Page 38 of Ruined by My Ex’s Dad (Silver Fox Obsession #2)

Lucas

C ontrol had always been my religion—my doctrine, my practice, my salvation.

As I’m standing in the grand ballroom of the Fairmont Hotel, watching Savannah move through the annual Turner Holdings charity gala in a gown the color of sin, I find myself committing an act of breathtaking heresy: I am about to sacrifice control on the altar of something far more powerful.

I was going to claim her.

Publicly. Irrevocably. Consequences be damned.

"You're staring, Dad." Miles appeared at my elbow, champagne in hand, following my gaze to where Savannah stood across the room, laughing at something the mayor's wife had said.

"Not very subtle."

"Subtlety is overrated," I replied, not looking away from the woman who had systematically dismantled every principle I'd lived by for years.

"At least in some circumstances."

Miles snorted, though the sound held more amusement than bitterness. Our relationship remained complex, still healing from years of misunderstanding, but something had shifted during our confrontation at my father's house.

A foundation for honesty had been laid, however tentative.

"She looks happy," he observed, his tone neutral.

"Different than when she was with me."

I glanced at him, surprised by the candor.

Their coffee meeting the week before had gone well, according to Savannah—awkward but necessary, a conversation that had given them both closure.

She'd been deliberately vague about specifics, respecting Miles's privacy, but something in her had seemed lighter afterward, as if a final weight had been lifted.

"She does look happy," I agreed, allowing myself a moment of pure, uncalculated joy. "I hope I'm part of the reason."

"You are." Miles sipped his champagne, watching her over the rim of his glass.

"Though I'm still getting used to the idea of you two together. It's... unconventional."

"That's one word for it."

"The board is starting to notice," he continued, voice dropping. "The way you look at each other. The fact that you've been arriving together at events. Reynolds mentioned something last week about your 'consulting arrangement' with Alder West."

I'd known this was coming. Had prepared for the inevitable whispers, the speculation, the potential business implications. What I hadn't anticipated was how little I cared about any of it.

"Let them notice," I said, the words coming easily—too easily for a man who'd built an empire on careful calculation and strategic restraint.

Miles raised an eyebrow. "Just like that? No damage control? No prepared statement? No carefully orchestrated rollout of information?"

"Just like that." I finished my scotch, set the glass on a passing waiter's tray.

"I'm tired of shadows, Miles. Tired of half-truths and strategic omissions. I want to build something real with her. That can't happen if we're hiding."

He studied me with an expression I couldn't quite decipher—something between surprise and a grudging respect.

"You really love her, don't you?"

"More than I thought possible at this point in my life." The honesty cost me nothing, which was perhaps the most surprising revelation of all.

Vulnerability with my son—once unthinkable—now felt like strength rather than weakness.

Miles nodded slowly, absorbing this. "Then I guess there's only one question left."

"What's that?"

A small, challenging smile played at his lips.

"What are you going to do about it?"

Before I could respond, the room's energy shifted. There was a reverent hush as my father made his entrance, leaning on his cane but otherwise showing remarkable recovery from his recent health crisis. This was his first public appearance since the stroke, a calculated display of Turner resilience.

The crowd parted for him, respectful murmurs following his progress. I moved to meet him, Miles falling into step beside me.

Across the room, I saw Savannah watching, her expression softening as she observed this rare moment of Turner family unity.

"Lucas. Miles." My father nodded to us both, his grip on my arm suggesting he needed support more than he cared to admit.

"Quite the turnout."

"Naturally. The prodigal patriarch returns."

I guided him toward a nearby chair, ignoring his look of annoyance at the implication he needed to sit. "How are you feeling?"

"Like a man half my age," he said dryly. "Unfortunately, that still makes me forty."

Miles laughed, the sound unguarded, genuine.

"Glad to see the stroke didn't affect your sense of humor, Grandpa."

"Takes more than a little brain damage to dull a Turner." My father's gaze moved past us, landing on Savannah, who was making her way toward our small group. "Speaking of sharp minds."

She reached us, resplendent in deep burgundy silk that caught the light with every movement.

