Page 43 of Ruined by My Ex’s Dad (Silver Fox Obsession #2)

Lucas

I made the last-minute decision to attend the board meeting, and I have to say, watching Savannah across the boardroom as she delivered the Westlake presentation with flawless precision, I felt something that defied control entirely.

Pride mingled with a possessiveness I had no right to display in this setting.

As agreed, I'd recused myself from direct oversight of her projects. Had maintained professional distance throughout the meeting. Had addressed her as "Ms. Blake" with the same formal courtesy I extended to any consultant.

Yet my body responded to her presence with the same visceral recognition it had from our first meeting—a low hum of awareness that heightened every sense.

The confident set of her shoulders as she walked the board through market projections. The slight flush that colored her cheeks when she fielded challenging questions.

The fleeting glance in my direction when Reynolds attempted to undermine a key campaign element.

But beneath her polished performance, I caught subtle signs that no one else would notice—the way she gripped her water glass a moment longer than necessary, the almost imperceptible pause before she stood to advance her slides.

Her energy was fragile today, as if she were running on determination alone. When she thought no one was looking, I saw her press her fingertips briefly to her temple, and twice she shifted her weight in a way that suggested she needed the support of the table behind her.

She was crushing the presentation—her arguments were flawless, her data compelling—but something was off. I'd learned to read the subtle language of her body over these months together, and today she seemed to be fighting against herself in some indefinable way.

I gave nothing away.

Maintained the perfect neutral expression of a CEO evaluating a presentation on its merits alone.

Inside, I seethed at Reynolds's transparent attempt to assert dominance over her—a display meant to establish hierarchy now that her relationship with me was public knowledge.

"The targeting metrics seem ambitious," he said, interrupting her flow for the third time. "Especially for a campaign of this scale."

Savannah didn't flinch, didn't turn to me for support. Instead, she smiled—that particular smile I'd come to recognize as dangerous.

"They're not ambitious, Mr. Reynolds. They're data-driven.

"She clicked to a slide he'd clearly overlooked in the materials. "As outlined in section four, we've already achieved these metrics in the test market phase. The full rollout scales what we've already proven works."

Reynolds's mouth tightened, but he had nowhere to retreat. The data was irrefutable, her preparation impeccable.

Pride surged through me again—not the possessive satisfaction of a man whose partner had performed well, but the genuine admiration of a businessman recognizing excellence.

When the presentation concluded, after the board had offered their unanimous approval of the campaign, I allowed myself a single nod in her direction.

Professional. Appropriate. Revealing nothing of the desire to pull her into my arms, to claim her mouth with mine, to show everyone exactly what she meant to me.

Later, I told myself. In private, I could show her.

Here, I would honor our agreement.

The remainder of the day passed in a blur of meetings and decisions, my focus fragmented by the knowledge that Savannah was somewhere in the building, navigating her own professional landscape.

I wanted to check on her, to ensure Reynolds hadn't continued his petty power plays after the board dispersed.

Wanted to know if other executives were maintaining appropriate boundaries now that our relationship was public.

Instead, I forced myself to focus on the Japanese investment proposal, the Seattle development issues, and the quarterly projections that required my attention. The discipline that had built my empire hadn't abandoned me entirely, despite the seismic shifts in my personal life.

By six, I'd cleared my essential tasks and found myself standing at my office window, watching the city shift from day to evening.

The familiar view had once represented everything I valued—achievement, control, and empire-building from this privileged vantage point.

Now it seemed incomplete without Savannah beside me, her perspective broadening mine in ways I was only beginning to understand.

My phone vibrated with a text from her:

Finished for the day. Meeting Zoe for dinner. See you at home later?

Home.

Such a simple word that had never held meaning beyond physical location until she'd filled my penthouse with color and chaos and life. I typed back:

I'll be waiting.

Then, acting on impulse rather than careful calculation, I added:

I was proud of you today. You were magnificent.

Three dots appeared, disappeared, and reappeared. Finally,

Even when I shut down Reynolds?

