Page 12 of Ruined by My Ex’s Dad (Silver Fox Obsession #2)

Lucas

T he weekend flew by in a blur, Monday arrived, and with it, a full slate of meetings I couldn’t ignore.

I don't play by their rules. I play by mine.

The words I'd sent to Savannah lingered on my screen, bold and uncompromising.

Too revealing, perhaps. I hadn't intended to expose quite so much of myself through a simple text message, but something about this woman—about the pull she exerted—made me reckless in ways I hadn't been in decades.

She hadn't responded. I hadn't expected her to.

The gauntlet had been thrown, now I could only wait to see if she would pick it up.

I set my phone down on the polished surface of my desk and turned to face the floor-to-ceiling windows of my office.

Forty-two stories up, the city spread before me—a testament to ambition, to vision, to the relentless pursuit of something greater.

My city, in many ways.

The backdrop to the empire I'd built.

Yet for the first time in memory, the view failed to center me.

"Mr. Turner? Your ten o'clock is here."

I turned to find my assistant, Ava , in the doorway.

Efficient, discreet, with me for fifteen years, she was the only one who'd seen through my carefully constructed facade this week, though she would never mention it.

"Thank you. Show him in."

She hesitated, an uncommon break in her professional demeanor.

"Miles called. Asked to move your lunch to one. Something about picking up Ms. Blake beforehand."

My jaw tightened imperceptibly.

"Fine. And Ava?"

"Sir?"

"That file I asked for. Was it delivered?"

"Yes, sir. On your tablet." Her eyes betrayed nothing, but we both knew what file I meant.

Not the Westlake projections or the Madison Street revisions, but the Alder-West Strategies personnel directory I'd requested yesterday.

The directory that had given me Savannah's private cell number.

A breach of professional ethics, perhaps. But I'd long since crossed that line where she was concerned.

"Thank you, Ava. That will be all."

The morning passed in a blur of meetings, contracts, and calculations—the familiar rhythm that had structured my life for decades.

Yet beneath it all ran an undercurrent of anticipation for the afternoon.

For seeing Savannah again, this time with the knowledge of who she was. What she was to my son.

What she had become to me in the span of one impossible night. I found myself thankful she rescheduled the meeting so that I could see her again.

At twelve-thirty, I made my way to the Ashcroft Gallery, the upscale exhibition space on the ground floor of our headquarters.

A neutral territory for the start of our meeting—neither my domain nor hers, but one where I held a particular advantage.

The gallery had been my idea, a space to showcase local artists while subtly reminding visitors of Turner Holdings' cultural contributions to the city.

It also provided the perfect setting for delicate negotiations, surrounded by beauty rather than the intimidation of a boardroom.

I arrived early, deliberately. Wanted to observe her before she saw me, to understand something of the woman beyond the vulnerability and passion I'd glimpsed in that hotel room.

The gallery was hosting a photography exhibition—stark, black-and-white images of urban transformation, neighborhoods in flux.

I moved through the space with practiced ease, nodding to the curator and exchanging pleasantries with a city council member who was viewing the exhibit. All while keeping one eye on the entrance.

She arrived at precisely twelve forty-five, fifteen minutes before our scheduled meeting.

Alone.

That surprised me—I'd expected Miles to escort her, to maintain his illusion of possession.

Her independence should not have pleased me as much as it did.

She moved differently here than she had at the wedding.

More assured, more focused.

This was her professional sphere, her armor fully intact.

A sleek charcoal suit accentuated the clean lines of her body without revealing too much; her hair was pulled back in a simple knot at the nape of her neck.

But it was her expression that caught me—intelligent, appraising, missing nothing as her gaze swept the gallery.

I hung back, watching as she paused before a particular photograph—a contrast of old and new San Francisco, Victorian alongside glass and steel.

Her head tilted slightly, considering the image with a focus that suggested she wasn't merely passing time but genuinely engaging with the work.

"Morgan's early series," I said, approaching at last.

"Before he became fixated on aerial perspectives."

She stiffened at the sound of my voice but didn't turn immediately.

When she did, her composure was admirable, only the slight dilation of her pupils betraying any reaction to my presence.

"Mr. Turner."

Her voice was cool, professional.

