Page 29 of Ruined by My Ex’s Dad (Silver Fox Obsession #2)

"They're symptoms of a larger problem," I insisted. "We come from different worlds, different generations. We want different things?—"

"Do we?" His interruption was soft but firm. "What exactly do I want that differs so fundamentally from what you want, Savannah?"

The question stalled me momentarily. What did he want? What did I, for that matter? We'd never actually discussed long-term expectations, had been too caught up in the immediate intensity to map out any kind of future.

"You want control," I finally said. "You want things on your terms, according to your rules."

"And you don't?" A slight smile curved his lips, not reaching his eyes. "The woman who just arranged this conversation in her own space, at her chosen time, in circumstances where she holds all the cards?"

The observation caught me off guard. "That's different."

"Is it?" He took a single step forward, still maintaining careful distance. "Or is it that we both want the same thing—control over our vulnerabilities, protection against pain? The difference is that I've acknowledged this connection matters enough to risk that pain. You're still running from it."

His perception struck with uncomfortable accuracy, targeting the fear I hadn't fully articulated even to myself. Not fear of him, but of the devastating power of what I felt for him.

"I'm not running," I lied.

"I'm being practical. Realistic. This was never going to work long-term. We both knew that from the start."

"Did we?" His voice remained calm, controlled.

"Because yesterday, in my arms, you were making very different declarations. Speaking of possibilities. Of futures. Of choices made with open eyes."

Heat crawled up my neck. "Yesterday was emotional. I wasn't thinking clearly."

"On the contrary. I believe yesterday was the most honest you've been with me or yourself." He took another step closer, still carefully gauging my reaction.

"Something changed between last night and this morning. I want to know what."

I could have lied.

Could have fabricated some new revelation, some practical consideration that had suddenly emerged.

But I owed him better than that—owed us both the dignity of truth.

"I woke up feeling vulnerable," I admitted, the words difficult to force past the tightness in my throat.

"More exposed than I've ever been with anyone. And it terrified me. The power you have over me terrifies me."

Understanding dawned in his eyes. "So this isn't about Miles or professional complications. It's about fear."

"It's about self-preservation," I corrected. "I've spent years building myself after relationships that diminished me. I won't lose myself again—not even to someone who sees me as clearly as you do."

"And you think walking away preserves yourself?" He moved closer still, close enough that I could catch the familiar scent of his cologne. "Or does it simply preserve the illusion of control?"

I stepped back, maintaining distance. "I received a job offer today. In New York. Chief Marketing Officer for Armstrong Media Group."

That stopped him, surprise flickering across his features before he masked it. "A significant opportunity."

"Yes. And three thousand miles from this complication."

"From me, you mean." His voice cooled slightly, professional distance replacing the intimacy of moments before. "You've already decided to take it, I assume?"

"I've expressed interest. Started the process."

He nodded once, the gesture contained, controlled. "I see."

I waited for the arguments, the persuasion, the logic he would undoubtedly deploy to change my mind. Prepared counterpoints for each potential objection.

Instead, he simply said, "If that's what you want, I won't stand in your way."

The easy capitulation caught me completely off guard. "What?"

"You heard me." His expression remained carefully neutral. "If you believe leaving is the right choice for you, I accept that decision."

"Just like that?" Irrational disappointment surged through me. "You're not going to try to convince me to stay?"

"Would it work?" A hint of weariness colored his tone. "Or would it simply reinforce your perception that I'm trying to control you?"

I had no answer—I could only stare at him in confusion as he turned my expectations upside down.

"I won't manipulate you, Savannah. Won't use your feelings against you. Won't make this more difficult than it already is." He moved toward the door, each step deliberate. "If distance is what you need, I'll respect that choice."

"Lucas—" His name emerged as barely more than a whisper.

He paused, hand on the doorknob. "Yes?"

A thousand words hovered on my tongue—explanations, justifications, pleas I had no right to make. In the end, I said nothing.

"Goodbye, Savannah." He opened the door, glanced back once with an expression I couldn't decipher.

"I wish you every success in New York."

And then he was gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click that sounded unnaturally final in the silence of my apartment.

I stood frozen, waiting for the relief to wash over me. The emotional liberation that should accompany reclaimed independence, restored control, and renewed clarity of purpose.

It didn't come.

Instead, a hollow emptiness expanded beneath my ribs, a physical ache that made it difficult to breathe. I sank onto the couch, wrapping my arms around myself as if I could physically hold the pieces together.

This was the right decision.

The sensible choice.

The path that protected everything I'd worked for.

So why did it feel like amputation without anesthesia?

I reached for my phone, thumb hovering over Lucas's number. One call could undo it all, could bring him back, could restore the connection I'd just deliberately severed.

Instead, I texted Zoe:

It's done. Bring the ice cream.

She arrived forty minutes later, bearing not just premium ice cream but two bottles of expensive merlot and a collection of truly terrible romantic comedies—the kind where everything works out in the end despite impossible odds.

