Page 44 of Ruined by My Ex’s Dad (Silver Fox Obsession #2)

I remained silent, sensing that interruption would derail whatever process was unfolding before me.

"I see the same pattern in you, Lucas. Have always seen it." His eyes returned to mine, sharp despite the lines etching his face.

"The same drive. The same precision. The same fundamental belief that emotion is weakness, vulnerability is risk, connection is secondary to achievement."

"I'm aware of the similarities," I said carefully, uncomfortable with this level of personal dissection.

"Are you?" He leaned forward slightly, wincing at what must have been a twinge of pain.

"Because I've watched you for decades, building the same fortress I constructed. Amassing power and control at the expense of genuine connection. Creating an empire to house your isolation."

The assessment landed with uncomfortable precision, targeting vulnerabilities I'd only recently begun to acknowledge.

"That's changing now."

"Yes." He smiled slightly, an expression I rarely saw. "I've seen it. In how you look at her. In how she affects you. In small ways that likely seem insignificant to you but are glaringly obvious to someone who knows the patterns."

"Such as?" I found myself genuinely curious about his observations.

"You checked your phone four times during the Milton presentation yesterday." He raised an eyebrow.

"The Lucas Turner I've known for forty-seven years would die before displaying such divided attention. Yet you did it without apology or concealment. Simply a man checking for messages from someone who matters more than the business at hand."

I hadn't realized anyone had noticed. Had thought my glances at my phone—watching for updates from Savannah about her day—had been discreet.

"There's more," my father continued, seeming to enjoy my discomfort.

"You laughed in the elevator with Reynolds last week.

Not the strategic chuckle you've perfected for client meetings, but genuine amusement.

You defended Miles's market analysis in the executive committee rather than highlighting its flaws.

You've started leaving the office before eight most evenings. "

Each observation was trivial in isolation. Together, they painted a portrait of transformation that I hadn't fully recognized myself.

"Your point?" I asked, defaulting to brusqueness to mask my disquiet.

"My point is that she's changing you. Opening you." He finished his scotch, setting the glass aside with precise movements.

"And you're letting her."

I couldn't deny it. Didn't want to. "Yes."

"Good." The approval in his voice caught me off guard.

"Don't make my mistakes, Lucas. Don't choose empire over connection. Don't sacrifice love on the altar of control."

The raw honesty in his words, the vulnerability in his expression—these were gifts I'd never expected to receive from the man who'd been my hero and my hardest critic, who'd pushed me relentlessly because he believed I could achieve anything.

I don't know how to do this," I admitted, the confession costing more than I'd anticipated.

"How to be open without feeling exposed. How to connect without surrendering everything I've built my life around."

My father nodded, understanding in his eyes. "None of us do, son. We learn through failure, through loss, through the painful recognition of what matters when everything else falls away." He gestured to his cane, to the physical evidence of his mortality.

"Take it from someone who ran out of time for second chances. Don't wait until it's too late to discover that control is a poor substitute for love."

The words hung between us, weighted with decades of unspoken regrets, of paths not taken, of warmth sacrificed for achievement.

"I'm trying," I said finally. "It doesn't come naturally."

"Of course it doesn't. We Turner men are born with ambition, where our capacity for emotional expression should be."

A smile touched his lips, revealing the man my mother must have loved before ambition hardened him. "But trying matters. Being willing to fail at this—to be imperfect, to make mistakes—matters more than any deal you'll ever close."

This conversation—so unlike any we'd ever shared—felt like a door opening to a relationship I'd never thought possible with my father. Not mentor and protégé, not predecessor and successor, but simply two men acknowledging shared struggles with unexpected honesty.

"Why now?" I asked. "Why this conversation, after all these years?"

He leaned back, something resolving in his expression. "Because I saw how you looked at her during our family lunch. The same way I once looked at your mother, before I convinced myself that success was safer than surrender." His hand tightened on his cane.

"And because facing death has a way of clarifying what you'll regret not saying."

We sat in silence for a moment, the weight of his words settling between us. Outside, the city had fully transitioned to evening, lights twinkling against the darkened sky like stars fallen to earth.

"I've set aside my ownership stake in the Seattle development," I said finally, the decision crystallizing as I spoke it. "Miles will oversee it independently."