The dress was modest by conventional standards—high neckline, back covered—but something about the way it moved with her body, the way it emphasized her quiet confidence, made it—made her— the most sensual thing in the room.

"Mr. Turner." She bent to press a kiss to my father's cheek—a gesture that would have been unthinkable from anyone else.

"You're looking well."

"And you're looking like you belong here," he replied, his usual bluntness softened by something that might have been approval.

"At my son's side."

The statement—so direct, so public—sent a ripple of whispers through those close enough to overhear.

My father had just acknowledged what we'd been carefully not confirming for weeks. Had legitimized what many had only speculated about.

Savannah's eyes met mine over my father's head, a question in their green depths. I gave a slight nod, feeling a knot of tension I hadn't realized I was carrying begin to unravel.

It was time.

"Actually, Father," I said, my voice carrying just enough to reach the circle of San Francisco elite surrounding us, "there's something I'd like to make official tonight."

The conversation around us dimmed, attention focusing on what Lucas Turner might consider worth a public announcement. Board members straightened, investors leaned forward, social columnists pretended not to take mental notes.

I moved to Savannah's side, my hand finding the small of her back in a gesture that was unmistakably possessive, unmistakably intimate.

"For those who have been wondering about the nature of my relationship with Savannah Blake," I continued, each word deliberate, measured, "let me be clear. This isn't a business arrangement. This isn't a casual association."

I turned to face her directly, watching emotions play across her features—surprise, recognition, a flash of something deeper that made my heart stutter against my ribs.

"This is the woman I love," I said simply.

"The woman I intend to build a future with. The woman who has shown me that power and achievement mean nothing without someone to share them with."

A collective intake of breath rippled through the room. Lucas Turner—notoriously private, ruthlessly self-contained—making a public declaration of love?

It was unprecedented. Shocking. Socially seismic.

But I wasn't finished. The most difficult part lay ahead—the true surrender of control, the final dismantling of the walls I'd built over decades.

"Savannah challenges everything I thought I knew about myself," I continued, speaking to her now as if we were alone, as if the hundreds of witnesses had vanished.

"She sees past the power and the position to the man beneath. She demands honesty when I'd prefer strategic silence. She calls me on my manipulations, my calculations, my tendency to control rather than connect."

My voice dropped, but in the absolute silence of the ballroom, every word carried perfectly. "And in doing so, she's given me the only thing I truly lacked: the courage to be vulnerable. To admit I need her. To acknowledge that I'm better, stronger, more complete—with her than I ever was alone."

Tears glistened in her eyes, though none fell. Her hand found mine, fingers interlacing with quiet strength.

"I love you," I said, the words no longer costing me anything.

"And I don't care who knows it."

Then I did something that would feature in San Francisco society gossip for months to come.

I, Lucas Turner—disciplined, reserved, the embodiment of corporate control—pulled Savannah into my arms and kissed her.

Not a polite social kiss, not a restrained acknowledgment, but a claiming.

A promise. A public declaration of everything words couldn't fully capture.

When we parted, the room remained silent for three heartbeats before erupting in a mixture of applause, shocked murmurs, and the unmistakable sound of social media notifications as the news began to spread beyond these walls.

Through the chaos, I caught glimpses of various reactions: my father's satisfied nod, as if a long-anticipated event had finally occurred. Miles raised his glass, a silent toast to a future he'd decided to accept, if not fully embrace.

Board members exchanging calculating glances, already assessing business implications.

Social climbers mentally adjusting their approach to the newly established power couple.

But none of that mattered compared to the look in Savannah's eyes—wonder mixed with a fierce, possessive pride that matched my own.

She wasn't embarrassed by my declaration.

Wasn't retreating from the attention or the implications.

Was standing beside me, chin lifted, every inch my equal in this moment of transformation.

"That was quite a statement," she murmured, her lips curving in a smile that held secrets only I was privileged to know. "Not exactly subtle."

"As I told Miles," I replied, keeping her close as congratulations and questions began to swirl around us, "subtlety is overrated. At least where you're concerned."

The remainder of the evening passed in a blur of strategic conversations, carefully deflected questions about wedding plans, and knowing looks from those who'd suspected all along.