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"Now," she said, "we face it together. Not as Lucas Turner, CEO, and Savannah Blake, marketing consultant. But as us. Partners. Equals."

"Equals," I repeated, testing the word, finding it fit more comfortably than I'd expected. "Even though I'm twenty years older? Even though my position gives me inherent advantages in certain contexts?"

She raised herself on one elbow, mirroring my earlier position, her expression serious now.

"Age is circumstance, not character. Position is external, not internal. What makes us equals isn't similarity of situation but compatibility of essence." Her finger traced my lips, silencing the objection I hadn't yet formed.

"You see me completely and choose me anyway. I see you completely and choose you anyway. That's equality in the only way that matters."

The wisdom in her words—so clear, so uncompromising, so perfectly reflective of the woman I'd fallen in love with—settled something in me that had been restless for decades.

A question I hadn't known I was asking finally found its answer.

"Move the rest of your things tomorrow," I said, the words emerging not as a command but as a request. "No more separatespaces. No more symbolic independence. Just us, building something together."

She studied me for a long moment, those green eyes missing nothing. Whatever she saw in my face must have satisfied her, because she nodded once, decisively.

"Yes," she said simply. "It's time."

As she settled back against me, as sleep began to claim us both, I realized the true significance of the evening. Tonight hadn't just been about publicly claiming Savannah, about acknowledging our relationship to the world.

It had been about her claiming me. All of me—the power and the vulnerability, the strength and the fear, the control and the surrender.

For the first time in my carefully ordered existence, I belonged to someone as completely as they belonged to me, not through possession or dominance or strategic advantage.

But through choice.

Through recognition.

Through the profound understanding that separate, we were formidable.

Together, we were unstoppable.

Chapter 22

Savannah

Moving into Lucas Turner's penthouse felt like stepping into a glossy architectural magazine—beautiful, pristine, and utterly unlived in.

Three weeks after his public declaration at the gala, I stood in his—our—closet, surrounded by empty hangers that awaited my modest wardrobe, feeling both thrilled and terrified by what I'd agreed to.

The movers had delivered everything efficiently, but I'd insisted on unpacking the personal items myself.

After just an hour of hanging clothes and arranging accessories, I felt oddly drained.

I told myself it was the emotional weight of such a significant change, my body processing the magnitude of what we were doing.

The closet itself was a metaphor for our differences—his side a perfect parade of bespoke suits, custom shirts, and designer shoes, all in neutral tones arranged with military precision.

The waiting space for my things was four times larger than my entire closet at home, with specialized drawers and racks whose purpose I couldn't begin to guess.

"Everything okay?" Lucas appeared in the doorway, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up—his version of casual that still looked impossibly elegant.

He'd been checking on me periodically, bringing water and insisting I take breaks.

"Just... absorbing." I gestured at the expanse.

"This closet is bigger than my first apartment."