Page 50 of Ruined by My Ex’s Dad (Silver Fox Obsession #2)

We sat in companionable silence for a moment, the morning light filtering through windows that had once seemed to me the boundary between my father's world and mine.

Now they illuminated two men—one at the end of his journey, one in the middle of his—finding connection through shared experience, through honest recognition of failures and hopes.

"May I keep this?" my father asked, gesturing to the sonogram. "I'd like to have it framed."

The sentiment—so unlike the practical, unsentimental man who had raised me—touched something deep inside. "Of course. I have another copy."

He nodded, carefully placing the image in his desk drawer. "We'll still see you both for dinner tonight?"

"Yes," I confirmed, rising to leave. "But now you know the news we planned to share."

"I'll act appropriately surprised," he promised with a conspiratorial smile I couldn't remember ever seeing on his face. "Some things are worth experiencing twice."

As I drove back to the penthouse, back to Savannah and the life we were building together, I found myself turning my father's words over in my mind. Not his advice on fatherhood—though that held wisdom I hadn't expected—but his observation about me. About the man I was becoming.

The man who could love Savannah for who she was rather than what she represented. The man who could approach fatherhood with awareness rather than assumption.

A better man.

When I arrived home, I found Savannah exactly where I'd expected—in the room that would become our nursery, surrounded by color swatches and fabric samples, her laptop open to a design website. She looked up as I entered, her smile warming me from the inside out.

"How was your father?" she asked, setting aside a sample book.

I crossed to her, kneeling beside her on the floor, one hand automatically finding its way to her stomach in the gesture that had become as natural as breathing. "Surprising," I admitted. "I told him about the baby."

Her eyebrows rose. "I thought we were doing that together. Tonight."

"I needed to speak with him first. Father to father." I covered her hand with mine, where it rested on a swatch of soft green fabric.

"I needed to understand how he sees fatherhood now, with the perspective of decades, before bringing you into the conversation."

Understanding dawned in her expression. "And what did you learn?"

"That he regrets much of how he raised me," I said simply. "That he recognizes the cost of choosing control many times over connection. That he believes I can do better than he did."

She studied my face, reading beneath the words to the emotions I was still learning to express. "And do you believe that?"

"With you? Yes." I lifted her hand to my lips, pressing a kiss to her palm—a gesture of reverence that would have seemed foreign to me months ago. "You won't let me retreat into control when connection is needed. Won't let me demand perfection instead of offering acceptance."

"Damn right I won't," she agreed, the fierceness in her tone making me smile. Then, gentler. "What else did he say?"

"That this child will teach me more about myself than decades of business success ever could." I spread my hand across her still-flat abdomen, feeling connection rather than possession in the gesture now. "And I believe he's right."

She covered my hand with hers, the simple contact grounding me in this moment, in this room that would soon hold the physical manifestation of what we'd created together.

"I want to show you something," I said, standing and offering her my hand. "It's not finished, but I think you should see it now."

Curiosity brightened her expression as she allowed me to help her up. "The nursery plans? I've already seen those."

"Not the plans," I said, leading her to the far wall where a drop cloth covered what appeared to be a large framed item.

"This."

I removed the cloth to reveal a mural in progress—hand-painted in soft colors that complemented the palette we'd selected for the room.

Not the professional artwork I'd initially planned to commission, but something I'd begun creating myself in the quiet hours when sleep eluded me and I found myself drawn to this space, to this future.

A world map formed the background, continents rendered in soft greens and blues, but superimposed upon it were elements unique to our shared history.

A vineyard in California where we'd first met.

The San Francisco skyline, where we'd built our life together.

The small town in Maine where Savannah had grown up. The European cities I'd studied in during college.

Around these landmarks, I began adding smaller, more personal touches—books that’d shaped us, places we hoped to visit, and symbols of experiences we'd shared.

And in the center, still sketched rather than painted, a tree with branches spreading wide, ready to hold the names and dates and milestones of our growing family.

"Lucas," she whispered, her hand rising to cover her mouth. "You did this?"

"I'm trying," I said, watching her face as she took in the details, the personal touches, the hours of effort this represented. "It's not perfect. The perspective is somewhat flawed in the European section, and the color balance needs adjustment in?—"

She silenced me with a finger to my lips, her eyes suspiciously bright. "It's beautiful. Perfect because it's imperfect. Because you created it with your own hands instead of delegating it like everything else in your life."

The approval in her voice, the understanding of what this gesture truly represented—these were gifts I was still learning to accept. Once, I would have seen her tears as a sign of weakness.

Now I recognized them as honest emotion, as the response this imperfect offering deserved.

"Our child deserves personal touches more than hired expertise," I said, voicing the realization that had driven me to begin this project in quiet pre-dawn hours. "Deserves pieces of us, not just what we can purchase or commission."

"Yes," she agreed, moving closer to study the details.

Her finger traced the outline of the Maine coastline, the small star marking her hometown.

"This is what family means, Lucas. Not perfection, not achievement, not controlled excellence.

But personal contribution. Genuine effort.

The willingness to create something imperfect but meaningful. "

She turned to me then, those green eyes filled with an emotion I was still learning to name.

Not possession, not desire, though those elements existed.

But something deeper, more essential. Connection.

Recognition. The profound understanding that we saw each other entirely and chose each other anyway.

"I love you," she said. "Not the CEO, not the empire builder, not the man who can buy anything. But this man—the one who paints a mural at four in the morning because commissioned artwork isn't personal enough for his child."

I pulled her against me, arms encircling her with protective gentleness, feeling her heart beat against mine, our child nestled safely between us. Not possession but partnership. Not control but connection.

"I love you, too," I murmured against her hair. "Enough to try being less than perfect. To create rather than command. To offer what I can make instead of what I can buy."

We stood there in the half-finished nursery, surrounded by color swatches, fabric samples, and paint supplies, the morning light filtering through windows that would soon frame our child's first view of the world.

Imperfect, unfinished, beautifully human in its incompleteness.

Like me. Like us.

Like the family we were creating together.

For the first time in my carefully ordered existence, incompleteness felt like possibility rather than failure.

Uncertainty felt like an opportunity rather than a threat. The future—unplanned, uncontrolled, gloriously unpredictable—felt like the greatest adventure I'd ever embarked upon.

And the woman in my arms, carrying our child beneath her heart, was the only companion I wanted for the journey.