My father's eyebrows rose slightly. "That project is your personal passion. You've been planning it for years."

"Yes." I met his gaze directly.

"But Miles needs the opportunity to succeed on his terms, without my shadow. Without my interference. Without my... control."

Understanding dawned in his eyes. "That's quite a concession."

"It's not a concession. It's a choice." The distinction felt important.

"To trust him. To give him room to either succeed spectacularly or fail on his terms. To show him what I should have shown him years ago—that my standards don’t measure his worth.”

"And if he fails?"

"Then he fails. And learns from it. And knows that his value to me doesn't change based on outcomes." The words emerged with surprising ease, as if they'd been waiting for expression. "The way his value never should have been contingent on meeting impossible expectations in the first place."

My father studied me for a long moment, something like respect dawning in his expression. "Savannah's influence, I presume?"

"Partly," I acknowledged. "She's helped me see patterns I was too close to recognize. But this is my decision. My recognition that some things matter more than control."

"Like?"

"Connection. Legacy beyond buildings and acquisitions. The knowledge that I haven't repeated our family's most destructive patterns with my own son." I leaned forward, meeting his gaze directly.

"The possibility that Miles might know me as more than just the CEO who shares his DNA."

My father nodded slowly, absorbing this. "I'm proud of you, Lucas."

The simple statement—offered without qualification or strategy—hit with unexpected force. How long had I waited to hear those words? How many achievements had been pursued in their absence?

"Thank you," I managed, emotion thickening my voice.

He rose then, gathering his dignity around him like armor against the vulnerability of our exchange. I stood as well, uncertain of the protocol for ending a conversation that was more open and unlike any we'd ever shared.

"Bring her to dinner next week," he said, moving toward the door with measured steps.

"Savannah. I'd like to know her better."

"I will." I walked with him, resisting the impulse to offer support he wouldn't welcome. "And Dad?"

He paused, hand on the door. "Yes?"

Words failed me momentarily—all the things I wanted to say, to acknowledge, to thank him for in this unexpected moment of connection. In the end, I settled for the simple truth.

"I'm glad you came today."

Something softened in his expression. "So am I, son. So am I."

After he left, I remained standing in the center of my office, absorbing the seismic shift that had just occurred. In thirty minutes, my father had shown me more vulnerability, more honesty, and a more genuine connection than in so many years before.

And I had reciprocated—had admitted uncertainty, had acknowledged struggle, had revealed decisions based on emotional considerations rather than strategic advantage.

Six months ago, such a conversation would have been unthinkable. Such revelations impossible. Such surrender of control unimaginable. Although we have always been what people would call close, I felt our relationship deepened on so many levels with this one conversation.

Yet here I stood, somehow stronger for having exposed weaknesses I'd spent a lifetime concealing. Somehow more certain for having admitted uncertainty. I somehow feel more myself for having allowed this transformation.

I moved to my desk, sending a brief email to legal instructing them to transfer ownership of the Seattle development to Miles's division, effective immediately. No explanations. No qualifications.

No retention of control through carefully worded clauses.

A complete surrender of something I'd personally shepherded for years, not because I'd lost interest, but because I recognized that some things mattered more than personal achievement or controlled outcomes.

Like showing my son, I trusted him. Like creating space for him to define success on his terms. Like breaking patterns that had damaged many generations of Turner men.

As I shut down my computer, as I prepared to leave at the shockingly early hour of seven-fifteen, I found myself wondering who I was becoming—this man who valued connection over control, who admitted vulnerability without calculating advantage, who surrendered projects to prove points about relationship rather than business.

My phone buzzed with a text from Savannah:

Dinner running long. Might be closer to ten. Miss you.

Six months ago, such a message would have triggered analysis of possible subtext, strategic consideration of appropriate response, careful calculation of how much emotion to reveal.

Tonight, I simply typed,

‘Take your time.’ Enjoy your friend. I'll be waiting. I miss you too.

As I drove home through the evening traffic, I realized that was exactly who I was becoming—a man who could miss someone without resentment. Who could wait without restlessness. Who could love without demanding control in return.

Not the Lucas Turner who had built an empire through calculation and strategic advantage.

But perhaps a better man.

A more complete man.

A man capable of building something far more valuable than towers of glass and steel.

A man worthy of Savannah Blake.