I heard," came a voice behind her.

Joanne turned to find Lady Elsa watching her with a raised brow and the ghost of a smirk.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about," Joanne said sweetly, brushing off her skirt like royalty wiping off yesterday’s dust.

Elsa laughed—an actual, amused laugh—and just like that, the air shifted.

"So... who made your dress?" she asked, eyes flicking with interest.

Joanne lit up. "A little shop in town. Cynthia—she’s brilliant. All hand-stitched."

Elsa’s eyes widened, impressed. "I knew it wasn’t off-the-rack. You’ve got an eye."

And somehow, unexpectedly, they clicked. The banter melted into real conversation, the fashion talk stretching longer than the match itself.

Joanne liked it there. The laughter, the opulence, the music that played so softly it felt like it was stitched into the air. For a moment, she almost forgot the sting in her chest.

But then her eyes found him.

Jeffrey.

He stood a few feet away, talking to a woman—smiling that smile that once melted her bones. The charming tilt of his head, the way he listened, the subtle ease in his posture. He looked effortless. Familiar.

And far away.

A hollowness bloomed inside her. Heavy. Inevitable. He still hadn’t told her the truth about Heather. That silence hurt more than anything Heather could ever say.

Elsa leaned in beside her, her voice a low, graceful murmur. "I see he’s changed a lot," she said, her gaze following Joanne’s. "He’s more... of a man now."