Especially then,

I replied, smiling at the phone like a teenager rather than a forty-seven-year-old CEO.

He needed the reminder that your position was earned, not granted.

Another pause, then:

I love you. See you tonight.

Three words that had once seemed foreign on my tongue, now as essential as breathing.

I love you too.

I set the phone down, this small exchange having settled something restless inside me.

Six months ago, I would have intervened directly with Reynolds. Established dominance through authority rather than allowing Savannah to handle the situation herself. Would have considered it protection rather than recognizing it as a form of control.

I was changing. She was changing me, not through demand or manipulation, but through the simple power of seeing me altogether and loving what she saw—flaws, strengths, and everything between.

The intercom buzzed, Carol's voice interrupting my thoughts. "Your father is here to see you, Mr. Turner."

Surprise jolted through me.

My father rarely visited the office since his semi-retirement years ago, and never without calling first. Since his stroke, he'd been even less mobile, preferring to summon people to him rather than venturing out.

"Send him in," I said, moving around the desk to meet him.

Richard Turner entered with the aid of a sleek ebony cane—a concession to physical limitation that he carried like a scepter rather than a support.

Even at his advanced age, he remained imposing, despite the slight stoop to his shoulders and the careful measure of his steps.

"Dad," I greeted him, genuine concern overriding the complicated dynamics that had always existed between us.

"Is everything all right? You should have called, I would have come to you."

He waved away my concern, lowering himself into one of the visitor chairs with careful dignity.

"I'm not an invalid, Lucas. The doctors encourage regular activity."

I took the chair beside him rather than retreating behind my desk—a deliberate choice to engage as son rather than CEO.

"Still, it's unusual to see you here. What's happened?"

"Nothing's happened." He studied me with the penetrating gaze that had intimidated board members and politicians throughout his career.

"I simply wanted to see you. Is that so extraordinary?"

It was. In forty-seven years of shared history, my father had never "simply wanted to see me" without purpose or agenda.

Our relationship had been built on achievement and expectation, not always a loving, casual connection.

"Can I offer you a drink?" I asked, falling back on social protocol to cover my confusion.

"Scotch. The good stuff you keep in that cabinet, Miles thinks I don't know about."

I smiled despite myself, rising to retrieve the twenty-five-year-old Macallan I reserved for significant moments.

As I poured two fingers into crystal tumblers, I felt my father's gaze steady on my back.

"You seem different," he observed as I handed him his glass.

"Lighter, somehow."

I settled back into my chair, considering how to respond to this unprecedented personal observation.

"I suppose I am."

"The Blake woman." Not a question but a statement, delivered with the same certainty he'd brought to business assessments throughout his career.

"Savannah," I corrected, surprising myself with the gentle rebuke.

"And yes, she's part of it."

My father nodded, sipping his scotch with evident appreciation.

We sat in silence for a moment, the city lights beginning to emerge against the darkening sky beyond my window. The quiet between us felt different than our usual strategic pauses—less tactical, more contemplative.

"I made a mistake with your mother," he said suddenly, the statement so unexpected I nearly choked on my scotch.

In all of the years since she had passed, we'd never discussed my mother's departure beyond the practical implications. Never acknowledged the emotional devastation it had wrought on both of us, the patterns it had established in our approach to vulnerability and connection.

"That's... quite an opening, Dad." I set my glass down carefully, studying his face for signs of the stroke's lingering effects.

This level of personal disclosure seemed medically concerning.

He snorted, reading my expression with familiar accuracy. "I'm not having another stroke, Lucas. Just the belated recognition that time isn't infinite, even for Turners."

He looked past me to the city beyond, something distant in his gaze.

"When Margaret left, I told myself it was her weakness. Her failure. That she couldn't handle the demands of our life."

The use of my mother's name—something he'd avoided for decades—underscored the gravity of whatever had prompted this unprecedented conversation.

"It's taken me well over thirty years and a brush with mortality to recognize that I drove her away," he continued, voice steady despite the weight of his words.

"Not through cruelty or neglect, but through rigidity. Control. The inability to bend, even when compromised, might have saved us."