Love Rents A Room
Chapter 174: He Was Not Ready

Chapter 174: He Was Not Ready

Jeffrey stared at the screen.

The photo didn’t waver, didn’t blink. Just that tiny, heart-melting smile on the face of a little girl who didn’t ask to be part of this mess. Her cheeks were round and dimpled, her hair curled softly at the ends—untamed, wild. And those green eyes...

His throat tightened.

But his mind—his mind was a battlefield.

Was this real?

Was Heather lying again?

Why now? Why here?

And still, the face of that child held him hostage.

Rage twisted in his chest—at Heather, at himself, at the cruel timing of the universe. The silence between them stretched dangerously long, a wire pulled taut.

He could feel the weight of the moment pressing down on his shoulders, and somewhere beneath the panic and confusion, a single name floated to the surface.

Joanne.

His entire body tensed at the thought of her. He backed away, slow and quiet, as if afraid even the sound of his footsteps might shatter everything.

"Heather..." he finally spoke, voice low, hoarse. "What... what is this?"

She didn’t answer. Just held up the screen again like it was proof, like it was gospel.

And then, softer this time, she whispered, "She’s ours."

Jeffrey staggered back a step, knees nearly buckling as the weight of it all crashed over him like a rogue wave.

Just yesterday, he was grieving a dream. A quiet, fragile dream—Joanne, barefoot in the kitchen, glowing, carrying their child. The way he imagined she might hum while slicing apples, the gentle swell of her belly under soft sweaters. He hadn’t said it aloud, not even to himself, but losing that possibility... it had hollowed him out.

And now—now this?

This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen.

Not like this.

Not with Heather.

He could feel bile rising in his throat.

It would have been entirely different if it were with Joanne. But it was not.

Yes, the child was innocent. He didn’t need anyone to tell him that. But Heather... Heather was not.

He clenched his fists, trying to ground himself, but the storm inside was unrelenting.

He looked at Heather again, her tear-streaked face, the trembling screen still glowing between them. There wasn’t a trace of cruelty in her expression now—only desperation. And somehow that made it worse.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to run.

But more than anything, he wanted Joanne.

What choice did he have?

What choice would Joanne give him... if he told her?

And would she stay?

He didn’t want to be a father out of guilt. He didn’t want to raise a child with someone he didn’t trust. But could he turn away from a little girl who might be his? Who had his eyes?

He brought a hand to his mouth, shaking.

"Does she know who I am?" he finally asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Heather’s eyes brimmed again. "Not yet. But she will."

A pause.

His breath hitched.

"Don’t do this to me, Heather," he said, his voice cracking. "Don’t use a child to crawl back into my life."

"I’m not," she said softly. "I’m just... giving you a choice."

He laughed, a hollow, bitter sound. "No. You’re giving me a sentence."

He turned his back on her, trying to steady himself. But the war inside had only just begun.

He walked away. He wanted a moment to compose himself.

-----

Joanne’s entire face had gone crimson, and not just from the summer sun. William Belford was halfway through impersonating a bull—yes, a bull—with such theatrical flair, voice modulations, and posh British ridiculousness that even the most reserved blue-bloods around them were chuckling into their champagne.

It was absurd. And she loved every second of it.

There was something almost dangerous about how his crisp accent made the silliest things sound like Shakespeare. The elegant goofiness was intoxicating. A crowd had started to form, drawn in by William’s charisma and the woman at his side—Joanne, who was laughing like she’d just found out life wasn’t so serious after all.

And then...

"Mr. Belford! So, how are you doing? Hope you still remember me!"

The laughter fractured like glass. Joanne felt a shift even before the man brushed past her—brushed, not passed—despite there being a good five feet of clear air to walk through. No. That was intentional.

Joanne’s smile faltered as her eyes tracked the voice. Tall, dark-haired, charming in that smug, oily kind of way—Robert Winchester.

Of course it was him.

Her stomach turned.

The sound of his voice was just similar enough to Jeffrey’s to twist the knife. And worse—memories uninvited surged forward: the cruel words, the laughter, "Twelve million? That’s all it took for that gold digger to sell herself?"

She felt that same old cold settle in her bones.

"How will I ever forget you, Robert Winchester?" William greeted, patting Robert’s shoulder in a warm half-hug.

Joanne’s chest tightened. Her eyes darted, searching through the sea of tailored suits and wide-brimmed hats.

Jeffrey. Where are you? I need you.

She had to move. Had to get out of there. She knew Robert’s kind of attention—he didn’t come to play nice. That little brush was his way of snapping her head in his direction. A silent reminder: I see you.

And he wanted her to know he was coming for her.

But she wasn’t quick enough.

"Going to Jeffrey?" Robert said, stepping into her space like he owned it.

Joanne inhaled sharply, refusing to flinch. She didn’t owe him a second of her breath.

"He’s alone with Heather. I’d suggest you stay away."

That stopped her.

Heather? In here?

Who let her in?

Let me guess...

She turned to him, slowly, deliberately. Her lips curled in a tight, unimpressed smirk. So he was bragging now. Perfect.

She made to step around him, not even offering the politeness of a goodbye.

And then his fingers wrapped around her elbow.

She froze.

"People are watching, Ms. Smith," he murmured, leaning close, his voice lined with condescension so thick she could’ve bottled it. "Behave."

Behave?

That single word, laced with superiority and the stench of entitlement, ignited something fierce in her chest. Her pride, which she’d so patiently tucked beneath layers of civility all afternoon, finally snapped.

She straightened. Shoulders back. Spine steel. Chin high.

When she turned to face him, it was not as Joanne Smith the outsider, or the target of his snide remarks. It was as Joanne Smith, the woman who rebuilt her name with grit, grace, and zero apologies.

"So," she said, her voice as cool as winter silk, "tell me what you came to say, Robert."

He blinked, visibly thrown. He’d expected shame. He’d expected submission.

Instead, he got a woman who looked like she could set a kingdom ablaze with a glance.

And that—that—was not part of his plan.