Page 8 of Ruined by My Ex’s Dad (Silver Fox Obsession #2)

Lucas

I maintained perfect composure as I walked away from the most impossible situation of my life.

Nodded to John Parker.

Exchanged pleasantries with the mayor.

Declined a mimosa from a passing server with a polite smile.

All while my mind screamed a single, relentless thought: I had slept with my son's ex-girlfriend.

The numbness of shock carried me through the dining room and into the quiet of the hotel lobby.

I checked my watch—8:47 a.m.

Too early to start drinking, though God knew I could use it.

Instead, I headed for the elevator, keeping my pace measured.

Unhurried.

A man with nothing to hide.

The moment the elevator doors closed, I leaned against the wall, exhaling heavily.

For the first time in decades, I felt completely out of my depth.

Unprepared.

A foreign sensation for a man who prided himself on control in all things.

Savannah Blake.

Even her name felt like a reproach now.

The woman who'd responded to my touch with such uninhibited desire, who'd whispered confessions against my skin in the dark, was Miles's ex.

Was she the same woman he'd brought to company events once or twice?

The woman whose marketing expertise he'd praised in countless meetings?

How had I not recognized her?

But I knew the answer.

I'd barely paid attention to Miles's girlfriend—one in a long line of elegant, accomplished women he collected and discarded like trophies.

I'd seen her in passing at one or two company functions, of course, but always briefly, always in the context of being Miles's plus-one.

Never as herself.

Never as the complex, fascinating woman I'd discovered last night.

My suite was exactly as I'd left it earlier—bed neatly made by housekeeping, coffee service arranged on the desk, curtains drawn back to reveal the vineyard view.

I closed the door behind me, finally allowing my carefully constructed facade to crack.

"Fuck," I muttered, loosening my tie with uncharacteristic violence.

I poured coffee from the carafe, not bothering with milk or sugar, and carried the cup to the window.

The vineyard stretched before me, neat rows vanishing into the distance.

A perfect example of control and cultivation—everything my life had been until last night.

One night.

One impulsive decision.

And now this.

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

I checked it automatically—a text from Ava, my assistant, updating me on tomorrow's meetings. Work. Structure. Normality. I replied with instructions about the Parker contract, then silenced the device.

I needed to think.

Miles had mentioned they'd broken up over a year ago.

Not recent, then, but not ancient history either.

He'd also made it clear he was pursuing her again—both professionally and personally, judging by his proprietary manner at brunch.

The thought of Miles touching her—touching what I now irrationally considered mine—sent a surge of possessiveness through me that was as unwelcome as it was uncharacteristic.

She wasn't mine.

She'd been clear about that.

One night, no names, no future.

That had been our agreement, one I'd accepted without question.

Before I knew who she was.

Before I watched her face drain of color as Cami made the introduction, those green eyes widening with the same shock that had coursed through me.

I set the coffee down, suddenly unable to stomach it. What were the odds?

In a state of nearly forty million people, what cosmic joke had led me to the one woman I should never have touched?

But I had touched her.

Had learned the taste of her skin, the sound of her pleasure, the weight of her body against mine.

Had discovered the vulnerability beneath her poised exterior, had felt her tears against my shoulder as she'd admitted no one had ever seen her the way I did.

My son's ex-girlfriend.

The line I never should have crossed.

In twenty years at the helm of Turner Holdings, I had built a reputation for uncompromising ethics.

Had turned down lucrative deals because they crossed my personal boundaries.

Had fired executives for less significant moral lapses than the one I'd just committed.

I operated by a strict code—one that certainly prohibited sleeping with my son's former partners, regardless of their current status.

Yet even now, knowing who she was, I couldn't bring myself to regret last night.

That realization should have troubled me more than it did.

I showered and changed, the routine actions giving my racing thoughts time to settle into something resembling order.

By the time I reemerged, dressed in dark jeans and a casual button-down, I had formulated a plan of sorts.

I would avoid her for the remainder of the weekend.

Would return to San Francisco tonight as scheduled, putting physical distance between us.

Would warn Miles off pursuing her again, under the guise of professional concern.

Would forget the taste of her skin, the sound of her voice, the way she'd looked at me as if she could see straight through the carefully constructed persona I presented to the world.

Simple. Logical. Ethical.

