Page 40 of Ruined by My Ex’s Dad (Silver Fox Obsession #2)

Savannah

M oving into Lucas Turner's penthouse felt like stepping into a glossy architectural magazine—beautiful, pristine, and utterly unlived in.

Three weeks after his public declaration at the gala, I stood in his—our—closet, surrounded by empty hangers that awaited my modest wardrobe, feeling both thrilled and terrified by what I'd agreed to.

The movers had delivered everything efficiently, but I'd insisted on unpacking the personal items myself.

After just an hour of hanging clothes and arranging accessories, I felt oddly drained.

I told myself it was the emotional weight of such a significant change, my body processing the magnitude of what we were doing.

The closet itself was a metaphor for our differences—his side a perfect parade of bespoke suits, custom shirts, and designer shoes, all in neutral tones arranged with military precision.

The waiting space for my things was four times larger than my entire closet at home, with specialized drawers and racks whose purpose I couldn't begin to guess.

"Everything okay?" Lucas appeared in the doorway, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up—his version of casual that still looked impossibly elegant.

He'd been checking on me periodically, bringing water and insisting I take breaks.

"Just... absorbing." I gestured at the expanse.

"This closet is bigger than my first apartment."

A smile touched his lips.

"We can convert some of it to storage if you prefer. There's no requirement to fill it."

"Good, because unless you're planning to fund a massive shopping spree, I don't own enough clothes to make a dent in this space." I ran my fingers along the empty rack.

"You do realize my wardrobe consists mainly of work clothes, jeans, and yoga pants, right? Nothing that belongs in..." I waved vaguely at his meticulously organized section, "whatever designer showroom this is."

He moved behind me, arms encircling my waist.

"Your clothes belong wherever you are. This is your home now, Savannah. Not a stage set you need to conform to."

The sentiment was perfect.

The problem was believing it when surrounded by the austere minimalism of his living space.

Every surface was pristine, uncluttered.

The kitchen gleamed with high-end appliances that looked unused. The living room featured furniture that was clearly chosen for its aesthetic appeal rather than comfort.

Even the bedding was a study in monochromatic precision—crisp white sheets with perfect hospital corners.

I turned in his arms, studying the face that had become the center of my universe.

"Did you actually live here before, or just maintain it as a very expensive hotel room?"

He laughed, the sound still rare enough to delight me. "That obvious?"

"Lucas, there isn't a single personal item in this entire penthouse except in your office. No photos. No mementos. Nothing that says 'a human being sleeps here' versus 'a corporation maintains this space for impression management.'"

His expression sobered slightly.

"I told you once, the public spaces were designed for impression. My office was the only place I truly lived."

"Well, that's about to change." I pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"I'm messy. I leave books open on furniture. I kick off my shoes wherever I happen to be standing. I collect ridiculous coffee mugs with terrible puns on them. Your perfect penthouse is about to get very human, very fast."

Something softened in his eyes—relief, perhaps, or anticipation. "I'm counting on it."

Three hours later, he might have been reconsidering that statement as my belongings began to transform his space.

Boxes of books that had no designated shelving. Colorful throws that clashed with his minimalist color scheme.

A collection of mismatched coffee mugs that looked absurd in his sleek kitchen cabinets. Family photos in frames that didn't coordinate with anything.

I watched him carefully as each new element disrupted the perfect harmony of his space, waiting for the moment his patience would snap. But he merely directed the movers, helped arrange furniture, and occasionally raised an eyebrow at particularly incongruous items before finding them a place.

"You're being very gracious about this invasion," I commented as we surveyed my extensive book collection that had now taken over an entire wall of the living room. "I half expected you to hire a designer and have everything professionally integrated."

Lucas's mouth quirked. "I considered it."

"Of course you did." I bumped his shoulder with mine, something I'd never have dared do weeks ago. "Control freak."

"Reformed control freak," he corrected, pulling me against him. "I want to see you here, Savannah. Not a curated version that matches the décor. You."

The statement was perfect in its simplicity and acceptance. Yet I couldn't help wondering if the reality of sharing space—of having his meticulously ordered life disrupted by my more chaotic presence—would eventually wear on him.

