Love Rents A Room
Chapter 184: The Reason She Was There

Chapter 184: The Reason She Was There

Sebastian, ever discreet, gently touched Joanne’s hand. His grip was warm, steady, like an anchor.

He knew what she was thinking. He knew the ache in her heart. But he also knew something she didn’t.

"I do not like this soup, Chrissy... I can’t," Philip’s voice whined from within.

Joanne exhaled shakily, confused. She blinked at Sebastian, searching his face.

He leaned in and murmured, lips twitching with humor, "Seasonal cold. Nothing to worry about."

A rush of breath left her. Relief. Frustration. Amusement. She didn’t know which came first.

This man—this old man who held a piece of her heart in gratitude, was simply throwing a tantrum over soup.

Her lips quirked despite herself. Then, as the warmth returned to her limbs, an idea bloomed in her mind.

"Would it be imposing if I ask for the way to the kitchen?" she asked, her voice low and eager.

Something inside her, that old instinct, the nurturer in her, awoke fully. Philip needed comfort, and she could give it. If she couldn’t fix the world, she could at least cook a proper soup.

Sebastian smiled, deeply pleased but not surprised. Of course she would ask that. This was Joanne Smith.

He closed the bedroom door softly behind them and led her down the grand, winding staircase, past the silent hallways and heavy tapestries, and into the kitchen.

The kitchen staff, caught off guard, blinked in shock at the sight of Sebastian escorting an unknown woman to their domain. Their faces said it all: Who is this? Why is she here?

But Sebastian, with a quiet but firm look, explained enough without needing many words.

The head chef gave Joanne a wary glance, but seeing Sebastian’s nod and recognizing the gentle determination in Joanne’s eyes, she stepped aside.

Joanne rolled up her sleeves, already moving like she belonged.

She raided the pantry like a soldier on a mission, selecting only the freshest ingredients—parsnips, carrots, sweet potatoes, and lentils—earthy foods full of warmth and strength.

Instead of the classic chicken soup, she decided on a hearty root vegetable and lentil stew, a recipe taught to her by her grandmother that was good for boosting the immune system, easy on a sick stomach, and full of love.

The scents of roasting garlic, simmering carrots, and sweet onions quickly filled the air, soft and comforting like a woolen blanket.

The staff watched in silent awe as she stirred the pot, a pot big enough to feed everyone in the estate, her movements quick but careful, her expression focused yet tender.

Joanne felt whole because she wasn’t doing it out of obligation. She was doing it because she wanted to.

When the stew was ready, Joanne ladled it carefully into a wide porcelain bowl. Sebastian, ever silent but ever present, handed her a silver tray lined with a crisp cloth.

She smiled at him, a soft, genuine smile that somehow made her look both strong and fragile at the same time.

He bowed his head slightly, a silent encouragement.

With steady hands, Joanne carried the tray back through the grand halls, up the marble staircase, and toward the bedroom.

Her heart thumped, not with fear this time, but with a strange sense of reverence — and a fragile thread of hope.

She knocked lightly.

The door opened a crack, and Christina Winchester — Chrissy — peeked out.

Her silver hair was tied neatly back, her posture as elegant as ever, but her eyes were tired.

When she saw Joanne holding the tray, surprise flickered across her face, along with... understanding. But unlike last time, there was no hostility.

No — it was something softer now. Maybe not quite acceptance, but a peace offering had already been made in the form of the handmade sweater.

Joanne smiled faintly.

"Thought I could help," she said simply.

For a moment, Chrissy said nothing. Then, quietly, she stepped aside, letting her in.

No words of thanks — none were needed between women who had once stood on opposite sides of a painful divide. Now, she looked relieved to see her there.

The bedroom was grand but homely. Heavy curtains muted the winter light, a fire crackled low in the hearth. Philip Winchester lay propped up among pillows, a thick quilt tucked around him, looking more annoyed than sick.

Joanne could only smile.

Philip turned his head, and when he saw her, his eyes widened in disbelief.

"Joanne?" he rasped. "You’re here!"

"Hi, Philip." She crossed the room, her steps light but sure, setting the tray gently across his lap. "I heard you’re being a terrible patient and came here."

At that, the old man huffed, managing a smirk despite himself.

"She tried to poison me with cabbage soup," he grumbled, casting a betrayed look at his wife.

Chrissy arched an eyebrow at him from her chair nearby, elegantly amused. "Ungrateful old goat," she muttered under her breath, folding her knitting calmly in her lap.

Joanne let out a real laugh, small but honest, and Philip’s face lit up at the sound.

"Well," she said, "I brought you something better. No cabbage, I promise."

She lifted the lid, letting the rich aroma of root vegetables and lentil stew fill the room — hearty, nourishing, and perfect for a cold January afternoon.

Philip took a tentative sip. After a pause, his eyes fluttered shut in bliss. "Good heavens," he whispered hoarsely. "I am in heaven. Only you know what I want, Poppet."

Joanne laughed again, shaking her head.

Beside the fire, Chrissy smiled too, not with jealousy, not with bitterness, but with a rare fondness.

There was a moment of quiet then. A moment where old hurts softened, and the long, twisted threads of the past gently loosened their grip.

Philip leaned back, stronger already just from the warmth and smell of the soup.

"What brings you here, my dear?" he asked, voice a little steadier now. The question was kind — but there was weight behind it.

Joanne sat down beside him, folding her hands in her lap, meeting Philip’s gaze squarely.

It looked like he already knew why she was there. But she said it anyway.

"I came to repay a debt," she said softly. "And... maybe to save something that matters to you— Winchester Logistics."

At that, Chrissy’s knitting needles paused midair. Her sharp eyes, wiser now, softer too, studied Joanne carefully. Surprised, she was not. Only watchful, measuring Joanne in a way that wasn’t unkind.

Joanne looked between them.

They were too calm for what she had just dropped into the room.

Was it their age giving them that patience or was there something more?

"You’re saying my grandson is mismanaging the company?" Philip asked, voice steady.