So why did it feel like surrender?

I checked the time—nearly ten.

The post-wedding brunch would be winding down.

I needed to make an appearance at the farewell gathering on the terrace, say my goodbyes to John and his daughter, then I could leave.

Three hours until my driver arrived.

Three hours to maintain the facade that nothing had changed.

Three hours to avoid Savannah Blake and the impossible pull she exerted even now.

My phone rang—Miles.

I considered ignoring it, but that would only delay the inevitable.

"Miles," I answered, keeping my voice neutral.

"Dad, where'd you disappear to?" He sounded irritated. Entitled. The tone that had increasingly characterized our interactions over the past few years.

"I had calls to return," I lied smoothly.

"The Madison Street project doesn't run itself."

The pointed reminder of the project he'd nearly tanked had the desired effect.

"Right. About that—can we meet before you head back to SF? There are some details we should discuss."

Translation: he needed me to clean up another one of his messes.

I pinched the bridge of my nose, feeling the beginning of a tension headache.

"My driver's coming at one. Meet me in the hotel bar at eleven."

"Great." A pause.

"I invited Savannah to dinner on Tuesday after the strategy meeting. Her marketing insights would be valuable for Westlake."

My grip tightened on the phone.

"Is that wise? You mentioned you'd broken up quite a while ago."

“Over a year ago. Ancient history."

The dismissive certainty in his voice grated. "Besides, she's the best at what she does. We need her expertise."

The best at what she does.

The echo of my thoughts about a very different area of expertise made me close my eyes briefly.

"Your personal history doesn't complicate things?" I kept my tone professional, detached.

Miles laughed.

"Not at all. Savannah's practical. She knows we make sense professionally, even if the timing wasn't right for us before."

Practical.

Clinical.

A complete misreading of the passionate, vulnerable woman I'd held in my arms last night.

In that moment, I understood exactly why they'd broken up, despite Miles's revisionist version.

"Your call," I said. "Eleven o'clock."

I ended the conversation and tossed the phone onto the bed, irritation pulsing beneath my skin. Miles had always had a talent for getting under my skin.

Always pushing boundaries, always expecting me to fix his messes while resenting me for being able to do so.

Miles had always been sharp. Ambitious. Difficult in that particular way that comes from having never needed to work for anything, but still feeling like life shortchanged him.

I hadn’t known him growing up.

Catherine made that choice for both of us.

She’d been clear: she didn’t want a traditional family, didn’t want me involved.

And back then, I hadn’t exactly been pining to play house.

I was building my company from the ground up—boardrooms, late flights, champagne and clean exits. Fatherhood wasn’t just off the table—it wasn’t even in the building.

So I didn’t know about Miles until he was well into adulthood.

I found out only a few years ago, when Catherine—casually, as if discussing the weather—told me I had a son.

And just like that, the boardroom king became someone’s father.

He was already grown.

Educated. Fractured.

He hadn’t been raised by me and doesn’t share my name.

But he carried my edge, my ambition, my refusal to be underestimated.

When we met, it was a tense atmosphere. Awkward. Like two people sharing a bloodline but no language.

I offered him a job.

Not a title—just an opportunity.

It was the only thing I knew how to give that didn’t come with emotional strings.

He took it, eventually. Not because he wanted a relationship, but because he wanted to prove something.

To me.

To himself.

So we'd settled into an uneasy alliance.

He worked at Turner Holdings but maintained a carefully cultivated image as a maverick who'd succeeded despite his overbearing father, not because of him.

I allowed the fiction because it kept the peace, stepping in only when his "maverick" tendencies threatened significant deals.

Like Madison Street.

Like Westlake, potentially, we were still figuring each other out—walking that tightrope between polite distance and reluctant curiosity.

Which is why Savannah was a problem.

A stunning, unexpected, skin-on-fire problem.

His ex.

The one he’d let go.

The one I’d had in my bed last night, clawing at my back, gasping my name.

I hadn’t realized.

Not until this morning.

Not until introductions turned her into a name with history, not just heat.

Now I did.

And suddenly, every second I’d spent wanting her—tasting her—felt like a line I couldn’t uncross.

Another complication in our already strained relationship.

If Miles knew what had happened last night...

But he wouldn't.

Couldn't.

The scandal would damage not just our personal relationship but the company itself.