"I didn't realize you were an art enthusiast."

"Lucas," I corrected gently.

"And there's quite a lot you don't know about me. Yet."

A faint flush rose to her cheeks, but her gaze remained steady.

"This is a business meeting. Professional boundaries seem appropriate."

"Is that what my texts were last night? Professional?"

Her eyes darted around, confirming we weren't overheard.

"That was a mistake."

"Was it? You didn't seem to think so when you responded."

I stepped closer, not touching her but near enough to catch the subtle scent of her perfume—something with jasmine, the same one she'd worn that night.

"You could have blocked my number. You didn't."

"How did you get my number?"

The question had an edge of genuine curiosity beneath the accusation.

"I have access to a considerable amount of information, Savannah. Company directories. Personnel files."

I shrugged slightly.

"The question isn't how I got your number, but why I waited until last night to use it."

"And why did you?"

I studied her face—the intelligence in those green eyes, the slight defiance in the set of her jaw.

So different from the women I typically encountered, who either deferred to my position or tried too hard to prove themselves equal to me.

"Because I spent over a week telling myself to forget what happened between us," I admitted.

"To be the pragmatic businessman I've built my reputation on. And for the first time in memory, pragmatism lost."

Something flickered across her features—surprise, perhaps, at my candor.

She hadn't expected vulnerability from me.

Few did.

"This is insane," she said quietly.

"You know that."

"Sanity has always seemed overrated."

She almost smiled then—a slight quirk of her lips quickly suppressed.

"Miles will be here any minute."

"Then we should make the most of these moments, shouldn't we?"

I gestured toward another photograph, guiding her deeper into the gallery, away from the entrance. She followed, maintaining a careful distance between us.

"Tell me about your work," I said, shifting to ostensibly safer ground.

She blinked, clearly thrown by the change in direction. "My work?"

"Your marketing strategies. Your approach to branding. The aspects of your professional life that my son consistently praises but never quite seems to understand."

Her eyes narrowed slightly.

"Why do you care?"

"I make it a point to understand exceptional people, Savannah. And you are, undeniably, exceptional."

"You've drawn that conclusion from one night and a personnel file?"

"From watching you move through this gallery.

I see how you approach each image with actual consideration rather than casual consumption.

From the way you've managed to keep your composure despite circumstances that would unravel most." I paused, allowing a hint of admiration to color my tone.

"And yes, from that night. You reveal quite a lot of yourself in unguarded moments. "

The flush deepened, spreading down her neck.

"This conversation is inappropriate."

"Many worthwhile things are." I stopped before another photograph, this one showing the stark contrast between a homeless encampment and the gleaming towers of the financial district beyond.

"What do you see here?"

She hesitated, then seemed to decide to engage on these safer terms.

"Contrast. Inequality. But also connection—these two realities existing in the same frame, affecting each other whether they acknowledge it or not."

"An astute observation."

"I'm paid to see what others miss," she said with a slight edge.

"To understand how images and messages affect people at a visceral level."

"And is that what drew you to marketing? The ability to shape perception?"

She considered this, her professional curiosity seemingly overriding her wariness.

"Partly. But it's more about finding the truth in something and amplifying it. The best campaigns don't manufacture connection—they uncover it."

I studied her as she spoke, noting how animation transformed her features, how passion brought a depth to her voice that reminded me of those whispered confessions in the darkness of our shared hotel room.

This was Savannah in her element—intelligent, insightful, alive with purpose.

How had my son missed this?

How had he held this remarkable woman in his life for so long and failed to truly see her?

"That's why the Madison Street project struggled," I said, making the connection.

"Miles wanted marketing that sold an image. You pushed for something authentic."

Surprise flickered across her face.

"How did you know that?"

"I didn't. But I know my son. And I'm beginning to know you."

Our eyes locked, the pretense of discussing photography momentarily abandoned. Standing there, surrounded by stark images of a city in transition, I felt something shift between us—an acknowledgment of understanding that went beyond the physical attraction still humming beneath the surface.

For the first time in years, I felt seen.

Not as Lucas Turner, CEO of Turner Holdings. Not as Miles's father or the power broker the business pages profiled.

But as the man beneath those labels.

The man with his own doubts, desires, and complexities.