"You look like hell," she observed, kicking off her shoes and heading straight for the kitchen to retrieve wine glasses.

"Thanks. It's my new aesthetic." I accepted the generously poured glass she handed me. "Devastation chic."

"How did he take it?" She settled beside me on the couch, propping her feet on my coffee table with the casual intimacy of a decade-long friendship.

"That's the worst part." I took a long swallow of wine, welcoming the burn. "He just... accepted it. Wished me well in New York and walked away."

"He what?" Genuine surprise colored her voice.

"Mr. Control Freak just let you go?"

"He said he wouldn't manipulate me or make it more difficult than it already was." The memory of his calm acceptance made my chest tighten painfully. "Said he respected my choice."

"Well, shit." She considered this development.

"That's either the most mature response ever or the most calculated."

"What do you mean?"

"Think about it. What better way to prove he's not the controlling monster you fear than by respecting your autonomy above his own desires?" She sipped her wine thoughtfully. "Either way, it's not the reaction you expected."

"No." I pulled the blanket around me, suddenly cold despite the warmth of the apartment. "I expected... I don't know. Something. Argument. Persuasion. Passion."

"You wanted him to fight for you," she translated with uncomfortable accuracy. "To prove that what you were giving up mattered enough to fight for."

I couldn't deny it. "Pathetic, right? I end things, then get upset when he respects my decision."

"Human," she corrected gently. "Completely, messily human."

We drank in silence for a moment, the weight of the evening settling around us like dust after an explosion.

"Are you really going to New York?" she finally asked.

"I don't know." The admission felt like surrender. "It makes sense. Clean break. Fresh start. Career advancement."

"But?"

"But the thought of never seeing him again makes me physically ill." I pressed my hand against my sternum, where the ache had taken permanent residence.

"Like I can't breathe properly."

"Then why end it?" The question was simple, direct, pure Zoe.

"Because loving him might destroy me," I whispered, the truth finally emerging.

"Not because of Miles or work or age or any external factor. But because I've never felt like this—never needed someone this way. Never been so willing to risk everything that matters for another person."

"And that scares the shit out of you."

"Terrifies me," I confirmed. "I built my entire identity around not needing anyone. Around being self-sufficient. Independent. Now suddenly I'm contemplating professional suicide and family complications and ethical nightmares because I can't imagine my life without him in it."

"That's not weakness, Sav." She squeezed my hand.

"That's courage. Risking safety for possibility always is."

"It doesn't feel like courage. It feels like drowning."

"Maybe courage always does, a little bit." She topped off our glasses. "So what now? Seriously, consider the New York job? Pretend the last few months never happened?"

"That's the plan." I sounded unconvincing even to my own ears.

"Uh-huh." Her skepticism was palpable. "And when that doesn't work? When you wake up in a different city, still feeling exactly what you're feeling now?"

"Then I'll deal with it then." I reached for the remote, desperate to end this line of questioning. "Movie time? I need mindless distraction."

We settled into the familiar comfort of friendship and wine, the predictable romantic plots unfolding on screen providing temporary escape from the chaos of my actual love life.

By the time Zoe left around midnight, I'd achieved a sort of numb acceptance—not peace, exactly, but resignation to the path I'd chosen.

Sleep eluded me, of course.

I lay awake, replaying Lucas's quiet acceptance of my decision, searching for hidden meanings, alternative interpretations, anything that might make sense of the hollow ache in my chest.

The morning brought no clarity, only the mechanistic routine of coffee, shower, professional attire, the armor I'd wear to face another day pretending my world hadn't imploded.

I applied makeup with extra care, covering the shadows beneath my eyes and adding color to my pale, sleepless cheeks.

By nine, I was at my desk, responding to emails with robotic efficiency, my thoughts three thousand miles away in New York. By noon, I'd received a follow-up from the recruiter—an initial offer had been made, and the recruiter wanted to discuss via telephone call the following week.

I accepted the meeting, ignoring the twist of nausea the confirmation email produced.

By five, I'd convinced myself I'd made the right decision.

The mature choice. The prudent path forward.

By seven, I was home again, having changed into leggings and an oversized sweater.

Takeout Chinese food sat on the coffee table beside me as I half-watched a documentary about deep-sea creatures.

Beings that lived in darkness, adapted to crushing pressure, surviving in environments that should have been impossible.

I was reaching for the last spring roll when my phone buzzed with a text.

I'm downstairs. We need to talk. —L

The food turned to ash in my mouth. I stared at the message, reading it over and over as if the words might rearrange themselves into something less destabilizing.

He was here.

After walking away yesterday without an argument. After accepting my decision with quiet dignity.

After respecting the boundary I'd established with such careful deliberation.

He was here.

And even before I texted back a simple:

Come up

Even before I heard his familiar knock at my door, I knew with bone-deep certainty that I would never be getting on that plane to New York.

Because Lucas Turner had changed the rules again.

And God help me, I was going to let him.