Page 49 of Ruined by My Ex’s Dad (Silver Fox Obsession #2)

The observation startled me with its accuracy.

My father had indeed shown unprecedented warmth toward Savannah—approving of her in ways he'd never approved of any woman in my life, including Catherine.

Perhaps he recognized what I had: that she was the balance I'd needed, the counterweight to tendencies that might otherwise have consumed me.

"He's different with you," I acknowledged. "More... human."

"Maybe he just needed the right audience," she suggested, moving to the closet to select clothes for the day. "Someone who didn't carry decades of complicated history with him."

I watched her routine with quiet fascination—the careful selection of her outfit, the subtle accommodations she was already making for a body not yet showing outward signs of the changes happening within.

The easy grace with which she navigated transition, adaptation, uncertainty—all states that had always triggered my most controlling instincts.

"I need to be at my father's by nine," I said, decision crystallizing as I spoke. "There are things we should discuss before dinner .”

She turned, curiosity evident in her expression. "What things?"

"History. Patterns. Truths I've never articulated fully.

" I moved to the closet, selecting a casual sweater rather than my usual formal attire—a choice that reflected both the nature of the visit and the man I was becoming.

"I need to understand how he sees fatherhood now, with decades of perspective, before I tell him I'm experiencing it again. "

Savannah's hand caught mine, her expression serious now. "Don't make it an interrogation, Lucas. Make it a conversation. Father to father, not CEO to analyst."

The distinction resonated—another example of how she saw through strategic thinking to emotional truth. "I'll try."

My father's home hadn't changed since my childhood—the same imposing grandeur, the same pristine gardens, the same sense of calculated perfection that had shaped my earliest understanding of excellence.

Yet something felt different as I approached the front door, doorbell already pressed before I could reconsider this unprecedented morning visit.

Rodriguez answered, surprise briefly flickering across his usually impassive features. "Mr. Turner. Your father is in his study."

I moved through familiar hallways, past the formal dining room where I'd endured countless lessons in proper behavior, past the living room where I'd practiced piano for hours until each piece was flawless, toward the study that had once been forbidden territory except by explicit invitation.

The door stood ajar—another difference from my childhood, when it remained firmly closed, a barrier between my father's world and mine. I knocked once, hearing his familiar "Enter" before pushing it open.

Richard Turner sat in his usual leather chair, newspaper spread before him, looking more relaxed than I remembered seeing him in decades. He glanced up, surprise evident in his expression.

"Lucas. Didn't expect you until dinner." He folded the newspaper, gesturing to the chair opposite his. "Everything all right?"

I settled into the chair, taking in the subtle changes to the space that had once represented the pinnacle of paternal authority. Books now sat in casual stacks rather than being perfectly aligned.

A throw blanket—practical rather than decorative—was draped across the arm of his chair. Small signs of living rather than presenting.

"Everything's fine," I assured him. "I wanted to talk with you. Alone."

Understanding dawned in his eyes. Even diminished by age and illness, my father's perception remained sharp. "About Savannah?"

"Partly," I admitted. "And about fatherhood."

His eyebrows rose slightly. "Interesting topic choice for a Saturday morning."

"Savannah's pregnant," I said, the words emerging without preamble, without careful preparation. Simply truth, offered without strategic calculation.

My father went perfectly still, his expression unreadable for several heartbeats. Then, slowly, a smile spread across his features—genuine, unguarded, unlike any I remembered from my childhood.

"Well," he said finally. "That's... unexpected. And wonderful."

"Yes," I agreed, watching him carefully. "It is."

"How far along?"

"Almost eight weeks. We've had the first sonogram.

Everything looks perfect." I found myself reaching for my wallet, withdrawing the copy of the sonogram image Savannah had given me.

The action felt foreign—sentimental, emotional, revealing—yet I couldn't stop myself from extending it toward my father.

He took it with careful hands, studying it with the same intensity he'd once applied to quarterly reports. But his expression held none of the critical assessment I'd grown up expecting. Instead, there was wonder, and something that looked dangerously like regret.

