Page 34 of Ruined by My Ex’s Dad (Silver Fox Obsession #2)

Lucas

T he Turner family estate loomed on the hillside like a monument to ambition—six thousand square feet of stone and glass overlooking the Bay, surrounded by manicured grounds and ancient oak trees.

My father's recent health scare had prompted this weekend gathering—a family lunch with the pretense of normalcy.

But today would shatter any illusion of normal.

Today, Savannah and I will tell Miles the truth.

The gravel crunched beneath my tires as I pulled up the circular driveway, Savannah silent beside me.

She'd been quiet all morning, tension evident in the tight line of her shoulders, the way her fingers worried the hem of her dress.

I reached across the console, covering her hand with mine.

"We don't have to do this today," I said, offering one last escape route.

"We could wait until?—"

"No." Her voice was soft but determined.

"No more waiting. No more secrets."

I nodded, respecting her resolve even as dread pooled in my stomach. In the over twenty years of navigating complex negotiations and high-stakes business deals, I'd never felt this kind of apprehension.

Strange, that facing my own son could unnerve me more than billion-dollar acquisitions or hostile takeovers.

"I texted Miles," she said, breaking our silence as I cut the engine.

"Told him I'd be here. He seemed... surprised."

"Understandable." I kept my tone neutral, masking the storm building inside me.

"He assumes our paths rarely cross these days."

She turned to me then, those green eyes searching mine.

"Are you sure about this, Lucas? Really sure?"

I didn't need to ask what she meant. Was I sure about us? Sure enough to upend the already complicated relationship with my son? Sure enough to face the consequences, personal and professional, of what we were about to reveal?

"Yes." No hesitation. No qualification. Just certainty.

She exhaled, a small smile touching her lips.

"Then let's go in."

The house was exactly as I remembered—oppressively pristine, filled with museum-quality art and furniture too valuable to actually use.

My father's domain, preserved like a mausoleum to wealth and status.

The chandelier in the foyer still caught the light in prisms that danced across marble floors.

The staircase still curved with imperious grandeur.

The silence still held that particular quality of empty wealth—thick, expectant, judging.

Rodriguez, the houseman who'd served my father for thirty years, greeted us with the perfect blend of formality and familiarity.

"Mr. Turner. Miss Blake." His eyes betrayed nothing of what he might think about our arrival together.

"Your father is resting before lunch. Mr. Miles is in the library."

The library. Of course.

I nodded my thanks, guiding Savannah with a light touch at the small of her back.

We moved through the house in silence, past the dining room where countless uncomfortable family dinners had unfolded, past the sitting room where my mother had told me she was leaving, past the study where it sometimes felt like my father had mapped out my life.

Every step triggered memories I'd spent decades suppressing. Every room held ghosts I'd tried to outrun.

The library door stood ajar, warm light spilling into the hallway. I paused, steeling myself. Savannah's hand found mine, squeezing gently, offering strength rather than seeking it.

The reversal wasn't lost on me.

For a man who'd built his life on power and control, accepting support from someone else was perhaps the most significant surrender I'd yet made.

I pushed the door open to find Miles standing at the window, hands in his pockets, staring out at the garden.

He turned as we entered, confusion flickering across his features as he registered our arrival together, our clasped hands.

Understanding dawned a moment later, his expression hardening into something that hovered between disbelief and disgust.

"You've got to be kidding me." His voice held a brittle edge I recognized—the tone he used when wounded but unwilling to show it.

"Please tell me this isn't what it looks like."

I felt Savannah tense beside me, but she didn't retreat, didn't loosen her grip on my hand.

"Miles." I kept my voice steady, measured.

"We need to talk."

"Talk." He laughed, the sound harsh in the book-lined room.

"That's rich. Since when do you talk, Dad? Since when do you explain anything to anyone?" His gaze shifted to Savannah, something wounded flashing in his eyes.

"And you. I expected better from you."

"I understand this is shocking," she began, but Miles cut her off with a sharp gesture.

"Shocking doesn't begin to cover it. Disgusting might be closer." He moved away from the window, circling us like a predator assessing weaknesses.

"How long? How long has this been going on?"

The question hung between us, loaded with implications.

