Page 36 of Ruined by My Ex’s Dad (Silver Fox Obsession #2)

Savannah

T he aftermath of the Turner family confrontation wasn't the explosion I'd expected, but something quieter and potentially more transformative.

As we drove away from the estate, the silence between Lucas and me held none of the tension that had charged our arrival.

Instead, it felt... peaceful.

Like the calm after a storm that had been building for years.

"You're very quiet," Lucas observed, his eyes on the winding coastal road ahead.

"Processing," I admitted.

"That went... differently than I expected."

"Miles surprised me," he said, a note of something like pride creeping into his voice.

"There's more maturity there than I've given him credit for."

I studied Lucas's profile, noting the subtle changes in his expression.

The perpetual tension around his eyes had eased, replaced by something lighter, more open.

It was as if confronting his son—facing his own fears—had lifted a weight he'd carried so long he'd forgotten it was there.

"Your father surprised me, too," I said.

"He's not what I imagined from everything you've told me."

Lucas's mouth quirked in a half-smile.

"For a brief moment, I glimpsed the man she must have loved—the father who had driven me relentlessly toward excellence because he believed I was capable of greatness, before that fierce ambition hardened into the exacting, never-satisfied figure who had shaped my adult life."

He glanced at me briefly. "And he likes you. That rarely happens."

"How can you tell?"

"He used your name. Twice." Lucas's hand found mine on the console between us, fingers interlacing with casual intimacy.

"My father doesn't bother learning names unless he considers someone worth the mental space."

I laughed softly, shaking my head at the peculiar ways power manifested in the Turner dynasty.

"High praise indeed."

As we approached the city, the golden afternoon light casting long shadows across the Bay, Lucas cleared his throat.

"There's something I need to tell you. Something I should have updated you on.“

The careful phrasing sent a flicker of curiosity through me.

"What is it?"

"After our argument—when you told me you were considering New York—I told you I was going to make arrangements. Create a trust in your name." His eyes remained fixed on the road, but I could see the subtle tension in his jaw.

"I called Graham that night. The papers were drawn up within forty-eight hours, and I signed them yesterday morning before we left for my father's."

I stared at him, processing this revelation.

Not his intention to create the trust—I'd known about that since our car confrontation. But the speed, the decisiveness, the fact that he'd acted so immediately.

"You signed them yesterday morning?" I repeated.

"Before we even knew how today would go with your family?"

"Yes." He turned onto the highway on-ramp and accelerated smoothly.

"Because my commitment to protecting you isn't contingent on external circumstances. It exists regardless of what my father thinks, what Miles accepts, or how the rest of the world reacts to us."

The weight of this gesture—its mixture of care and absolute certainty—was pure Lucas.

He didn't make empty promises or wait to see how situations developed. When he decided something mattered, he acted.

"What exactly does this trust include?" I asked, needing to understand the scope of what he'd done.

"Financial security that can't be touched by Turner Holdings, by family disputes, or by professional backlash," he said matter-of-factly.

"Enough to ensure you never have to compromise your principles for economic reasons. Never have to choose between your integrity and your livelihood."

I absorbed this, measuring the gesture against my own fierce independence.

"Lucas, I need you to understand something fundamental about me." I turned in my seat, needing him to hear this clearly. "I appreciate the protection. But what I need most is partnership. Equality. The knowledge that we face whatever comes together."

"The trust exists," he said, glancing at me with something soft in his eyes.

"But it's yours to manage as you see fit.

I won't make decisions about your life without your input.

What I will do is ensure you have every possible advantage when facing whatever consequences our relationship might bring. “

There it was—the heart of what truly mattered to him. Not control for its own sake, but the desperate need to protect what he valued. To eliminate risks that threatened what had become precious to him.

The distinction—subtle but crucial—represented growth I wouldn't have believed possible weeks ago. Not control, but empowerment. Not dependency, but security that enhanced rather than diminished my choices.

"Thank you," I said simply. "For doing what you said you would do. For acting so quickly.“

A smile touched his lips. "I don't make promises lightly. And when something matters to me—when someone matters to me—I don't hesitate."

