Page 32 of Ruined by My Ex’s Dad (Silver Fox Obsession #2)

Savannah

" Y ou need to choose a dress that says 'successful professional,' not 'sleeping with your ex's father.'"

I glared at Zoe from inside my closet, where I'd been staring at my wardrobe options for twenty minutes.

"That's not helpful."

"Neither is panic-texting me about dinner with Catherine Reid."

She sprawled across my bed, flipping through a magazine with studied casualness that didn't match the concern in her eyes. "What possessed you to accept that invitation anyway?"

Good question.

One I'd been asking myself repeatedly since yesterday, when an elegant cream envelope had arrived at my office containing a handwritten note from Miles's mother requesting the pleasure of my company for dinner at Maison Laurent.

Just the two of us. No explanation offered.

The anxiety had been building since then, manifesting in an unsettled stomach and a general feeling that something was off with my body.

However, I chalked it up to dreading whatever Catherine Reid had planned for our evening.

"Curiosity," I admitted, pulling out a navy sheath dress that hit just below the knee. Conservative enough for a business dinner, elegant enough for one of the city's most exclusive restaurants. "And maybe a touch of masochism."

"Or self-sabotage." Zoe sat up, expression serious now.

"Sav, you've been floating on cloud nine since your dramatic reunion with Lucas last week. Why complicate things by dining with his Miles’ Mom? Why would she care about you dating Lucas anyhow?”

Because something in Catherine's precise, elegant handwriting had felt like a summons I couldn't refuse.

Because despite the blissful haze of the past week—nights spent in Lucas's arms, days spent pretending to focus on work while counting hours until I could see him again—I couldn't shake the feeling that our bubble of happiness was more fragile than it appeared.

"She's Miles's mother," I said, sliding the dress from its hanger. "And Lucas's past. Both relationships that impact mine, whether I like it or not."

"And you're sure this isn't about testing Lucas? Seeing how he reacts when you have dinner with her?"

I paused, caught by the unexpected insight. "I didn't tell him."

Zoe's eyebrows shot up. "Seriously? After the whole hospital lie disaster? You're keeping secrets again?"

"It's not a secret," I argued, though the defensiveness in my voice betrayed me. "It's just... information I haven't shared yet."

"Uh-huh." Her skepticism was palpable. "Because that worked out so well last time."

She was right, of course.

After everything Lucas and I had been through, after the raw honesty of our reconciliation, keeping this dinner from him was a step backward.

Yet I'd found myself fabricating plans with Zoe when he asked about my evening, the lie slipping out with disturbing ease.

Why? What was I afraid of?

"He never talks about her," I said, more to myself than to Zoe. "In all our conversations, all our nights together, Catherine's name has barely been mentioned beyond acknowledging she exists."

"Maybe because it was thirty years ago and lasted about fifteen minutes," Zoe pointed out reasonably.

"A college hookup that resulted in an unplanned pregnancy isn't exactly relationship goals worth reminiscing about."

"But she's the only woman he ever had a child with. The only one who—" I stopped, the truth crystallizing as I spoke it. "The only one who had the power to hurt him. To leave a mark."

Understanding dawned in Zoe's eyes. "And you're afraid you'll be the second."

I nodded, unable to articulate the fear that had been growing alongside my deepening feelings for Lucas.

The knowledge that loving someone this completely meant giving them unprecedented power to destroy you.

"You're going to tell him," Zoe said. Not a question.

"Before you meet her."

"I will." I checked my watch—still three hours before the reservation. Enough time to call Lucas, to explain, to ask if he had any insights into the woman who'd once been his wife.

"After I shower."

Zoe stood, gathering her purse. "Good. Because whatever game Catherine Reid is playing, you need to go in with your cards face up." She pressed a quick kiss to my cheek.

"Call me tomorrow with all the gory details."

After she left, I stepped into the shower, letting hot water sluice over me as I tried to organize my thoughts.

What did Catherine want?

The invitation had come a week after Lucas and I had been photographed having dinner at a small bistro in North Beach—nothing overtly romantic, but the body language unmistakable to anyone paying attention.

Had word gotten back to Miles? To Catherine? Was this a warning, a threat, an interrogation?

By the time I emerged, hair wrapped in a towel, my anxiety had crystallized into determination.

I would call Lucas.

Would tell him about the dinner. Would face whatever came next as we'd promised each other, together.

My phone rang before I could reach for it. Lucas's name was lighting up the screen as if my thoughts had summoned him.

