Page 21 of Ruined by My Ex’s Dad (Silver Fox Obsession #2)

The tour continued, with Miles handling most of the presentation while the architect chimed in with technical details. Savannah observed everything with that keen intelligence I'd come to admire, asking insightful questions that revealed how thoroughly she'd studied the project materials.

I contributed where necessary, maintaining the expected involvement while watching her from the corner of my eye.

Noting the slight flush that rose to her cheeks when our gazes happened to meet.

The way she avoided direct contact with either Miles or myself, keeping a professional distance that wouldn't raise eyebrows.

The way her body subtly oriented toward mine despite her obvious efforts to prevent it—a subconscious betrayal of awareness that satisfied something primal in me.

After viewing the model unit, we moved to the sales center, where renderings of the various floor plans lined the walls. The marketing director had joined us, eager to discuss launch strategies and target demographics.

"We're thinking of a tiered approach," he explained, gesturing to a timeline displayed on a large monitor. "Start with the mid-range units to establish momentum, then release the penthouses closer to completion when we can showcase the actual views."

"That's backward," Savannah said, the certainty in her voice drawing everyone's attention. "You should lead with the penthouses. Create exclusivity and urgency for your premium product."

The marketing director—Jason Reynolds, who'd been with Turner Holdings for nearly a decade—frowned slightly.

"With all due respect, Ms. Blake, we've found that building momentum with more accessible units creates a stronger overall sales picture."

"That's the conventional approach," she acknowledged. "But Westlake isn't a conventional development. You're not just selling square footage; you're selling status. Identity. Belonging to a select group with access to something extraordinary."

I watched her as she spoke, admiring the confidence in her presentation, the way she commanded attention without apparent effort.

This was Savannah in her element—insightful, strategic, uncompromising in her vision.

"The penthouses should be your statement pieces," she continued. "Announce only three available initially, even if you have more. Create a whisper campaign targeting specific high-net-worth individuals who align with the Westlake lifestyle. Make them compete for the privilege of ownership."

Reynolds looked to me, clearly expecting me to side with the established Turner Holdings approach. Instead, I found myself nodding.

"She's right," I said simply. "The market has shifted. Exclusivity drives premium sales in this climate."

"I agree with Savannah," Miles chimed in—eager to align himself with her, to claim credit for bringing her insight to the project. "We should restructure the entire marketing timeline around this approach."

My jaw tightened at his transparent attempt to position himself as her champion. As if he had any claim to her brilliance, her vision, her value.

"Reynolds," I said, my tone brooking no argument, "work with Ms. Blake to develop this strategy further. I want a comprehensive plan on my desk by the end of the week."

"Of course, sir," he agreed, though his expression suggested he wasn't entirely convinced.

"I could help coordinate," Miles offered, moving closer to Savannah. "Since I brought Savannah into the project initially."

Before I could respond, the door to the sales center opened, admitting Philip Knowles—lead investor in the Westlake project and notorious playboy despite being well into his fifties. His reputation with young, attractive women was well-established in business circles.

"Lucas!" he called, crossing the room with the confident stride of a man accustomed to commanding attention. "Apologies for missing the tour. Helicopter was delayed."

I accepted his handshake with practiced cordiality, making the necessary introductions. When he reached Savannah, his demeanor shifted subtly—his smile widening, his gaze lingering a beat too long on her face before dropping briefly to assess the rest of her.

"Ms. Blake," he said, retaining her hand longer than necessary.

"A pleasure. Lucas didn't mention his marketing consultant was so... impressive."

She withdrew her hand with practiced grace, her smile professional but cool. "Thank you, Mr. Knowles. I was just discussing our approach to the penthouse units."

"I'd love to hear your thoughts," he said, positioning himself beside her with the smooth assurance of a man accustomed to getting what he wanted. "Perhaps over drinks? I have some additional investors who might be interested in the project."

The suggestion was transparent in its underlying intent—business serving as pretext for personal interest. I'd seen Knowles use the same approach countless times, had never particularly cared how he conducted his personal affairs as long as his investments remained solid.

Now, watching him angle his body toward Savannah, watching his gaze drop to her lips as she responded politely, something dark and possessive uncoiled within me.

"Savannah already has plans this evening," I said, my voice carrying easily across the small gathering.

"She's dining with me to discuss her broader involvement with Turner Holdings."

All eyes turned to me—Miles with surprise, Reynolds with professional interest, Knowles with knowing amusement.

Savannah's expression remained neutral, though a flush crept up her neck.

"Another time, then," Knowles conceded with a slight nod in my direction. He hadn't missed the underlying message in my intervention—one alpha male recognizing another's claim.

The remainder of the meeting proceeded without incident, though I caught Miles watching me with a puzzled expression.

My intervention had been unusual—I rarely involved myself in the social dynamics of business meetings, leaving such maneuvering to those who enjoyed it.

But the thought of Knowles pursuing Savannah, of his hands on her, his eyes undressing her, his practiced seduction techniques being applied to her—it triggered something primitive and unyielding in me.

Something I hadn't experienced in decades, if ever.

As the meeting concluded, I managed to position myself near Savannah as she gathered her materials, ensuring a moment of relative privacy as the others moved toward the exit.

"Was that necessary?" she asked quietly, not looking up from her tablet. "Announcing our dinner plans to everyone, including your son?"

"Knowles’ reputation precedes him," I replied, keeping my voice equally low. "I was simply protecting a valuable business associate from unwanted advances."

Her eyes met mine then, skepticism clear in their green depths. "Is that what you were doing?"

"Not entirely," I admitted.

"The thought of him pursuing you was... unacceptable."

"Possessive, Mr. Turner." A slight smile played at the corner of her mouth, though her tone remained professional. "One might think you were staking a claim."