We drove in companionable silence for several miles, the conversation settling between us as the city skyline grew larger on the horizon. My phone buzzed with a reminder of tomorrow's coffee meeting with Miles, but I found myself less anxious about it now.

The family confrontation had shifted something fundamental in all our dynamics.

"I've been thinking about the apartment," Lucas said as we approached his building. "About practical arrangements, if you're serious about us building something permanent."

Something in his tone caught my attention.

"What kind of practical arrangements?"

"I had Elena prepare the second bedroom as an office space for you. And I've cleared half the closet in the master suite."

He pulled into his building's garage, his voice carefully casual.

"Just in case you decide you'd like to make this more than occasional overnight stays."

I felt my heart skip as the implications sank in. "Lucas Turner, are you asking me to move in with you?"

He parked and turned to face me, his expression serious. "I'm asking you to make this your home, too. Not as my girlfriend visiting my space, but as an equal partner in our shared life."

The invitation—unexpected and perfect—represented everything I'd hoped for but hadn't dared assume. Lucas Turner, reorganizing his carefully ordered existence to include me permanently.

"Are you sure?" I asked, searching his face.

"That's a significant change. Your penthouse has been your sanctuary for years."

"I've never been more certain of anything." His hands found mine, holding them with unexpected gentleness. "I love you, Savannah Blake. And I'm tired of pretending this is anything less than the most significant relationship of my life."

The words washed over me, filling spaces I hadn't realized were empty.

"Yes," I said, the answer emerging without hesitation. "I'll move in with you. But I'm keeping my apartment for now—not as an escape route, but as a reminder that I'm choosing this. Choosing us."

He nodded, accepting my terms without argument. "Independence within connection. I'd expect nothing less."

I reached for the pendant I wore—a simple gold key on a delicate chain. A gift I'd bought myself after my first major contract, a personal symbol of the doors I'd opened through my own efforts. I removed it carefully, taking Lucas's hand and placing the necklace in his palm.

"I'm not giving you my independence," I explained, seeing the question in his eyes. "I'm sharing it. The symbol of my achievements, my autonomy. I'm bringing them into what we're building together."

Understanding dawned in his expression as he recognized the significance of the gesture.

He opened his hand, studying the delicate key resting in his palm. Then, with deliberate care, he removed his watch—the expensive Swiss timepiece that had been part of his professional uniform for decades. He fastened it around my wrist, the band too large, but the symbolism unmistakable.

"Time," he said. "My most guarded resource. Yours now, as much as mine."

I blinked back unexpected tears, touched by the perfect symmetry of our exchange. Keys and time—independence and priority—shared rather than surrendered.

"We should go upstairs," I said, suddenly needing to be in private with him, to process the magnitude of what we'd just committed to.

The elevator ride to his penthouse passed in charged silence, his hand at the small of my back in a gesture that felt different now—not possessive or protective, but claiming. Acknowledging ownership that went both ways.

Once inside, he moved to the bar, pouring us each a measure of Highland Park. I accepted the glass, the amber liquid catching the light as I tilted it toward his.

"I should probably get Catherine's letter for you," I said, thinking of the envelope still in my bedside drawer. “When I go to my apartment again, I‘ll bring it over."

Lucas nodded, coming to stand beside me at the window. "Thank you for telling me about the dinner when it happened. I know that couldn't have been easy."

"I promised honesty," I said. "Even when it's uncomfortable." I turned to face him. "She... told me things about your childhood. About the patterns she saw in you. About SEC investigations."

His expression hardened momentarily before he mastered it.

"Catherine always did know where to place the knife for maximum effect."

"Was it true? The investigations?"

He met my gaze directly, unflinching in his honesty. "Yes. Three times. Each more aggressive than the last. Each time, the evidence was insufficient to proceed."

A pause, then: "But not fabricated. Not entirely."

I absorbed this, measuring it against what I knew of the man before me. The ambition that drove him. The determination that had built his empire. The moral flexibility that allowed him to see opportunities where others saw only obstacles.

"Would you do it again?" I asked the question emerging before I could second-guess it. "Cross lines, if the stakes were high enough?"