If the novelty were to fade, it would be replaced by irritation at coffee rings on side tables and shoes left in hallways.

My phone buzzed with a text from Zoe:

Survival check. Has Mr. Control Freak had an aneurysm over your coffee mug collection yet?

I smiled, typing back:

So far he's being suspiciously accommodating. Will report if head explodes.

"Zoe?" Lucas asked, recognizing my expression.

"Checking to see if you've had me killed yet for violating the penthouse aesthetic."

He took my phone gently, typing a response himself before handing it back:

This is Lucas. Savannah is alive and well. The mugs are hideous but apparently make her happy. I'm adapting.

I laughed, both at the message and at how casually he'd inserted himself into my friendship—something the old Lucas would never have done.

"She'll combust when she sees that," I said, sending the message.

"Good. Your friends should know I'm not the monster they likely imagine." He headed toward the kitchen.

"I've made dinner reservations at Luciana's to celebrate our first official night of cohabitation."

I followed him, sliding onto one of the bar stools at the kitchen island.

"Actually, I was hoping we could stay in. Maybe order takeout?"

He paused, turning to look at me with mild surprise. "Takeout."

"Yes, that marvelous invention where food appears at your door without requiring a reservation or dress code." I tilted my head, studying him. "Have you ever actually ordered delivery food, Lucas?"

"Of course I have."

"When you were in college doesn't count."

His expression confirmed my suspicion. "I have a chef who prepares meals that are delivered weekly."

"That's not takeout. That's private catering." I pulled out my phone. "Tonight, we're ordering junk food. In containers. That we'll eat on the couch. Maybe even straight from the cartons."

The flash of horror that crossed his features was comical. "Is that... necessary?"

"Absolutely essential to cohabitation," I said firmly. "Consider it a rite of passage."

Two hours later, we sat on his pristine white sofa, surrounded by containers of Thai food, watching a movie on the enormous screen that had risen from a cabinet at the touch of a button.

Lucas had changed into what passed for loungewear in his world—designer sweatpants and a very expensive-looking cashmere sweater.

I, by contrast, had raided his closet and emerged in one of his dress shirts and nothing else, the hem hitting mid-thigh. The look he'd given me when I appeared had been worth the momentary self-consciousness, heat, and possession, and something softer underlying both.

"This is how normal people live, you know," I said, gesturing with my chopsticks at our casual dinner setup. "Not every meal requires proper silver and three courses."

"I'm beginning to see the appeal," he admitted, though he was still eating his pad thai with a fork and had insisted on actual plates. Baby steps.

I pointed my chopsticks at him accusingly. "You secretly like this. The great Lucas Turner, relaxing like a commoner."

A smile played at his lips. "I like seeing you comfortable. At home."

The simple statement warmed me from the inside out. This—his willingness to adapt, to let me bring disorder into his controlled, orderly world—meant more than any grand gesture. It was small, daily proof that what we were building mattered more than his ingrained need for control.

After dinner and the movie, as we prepared for bed, I found myself studying the bathroom counter. My collection of products—messy, varied, colorful—now shared space with his minimalist male grooming items, each in matching containers, each returned to precisely the same spot after use.

"We can have the bathroom remodeled," Lucas said from the doorway, correctly interpreting my expression.

"Add another vanity. More storage."

I turned to him, leaning against the counter. "Is that what you want? To keep our lives in separate containers, even while sharing the same space?"

He considered this, moving to stand before me. "I want what makes you comfortable. If that means separate spaces, we'll create them. If it means integration, I'll adapt."

His willingness to accommodate me was touching, but it highlighted something I'd been sensing since the move began—his tendency to defer to my preferences now felt almost like overcorrection, as if he was stepping back from his natural assertiveness to prove he could change.

"I don't want you walking on eggshells in your own home," I said, reaching for his hand. "This isn't about erasing who you are any more than it's about changing who I am. It's about finding the balance."

He brought my hand to his lips. "Balance has never been my strong suit. I tend toward extremes."

"I've noticed." I smiled, threading my fingers through his. "But let's be clear about something: I fell in love with Lucas Turner—controlling, precise, occasionally maddening Lucas Turner. Not some neutered version who's afraid to tell me when my stuff is driving him crazy."