Love Rents A Room
Chapter 203: The Ring

Chapter 203: The Ring

Philip watched the movement of Joanne’s hand, instinctively covering her belly. A ghost of a smile crossed his face—gentle, almost wistful.

Without a word, he stepped toward the ring box lying open on the floor. The ring inside had shifted, nearly falling out of its delicate perch. With surprising tenderness, Philip picked it up and repositioned the diamond carefully inside, closing the lid with reverence.

"That boy..." he said, his voice low, more to himself than to her. "He’s made his mistakes. Plenty of them, especially with you."

He turned back to her, holding the small velvet box in his hand. His eyes softened, the weight of years and regrets glinting behind them.

"But he loves you," he said, more firmly now. "More than he knows how to handle. More than he ever learned to show. And this—this child you’re carrying..." His voice dipped again. "No one is happier about it than him. That, I know for certain."

Joanne lowered her gaze, unable to meet his eyes. Guilt, anger, love, sorrow—all warring within her.

Without hesitation, Philip sat beside her and gently reached for her hand. He placed the ring box on her palm and held her fingers around it.

"This isn’t just a ring he picked from a glass case one lazy afternoon," he said quietly. "He spent months searching for the right stone. Had it custom set. Traveled in secret, consulted designers. It became his obsession. Not because of what it cost, but because he wanted to give you something rare—one of a kind. Like you."

Her fingers closed slowly around the box. Philip’s hand remained wrapped around hers, warm, steady.

"He did it because he felt guilty," he added. "Guilty that in all the time he loved you, he never gave you a grand gesture. Never showed the world what you meant to him. This ring... this was that gesture. I know it’s not the moment you wanted. Not the way you wanted it. But it’s what he wanted to give you, with all of his heart."

Joanne swallowed. Her throat was tight, her heart full and heavy all at once.

She looked down at the small box resting in her hand, the velvet cool against her skin. With trembling fingers, she lifted the lid.

The diamond caught the light immediately, casting delicate prisms across the walls—small, fleeting rainbows that shimmered like forgotten hopes.

But it wasn’t just the brilliance of the gem that made her breath hitch.

It was the memory embedded in it.

A memory of a boy with untamed dreams and a cheerful smile. A boy who once stood under the same sky as her, under the oak tree, trembling with a thousand unsaid promises. A boy who had stumbled, faltered, and made every wrong turn imaginable—but who, in the end, had found his way back to her. Not perfect. Not polished. But real.

And now, undeniably, a man.

Her eyes traced the ring’s every detail with reverent curiosity. In the center, the solitary diamond gleamed—bold, unyielding, unapologetically one-of-a-kind.

Encircling it was a delicately carved Celtic knot, but not the usual interwoven loops she had seen commonly. This one was reimagined—its lines softer, more fluid. A circle within a circle, eternal but imperfect. Human.

And nestled along the band, woven like whispers into the white gold, were tiny, graceful snowdrops.

Her favorite flower.

Joanne’s breath hitched.

But snowdrops hadn’t always been her favorite.

She remembered that day vividly—the soft slant of sunlight in the kitchen, the worn linoleum floor cool beneath her feet as she burst in with the acceptance letter to Harvard gripped tightly in her hand. She had jumped and spun with glee, announcing the news to the one person who had always mattered most—her Papaw.

He had looked at her with tear-glazed eyes, his breath tinged with that familiar edge of whiskey, and pulled her into a hug, pressing a kiss to her forehead with a tenderness she rarely saw from him.

"You’re a snowdrop, Lassie," he had whispered. "A sign of hope... of spring after a cruel winter. Quiet, strong, blooming even when the frost tries to smother you. The world might not notice—but I see you. And one day, they all will."

She had never forgotten that moment. From then on, the snowdrop was more than a flower. It was her. A symbol of survival. Of becoming.

And somehow... Jeffrey had known.

He had seen her that way, too, even if he’d never said it out loud. He had planted those snowdrops in the field behind her farmhouse. Now she had snowdrops in the meadow of her farm for the first time in her life.

And now, those same blossoms had found their way here—etched into a ring cradled in her palm. Her most precious snowdrops.

Jeffrey had remembered.

Somewhere in the haze of it all, amid the fights, silences, hurt, and distance, he had remembered.

She didn’t know when Philip had stood. She didn’t hear the click of the door as he left. The world outside had blurred into stillness.

All she knew was that she was alone now, holding the fragile weight of Jeffrey’s heart in her hand.

And no matter how hard she tried... she couldn’t look away.

The more she looked at the ring, the more she remembered the man who had commissioned it, not for show, not for tradition, but for her. Every curve, every carving, every glint of light was a silent testament. This wasn’t a piece of jewelry bought to flaunt power or wealth.

This was a piece of him.

A part of his heart.

Of what he thought of her.

She could still hear Philip’s voice echoing in her ears, praising Jeffrey. She could live on those words for a lifetime. But she hadn’t needed to hear them to know. She had seen it in the glint of his eyes, in the way he looked at her as he entered her barn looking for a place to stay, that fine morning.

She had always known that he was meant for greatness. And he had proved her right.

Her man. Her Jeffrey.

But the smile that had bloomed on her lips began to fade. The warmth in her chest cooled with the ache of her heart. Slowly, she closed the ring box and set it down gently on the nightstand, almost reverently.

Then she lay back, her eyes still on the closed box, her thoughts tangled in everything unsaid.

Before she knew it, sleep pulled her under again—soft, uncertain, and filled with the ghost of snowdrops.