"I was just about to call you," I answered, smiling despite my nerves.

"Were you?" His voice, deep and familiar now, sent warmth spiraling through me. "Something about your plans changing tonight?"

My stomach dropped.

"How did you?—"

"Zoe texted me." The edge in his tone was subtle but unmistakable.

"Something about making sure you weren't walking into an ambush unprepared."

I silently thanked and cursed my best friend in the same breath.

"I was going to tell you."

"Before or after the dinner?" The question was calm, measured, revealing nothing of what he must be feeling.

"Before. Just now, actually." I sank onto the edge of my bed, wet hair dripping onto my shoulders.

"I'm sorry I didn't mention it yesterday when the invitation arrived. I'm still figuring out how to navigate all this."

A pause, then a soft exhale. "Tell me about the invitation."

I described the cream envelope, the handwritten note, the request for dinner at one of San Francisco's most exclusive restaurants—a place that required connections or a six-month wait for reservations.

"Maison Laurent," he repeated, something shifting in his voice. "Her favorite restaurant.”

"I didn't know," I said carefully.

"There's a great deal you don't know about Catherine," he replied, his tone neutral now. "She's... complex."

"Complex how?"

Another pause, longer this time.

"Brilliant. Cultivated. Calculating. The kind of woman who plays chess while others are playing checkers."

"Should I be worried?"

"Not worried," he corrected.

"Prepared. Catherine doesn't do anything without a purpose. If she's invited you to dinner, she has a specific outcome in mind."

"Which is?"

"That," he said with surprising gentleness, "is what you'll need to discover."

I waited for him to tell me not to go. To insist on joining me. To exercise the control that was so fundamental to his nature.

When he didn't, I felt both relieved and oddly disappointed.

"You're not going to tell me to cancel?" I asked.

"Would you listen if I did?"

"Probably not," I admitted.

A low chuckle, warm with affection.

"Then why waste the effort? You're a grown woman, Savannah. I trust your judgment."

The words wrapped around me, unexpected and precious. Trust.

From a man who dispensed it so rarely, who had built his life around control rather than faith in others' decisions.

"Thank you," I said softly. "I'll call you afterward."

"I'll be waiting." Something shifted in his voice, deepened.

"And Savannah? Remember who you're coming home to."

The possessive edge in those words, the quiet certainty, steadied me in a way no command could have.

"I will," I promised.

Three hours later, I handed my car keys to the valet at Maison Laurent, smoothing my palms down the front of my navy dress.

I'd chosen simple gold jewelry and subtle makeup, my hair loose around my shoulders—professional enough for a business dinner, confident enough to face whatever Catherine Reid had planned.

The ma?tre d' led me through the dimly lit restaurant, past white-clothed tables where San Francisco's elite dined in hushed exclusivity.

At a corner table partially secluded by an antique screen sat a woman who could only be Catherine Reid.

Even from a distance, I understood immediately why Lucas had been drawn to her.

Striking rather than conventionally beautiful, with silver-streaked dark hair cut in a sleek bob and cheekbones that could cut glass.

She wore an understated black dress that probably cost more than my monthly rent, accented by a single strand of pearls that gleamed in the candlelight.

She stood as I approached, offering her hand with practiced grace.

"Savannah. Thank you for coming on such short notice."

Her grip was cool, firm, appraising. I met it with equal pressure, refusing to be intimidated.

"Thank you for the invitation. It was... unexpected."

"I'm sure." She gestured for me to sit, waiting until I was settled before reclaiming her own chair.

"I've ordered champagne. I hope that's acceptable."

As if on cue, a waiter appeared with a bottle in an ice bucket, pouring two flutes of pale gold liquid before disappearing with practiced discretion.

"To new acquaintances," Catherine said, raising her glass.

"Or perhaps I should say, new understandings."

I touched my glass to hers, the crystal ringing softly. "New understandings of what, exactly?"

A smile touched her lips—not warm, not cold, but assessing. "Direct. Lucas mentioned that about you."

The casual reference to conversations with Lucas, I knew nothing about, sent a chill through me.

"You two speak often?"

"Occasionally. When it concerns Miles." She sipped her champagne, watching me over the rim. "Or more recently, when it concerns shared interests."

"And what interest do we share, Ms. Reid?"

"Catherine, please." Her smile widened slightly. "And I think we both know the answer to that question."

"Lucas," I said, deciding direct was better than dancing around the subject.