Page 48 of Ruined by My Ex’s Dad (Silver Fox Obsession #2)

Lucas

S tanding in the empty room that would become our child's nursery, measuring tape in hand and detailed plans spread across the floor, I found myself surrendering to a different kind of precision, even though control had defined my existence for decades.

One born not of business strategy but of primal protection.

Two weeks had passed since Savannah told me she was pregnant.

Two weeks of quiet planning, of watching her body for the subtle changes only I would notice, of waking in the night to find my hand already curved protectively over her still-flat stomach.

Two weeks of joy so unfamiliar, so consuming, I barely recognized the man I'd become.

"You realize we have seven months to prepare this room?" Savannah's voice came from the doorway, her tone warmed by amusement. She leaned against the frame, one hand absently resting on her abdomen—a new habit she seemed unaware of developing.

"Seven months is inadequate for proper preparation," I replied, not looking up from the layout I was perfecting.

"The custom furniture alone requires a twelve-week lead time.

The hand-painted mural will take another month.

The specialized lighting system needs to be designed and installed before any of that begins. "

She moved to stand beside me, bare feet silent on the plush carpet. "Lucas, babies don't actually care about specialized lighting systems."

"This one will." I finally looked up, caught by the sight of her in one of my dress shirts, hair tumbling loose around her shoulders. Even now, months into our relationship, her casual beauty struck me with physical force.

"This one is special."

She knelt beside me, her smile softening as she studied the elaborate plans I'd drafted. "You've thought of everything."

"Not everything." I set down my tape measure and turned to face her fully. "But I'm trying."

Her fingers traced the detailed sketches—the reading nook with built-in bookshelves, the window seat overlooking the city, the separate areas for creative play and quiet rest. "This doesn't look like any nursery I've ever seen."

"Because it incorporates both of us," I explained.

"The organized structure I prefer, with the warmth and creativity you bring to every space.

" I pointed to specific elements. "These shelves will hold classic literature and philosophy, but also the children's books you've mentioned from your own childhood.

The color scheme is sophisticated yet still appropriate for a child.

The furniture is heirloom quality but designed for actual use, not just appearance. "

Her eyes studied the plans again, understanding dawning. "You've created a perfect balance between your world and mine."

"That's what I want for our child," I said, the words emerging more vulnerable than I'd intended. "Not just my vision, not just yours, but something better. Something balanced."

She lifted her hand to my face, palm warm against my cheek. "Something healing."

The simple observation struck with unexpected precision, targeting a truth I hadn't fully acknowledged even to myself.

This wasn't just about creating the perfect environment for our child.

It was about crafting a counterpoint to my own childhood—to the cold precision of the spaces I'd grown up in, to the demanding perfection that had defined my relationship with my father before his recent transformation.

"Yes," I admitted, covering her hand with mine. "Something healing."

She studied me with those perceptive green eyes that had seen through my carefully constructed defenses from our first meeting. "You're afraid," she observed softly.

The automatic denial rose to my lips, then died unspoken. We'd promised honesty, however uncomfortable. "Terrified," I confessed, the admission costing more than I'd anticipated. "Not of the practical aspects. Those I can manage, can control, can execute with precision."

"Then of what?"

I stood, needing movement, needing space to articulate fears I'd barely allowed myself to acknowledge. She followed, watching as I paced the dimensions of what would become our child's first world.

"Of becoming my father," I finally said, the words emerging rough with decades of complicated emotion.

"Of demanding perfection instead of offering acceptance.

Of measuring achievements instead of providing safety.

" I stopped at the window, looking out at the city I'd helped shape, the empire I'd built through control and precision.

"Of teaching our child that love is conditional on performance. "

Savannah moved to stand beside me, her reflection appearing in the glass—fiercer, more protective than I'd ever seen her. "You are not your father, Lucas. Not the man who raised you, at least."

"Genetics would suggest otherwise."