"Wasn't I?"

The directness of my response caught her off guard, her eyes widening slightly before she composed herself.

"We agreed to discretion. That wasn't discreet."

"I'll be more careful," I conceded. "But know this, Savannah—what's between us may need to remain private, but it is not casual to me. Not temporary. Not negotiable."

Before she could respond, Miles approached, forcing us to step apart, to resume the pretense of purely professional interest.

"Savannah, can I walk you out?" he asked, his gaze flicking between us with the first stirrings of suspicion. "I wanted to discuss a few more ideas for the campaign."

"Actually," I interjected, "Ms. Blake and I need to finalize the details of our dinner meeting. Contract specifics to discuss."

Miles frowned, his brow furrowing in an expression I recognized—frustration at being excluded, at having something he wanted placed beyond his reach.

"I didn't realize you were so personally involved in her contract negotiations," he said, an edge creeping into his voice.

"I thought that was my project."

"The Westlake marketing is your project," I corrected smoothly.

"Ms. Blake's potential relationship with Turner Holdings falls under my purview as CEO."

The double meaning wasn't lost on Savannah, whose cheeks flushed slightly even as she maintained her professional demeanor.

"It's just dinner, Miles," she said, her tone deliberately casual. "Business details that need clarification before I can commit to the project."

He didn't look convinced, but years of conditioning to defer to my authority in business matters prevailed. "Fine. But I'd like to be kept in the loop. This was my initiative."

Your initiative. Not you.

The distinction was important—critical, even. Miles might have brought Savannah into Turner Holdings' orbit, but he had no claim on her as a woman.

Had surrendered that right when he'd ended their relationship, treating her as disposable, replaceable.

Not recognizing the treasure he'd held and discarded.

"Of course," I agreed, the perfect corporate response masking the entirely inappropriate thoughts beneath. "We're all on the same team here."

Another lie.

When it came to Savannah Blake, I was on no team but my own.

Miles departed with visible reluctance, leaving Savannah and me in momentary privacy once more.

"That was dangerous," she murmured, gathering the last of her materials. "He's not stupid, Lucas. He'll start to notice if you keep interrupting his conversations with me."

"Let him notice," I said, the words emerging before I could temper them. "Let him wonder. Let him realize what he lost."

Her eyes met mine, surprise evident in their depths.

"That sounds like you want him to know."

The observation gave me pause, forcing me to examine my own motives.

Did some part of me want Miles to discover our relationship? To understand that his father had claimed the woman he'd discarded? To recognize what he'd failed to see in Savannah?

"No," I said after a moment's consideration.

"That would be needlessly cruel. And potentially damaging to both of us."

"Then what do you want?" She studied my face, searching for something beyond my careful exterior.

What did I want? The question seemed simultaneously simple and impossibly complex.

I wanted her—in my bed, in my life, in ways I hadn't wanted anyone in decades.

I wanted to possess not just her body but her mind, her passion, her future.

Wanted to erase any trace of other men from her memory, especially my son. Wanted to claim territory that should never have been mine to claim.

"I want you to understand something," I said, voice dropping to ensure absolute privacy. "Something I realized watching you with Miles today, with Knowles, with everyone who fails to see what I see in you."

She waited, tension evident in the set of her shoulders, the slight parting of her lips.

"You weren't made for him," I said, the words emerging with an intensity that surprised even me.

"You weren't made for men who see only your surface, who value you simply for what you can do for them, how you can advance their interests or enhance their image."

I stepped closer, close enough to catch the familiar scent of her perfume, to see the slight dilation of her pupils as she registered my proximity.

"You were made for me , Savannah. For someone who recognizes your mind as well as your body. Who values your strength rather than seeking to diminish it. Who sees all of you—the ambition, the intelligence, the hidden intensity you keep carefully contained."

Her breath caught, a small sound that sent satisfaction coursing through me.

"Lucas—"

"Tell me I'm wrong," I challenged softly. "Tell me you don't feel it too—this recognition. This certainty that whatever exists between us was inevitable from the moment we met."

She didn't answer immediately, conflict evident in her expression. The professional woman who understood all the reasons to walk away warring with the woman who had texted me I want more less than twenty-four hours after leaving my bed.

"I can't tell you you're wrong," she finally whispered.

"But that doesn't make this right."

"Right and wrong are relative concepts," I countered. "What matters is truth. And the truth is, you belong with me in ways you never belonged with him. Never could belong with him."

The naked possession in my voice should have alarmed me—should have triggered the caution, the restraint, the careful control I'd built my life around.

Instead, it felt like the most natural declaration in the world. The simple acknowledgment of something I knew with bone-deep certainty.

"Eight o'clock," I reminded her, forcing myself to step back, to restore professional distance before anyone returned. "I'll send a car."

She nodded, composure returning gradually. "I'll be ready."

I watched her walk away, the graceful confidence in her stride, the subtle power she wielded without ostentation.

So different from the women I typically encountered in business or social settings. So fundamentally matched to something in me I hadn't recognized was seeking completion.

Had never felt the need to create contingencies against my own son potentially causing harm to someone I cared about.

It was unprecedented.

Reckless, by my usual standards.

Potentially setting a dangerous precedent if anyone in my professional circle discovered it.

And yet it felt necessary.

Essential, even.

The first step in building something I hadn't realized I wanted until Savannah had crashed into my carefully ordered life.

A future that included her.

Protected her.

Bound her to me in ways that transcended the physical connection we'd established.

You were made for me.

The words had emerged spontaneously, yet contained a truth I was only beginning to understand. A recognition that whatever existed between us was something rare, something worth risking everything to preserve.

Even if that meant crossing boundaries I'd once considered inviolable.

Even if it meant acknowledging that, for the first time in decades, I was no longer fully in control.