Love Rents A Room
Chapter 186: The Picture

Chapter 186: The Picture

The camera sat there, perched on the heavy, antique dresser like it belonged — yet out of place all the same.

Joanne’s eyes softened. The position... It was exactly the same as how he used to leave it on her dresser back home. Neat. Reverent. Like the camera itself was something precious.

Before she realized it, her fingers were already tracing its familiar curves.

Her lips curved too, almost involuntarily, picturing Jeffrey wandering through the Winchester Estate, the camera swinging from his neck as he tried to capture the world through a lens few could see through but him.

But then the weight of memory hit her too hard.

Realizing what she was doing, Joanne yanked her hand back as if the metal burned her skin. She stepped back sharply, heart pounding.

Through the corner of her eye, she thought she saw a shadow flicker by the door.

She turned quickly, stepping toward it.

The hallway outside was empty. Silent.

"Sebastian...?" she called out softly.

No answer.

She stood there, uncertain, a strange sense of loneliness tightening her chest. But her feet, stubborn and aching with longing, pulled her back into the room.

Slowly, her eyes traveled to the bed at the far end of the enormous bedroom.

At the foot of it, she saw it: an ottoman.

A sudden laugh — tiny, breathless — escaped her. She remembered. She remembered him, telling her in that quiet, thoughtful voice that she should place an ottoman at the end of her guest bed. "Good for sitting," he had said. "Or tossing clothes after a long day."

Her smile widened, trembling slightly. And then her heart twisted painfully.

The bed.

The sheets...

They would smell like him, wouldn’t they?

That familiar scent of clean linen, faint soap, and something inherently, achingly Jeffrey.

She felt it... the overwhelming desire to walk over, to bury her face in those sheets, to wrap herself in the lingering memory of him just once.

Her steps carried her halfway across the room before a cold, brutal thought slammed into her:

Was he sharing this bed with Heather now?

Joanne stopped dead, the air whooshing out of her lungs. The warmth that had filled her a moment ago evaporated like mist.

Suddenly, she felt foolish. Pathetic.

The bed, the scent, the space — none of it belonged to her. Not anymore.

The urge to throw herself onto the bed and lose herself in the comfort of his memory vanished, burned to ash.

She wrapped her arms around herself, swallowing the hurt. She turned on her heel and walked to the closet. There were no obvious signs of a woman living here. There were no cosmetics, no discarded scarves, but the closet didn’t lie.

She opened the doors carefully.

Only his clothes.

Her brows furrowed. She couldn’t quite believe Heather wasn’t living with him when she gave him a child. But then again, it made sense. Philip Winchester was old-school; he wouldn’t tolerate his family living with their lovers before marriage.

Maybe... Joanne thought bitterly, he has an apartment somewhere. A separate house where he meets Heather.

The thought burned her, sharp and unwanted. She clenched her fists and shook it off.

Out of restless curiosity, or maybe something deeper, she prowled the room, inspecting every corner, every drawer.

Part of her even entertained a petty fantasy: if she found any jewelry that belonged to Heather, she’d toss it straight out the window.

It was fascinating, raiding Jeffrey’s things like this.

His drawers were a treasury: expensive watches, brooches, cufflinks, tie pins, belt buckles— all likely solid gold and studded with precious gems.

And yet... He acted like her little farm was the most precious place on earth.

How had a man raised with this kind of luxury fallen in love with something so simple? With her world?

The question knotted in her chest. She didn’t want to linger on it.

She walked to the far end of the room, where some picture frames were neatly arranged.

Larger portraits showed him with his father and with Philip. There was a photograph of him with his mother at his Yale graduation — her smile proud, frozen in time.

A painting hung above the dresser.

Maybe there’s a safe hidden behind it, she thought half-heartedly, half-teasing herself.

She lifted the frame.

Something fluttered out and fell to the floor.

Startled, she bent down and picked it up.

It was a photograph.

An old one.

The moment her eyes focused on it, her breath caught.

Her.

It was her picture... taken fifteen years ago at her farm.

She stood grinning beneath the oak tree, wearing that beautiful, poofy dress Philip had bought for her.

She remembered that day. Jeffrey had taken so many pictures. She’d never dreamed he kept one.

Hidden.

Tucked behind a painting, as though it were too dangerous to leave in the open.

Her fingers trembled as she turned it over. There, in familiar handwriting, were two words.

My wife.

Joanne’s knees nearly gave out.

My wife.

He had written it as if it were the most natural thing in the world. As if, in his heart, it had already been true.

Her chest tightened painfully.

She scoffed weakly at herself, at the memory, at the stupid hope clawing its way up her throat.

But even as she tried to laugh it off, she couldn’t stop the tears prickling behind her eyes.

He had kept her.

All this time.

Hidden, as if she were a sin.

She could only scoff.

Her fingers trembled as they clutched the photo, the edges curling under the pressure of her grip.

My wife.

It wasn’t written lightly.

It wasn’t a careless scribble.

The handwriting was neat, deliberate... sacred, even.

She swallowed against the tightness in her throat and slowly placed the photograph in her pocket.

Why would he need her picture anyway? He didn’t.

She stepped back, blinking fast against the sting in her eyes. The air in the room felt too thick, too heavy now. She needed to get out before she did something stupid...

Like cry.

Or worse... hope.

Joanne turned sharply on her heel and headed for the door, vowing not to look back.