"Genetics don't determine choices," she countered. "You've already proven that by becoming a different man than the one I met at that wedding. By learning to balance control with connection. By loving me, not for what I provide, but for who I am."

I turned to her, needing to see her face directly, not in reflection. "What if I fail? What if, despite every intention, I repeat the patterns I was raised with? What if our child feels the same pressure, the same conditional acceptance, the same requirement to perform that shaped me?"

"Then I'll be there," she said simply. "To balance you. To remind you. To push back when necessary." Her hand found mine, fingers intertwining with casual intimacy that still startled me sometimes. "That's what partnership means, Lucas. Neither of us has to be perfect because we have each other."

The certainty in her voice, the strength in her slight frame—these weren't weaknesses to protect but powers to respect.

Pregnancy hadn't diminished her; if anything, it had revealed new dimensions of her resilience, her clarity, her capacity for navigating complex emotional landscapes that still felt foreign to me.

"I don't deserve you," I said softly, the words escaping before I could calculate their impact.

"No one deserves anyone," she replied. "That's not how love works. It's not a transaction or an achievement. It's a choice, made daily, to see someone completely and stay anyway."

I pulled her against me, breathing in the scent of her hair, her skin, the subtle changes that only I would notice—a different warmth, a new sweetness underlying her usual jasmine perfume.

My hand spread across her abdomen, the gesture that had become automatic in recent days, connecting with the miracle growing beneath my palm.

"I choose you," I murmured against her temple. "Every day. In every way. Not because you're carrying my child. Not because you balance me. But because you make me want to be worthy of the faith you place in me."

She turned in my arms, rising on tiptoe to press her lips to mine—a gentle kiss that held promise rather than passion. "I need to show you something," she said, drawing back slightly.

Taking my hand, she led me from the nursery-to-be through the penthouse to our bedroom. From her nightstand drawer, she withdrew a small square of paper, handling it with reverent care before passing it to me.

I looked down at the grainy black and white image—indistinct to most eyes, perhaps, but to mine, the most beautiful sight imaginable. Our child. Tiny, barely formed, but undeniably real. The sonogram I'd been unable to attend due to an emergency board meeting I couldn't reschedule.

"The doctor says everything looks perfect," Savannah said, watching my face closely. "Strong heartbeat. Proper development. Exactly on schedule."

I stared at the image, emotion tightening my throat as a single finger traced the outline of our child. "I should have been there."

"You're here now," she said simply. "And you'll be there for a lifetime of moments that matter more than one appointment."

The grace in her forgiveness, the ease with which she prioritized future connection over past absence—these were gifts I was only beginning to understand how to accept. Once, I would have seen them as weaknesses to exploit. Now I recognized them as strengths to honor.

"My father called today," I said, still studying the sonogram, still marveling at the miracle captured in grainy black and white. "He wants us to come to dinner this weekend."

Savannah's eyebrows rose slightly. "Did you tell him about the baby?"

"No." I set the precious image carefully on the nightstand. "That news belongs to both of us. To share together."

She smiled, approval warming her expression. "What did he want, then?"

"Connection, I think," I said, the realization forming as I spoke it. "Since his stroke, since our conversation in my office, something has shifted between us. As if facing mortality has stripped away decades of emotional armor."

"Are you comfortable with that? With this new version of your relationship?"

A year ago, six months ago, perhaps even three months ago, the answer would have been a reflexive no.

Lucas Turner didn't do discomfort, didn't do emotional vulnerability, didn't do uncertain outcomes.

But the man I was becoming—the man Savannah had helped create, the man who would soon be father to our child—was learning to navigate precisely those waters.

"I'm trying to be," I admitted. "It's... unfamiliar territory."

"Most worthwhile things are," she replied, echoing words I'd once said to her. "Should we tell him about the baby at dinner?"

I considered this, weighing options with the strategic precision that had built my empire. "Yes," I decided. "He deserves to know. To be part of this child's life in ways he couldn't fully be part of mine."

"He'll be happy," she predicted. "You've seen how he looks at me. Like he's grateful I exist."