"I missed this," he said softly. "With you, and I missed this with Miles.”

"You were there," I countered, confused. "You and mother both, before she left."

He shook his head, still looking at the sonogram. "Physically present, yes. But not... here." He tapped his chest. "Not emotionally engaged. Not connected to the miracle of it. Just the practicalities, the appearances, the proper procedures."

The admission—so contrary to the father I'd known—left me momentarily speechless. This vulnerability, this honesty about past failures, was territory we'd only begun to explore since his stroke.

"Why are you telling me this?" I finally asked.

He looked up, meeting my gaze directly. "Because you came here to ask me about fatherhood. And I want you to understand that I am perhaps the worst possible person to advise you." His mouth quirked in a self-deprecating smile that transformed his features. "Except as a cautionary tale."

The honesty in his assessment, the complete absence of the defensive pride that had characterized my childhood interactions with him, cracked something open inside me. Not a wound but a possibility—the chance for a different kind of relationship than the one that had shaped us both.

"I'm afraid," I admitted, the confession emerging without calculation. "Of repeating patterns. Of demanding perfection rather than offering acceptance. Of measuring rather than nurturing."

My father set the sonogram carefully on the table beside him. "Good."

"Good?" I echoed, surprised.

"Yes." He leaned forward, elbows on knees, more casual than I'd ever seen him in this sacred space of his authority.

"Your awareness of the risk is your greatest protection against it.

I had no such awareness. No such concern.

I simply repeated what I'd experienced, what I knew, what seemed natural and right. "

"And now?" I asked, genuinely curious about how he viewed those choices decades later.

"Now I recognize it as my greatest failure." He gestured to the space between us. "Not the emotional distance, though that was part of it. But the fundamental misunderstanding of what fatherhood means."

"Which is?"

"Not to shape a child into your image or expectations," he said, voice rough with emotion I'd rarely heard from him. "But to see them—truly see them—for who they are. To provide safety within which they can become their fullest selves, not smaller versions of you."

The wisdom in his words, the hard-won perspective they represented, hit with unexpected force.

This wasn't the father who had measured my achievements with calculating precision.

This was a man who had faced mortality and found the courage to acknowledge mistakes, to seek redemption through honesty if not through action.

"I'm not sure I know how to do that," I confessed. "Seeing rather than shaping. Accepting rather than directing."

"Of course you don't," he said with surprising gentleness. "None of us do at first. It's learned through failure, through recognition, through the humbling experience of loving someone more than your own expectations for them." His gaze held mine, unwavering.

"But you have advantages I didn't."

"Such as?"

"Savannah." He said her name with genuine admiration. "A partner who balances you, who challenges you, who won't allow you to retreat into control when connection is required."

The accuracy of his assessment—of her strengths, of my tendencies, of our dynamic—struck me anew. My father had seen more in our brief interactions than I'd given him credit for.

"And you have me," he continued, surprising me further. "Not as a model, but as a warning. As living proof of the cost of choosing empire over family, achievement over acceptance, control over connection."

The raw honesty between us—so unlike our carefully strategic communications of the past—felt like standing on unfamiliar ground. Unstable, uncertain, yet somehow more solid than the controlled terrain I'd navigated throughout our relationship.

"I want to do better," I said simply. "For this child. For Savannah. For myself."

"You will." The certainty in his voice, the confidence in his expression—these were gifts I hadn't expected to receive today. "I've watched you with her, Lucas. You're already a different man than the one who built Turner Holdings through sheer force of will. A better man."

The approval in his words—offered without qualification, without the underlying demand for more that had characterized my childhood—washed over me with unexpected warmth. How long had I waited to hear such simple faith in my capacity? How many achievements had been pursued in its absence?

"Thank you," I managed, emotion threatening the control I still instinctively maintained.

"Don't thank me," he said with a slight smile. "Thank the woman who saw through the fortress you built and loved the man inside it anyway." He picked up the sonogram again, studying it with apparent affection.

"And thank this little one, who will teach you more about yourself than decades of business success ever could."