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The morning brought no clarity, only the mechanistic routine of coffee, shower, professional attire, the armor I'd wear to face another day pretending my world hadn't imploded.

I applied makeup with extra care, covering the shadows beneath my eyes and adding color to my pale, sleepless cheeks.

By nine, I was at my desk, responding to emails with robotic efficiency, my thoughts three thousand miles away in New York. By noon, I'd received a follow-up from the recruiter—an initial offer had been made, and the recruiter wanted to discuss via telephone call the following week.

I accepted the meeting, ignoring the twist of nausea the confirmation email produced.

By five, I'd convinced myself I'd made the right decision.

The mature choice. The prudent path forward.

By seven, I was home again, having changed into leggings and an oversized sweater.

Takeout Chinese food sat on the coffee table beside me as I half-watched a documentary about deep-sea creatures.

Beings that lived in darkness, adapted to crushing pressure, surviving in environments that should have been impossible.

I was reaching for the last spring roll when my phone buzzed with a text.

I'm downstairs. We need to talk. —L

The food turned to ash in my mouth. I stared at the message, reading it over and over as if the words might rearrange themselves into something less destabilizing.

He was here.

After walking away yesterday without an argument. After accepting my decision with quiet dignity.

After respecting the boundary I'd established with such careful deliberation.

He was here.

And even before I texted back a simple:

Come up

Even before I heard his familiar knock at my door, I knew with bone-deep certainty that I would never be getting on that plane to New York.

Because Lucas Turner had changed the rules again.

And God help me, I was going to let him.

Chapter 17

Lucas

I’d built my entire world on the foundation of absolute control—commanding my corporation, suppressing my emotions, orchestrating every relationship to my advantage.

I sat outside Savannah's apartment building, hands gripping the steering wheel of my Aston Martin with white-knuckled intensity, every carefully constructed principle crumbling beneath the weight of a single, devastating truth: I could not let her walk away.

Twenty-four hours of emptiness had taught me that. Twenty-four hours of mechanical efficiency at the office while my mind replayed her words on an endless loop. Twenty-four hours of pretending her decision was acceptable when everything inside me screamed against it.

I had planned my approach with strategic precision—had drafted and discarded a dozen different arguments during the drive to her apartment. Logical appeals to what we'd built.

Rational assessments of what we stood to lose. Every word calculated to persuade without revealing the desperate truth: that I needed her with an intensity that bordered on obsession.

When she texted backCome up, I remained seated, hands still clutching the wheel. Not yet. I needed her on my territory, needed the advantage of a controlled environment. Needed to remove her from the space where she'd made the decision to leave.

No. Come down. Five minutes.