How long had I been sleeping with his ex? How long had we been lying to him? How long had we been betraying him?

"Since the wedding in wine country," I answered, refusing to parse the timeline in ways that might seem defensive.

"Not while you were together. Not immediately after."

Miles ran a hand through his hair, a tell that revealed more profound distress than his angry facade suggested.

"The wedding." He shook his head, connecting dots.

"That's why you were at the hospital together, why you've been different lately. Why you—" He stopped, something dawning in his expression as he looked at Savannah.

"Is that why you ended things with me? Because you wanted him instead?"

"No." Her response was immediate and firm.

"You ended our relationship, Miles. A year before I ever met your father. Don't rewrite history."

"And I'm supposed to believe this is just a coincidence? That of all the men in San Francisco, you happened to fall for my father?"

"Not a coincidence," I said, stepping forward.

"But not planned either. It just... happened."

Miles turned on me, eyes flashing.

"Nothing 'just happens' with you, Dad. Everything is calculated. Everything is strategic. Everything is about winning."

The accusation sliced with uncomfortable precision, targeting insecurities I'd spent a lifetime burying.

Had I pursued Savannah as some subconscious competition with my son? Was this about possession rather than connection?

No.

I knew the truth of what existed between us—had felt it from that first night when neither of us knew the other's name or connection. What we'd found was genuine, unexpected, unprecedented in my experience.

"This isn't about you, Miles," I said, keeping my voice level despite the anger beginning to simmer beneath my calm exterior.

"It never was."

"Bullshit." He spat the word with venom I hadn't heard from him before.

"Everything's always been about me with you. Proving you're better. Proving I don't measure up. Taking what's mine when I show the slightest interest in it."

"That's not fair," Savannah interjected, stepping forward.

"I'm not property to be claimed or taken. I made my own choices."

Miles laughed, the sound bitter.

"Did you? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you traded up to a more powerful model. Same package, just older and richer."

I felt her stiffen beside me, saw the flash of hurt and anger cross her features. But before she could respond, the library door opened fully, revealing my father.

Richard Turner at eighty-one remained imposing despite his recent health scare—silver-haired, straight-backed, observing the scene before him.

"I should have known family lunch would devolve into drama," he said, moving into the room with the careful steps of a man recently discharged from the hospital.

"Some things never change."

The interruption shifted the energy in the room, providing a momentary reprieve from the mounting tension between Miles and me.

My father settled into his favorite armchair—the same one where he'd sat decades ago, telling me that my mother had left, that I needed to be stronger, that emotion was weakness in a world that rewarded control.

"Don't stop on my account." He gestured between us.

"This confrontation is years overdue."

Miles straightened, uncomfortable under his grandfather's scrutiny. The complex dynamics of three generations of Turner men filled the room like smoke, suffocating in its intensity.

"You knew about this?" Miles asked his grandfather.

"I suspected." My father's gaze moved to Savannah, assessing her with the same calculating look he'd given every potential business connection throughout his career.

"The hospital made it rather obvious. Lucas doesn’t allow people to drive him to and from airports out of professional courtesy."

Savannah met his gaze without flinching—one of the many things I admired about her. She wouldn't be intimidated, not even by the patriarch of the Turner family.

"Mr. Turner," she acknowledged, her voice steady.

"I'm sorry your family gathering has been disrupted."

"Don't apologize for existing, young lady." My father waved away her words.

"It's about time someone disrupted this family. We've been drowning in polite fiction for years now.”

The statement, so unlike my father's usual careful diplomacy, caught me off guard. Illness had apparently loosened his tongue, stripped away some of the rigid control he'd maintained throughout my childhood.

Miles moved to the bar cart in the corner, pouring himself a generous measure of scotch despite the early hour.

"So that's it? Everyone's just accepting this... this travesty? This betrayal?"

"Betrayal implies ownership," my father observed mildly.

"Did you still consider Ms. Blake yours to claim?"

"That's not the point?—"

"It's precisely the point." My father leaned forward, fixing Miles with the penetrating stare that had made junior executives tremble throughout his career.

"You discarded this woman over a year ago. By your choice, as I understand it. Your objection is no longer about love or loyalty. It's about possession. About territory."

Miles slammed his glass down, amber liquid sloshing over the rim.