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The thought of them together sent something dark and primitive coiling through me.

Not jealousy, exactly—I knew my son's relationship with Savannah was over, knew he'd been the one to end it, knew from her own admission that she no longer harbored feelings for him.

No, this was something more elemental. More possessive.

A territorial instinct I'd thought myself above, too sophisticated to indulge. The primal need to mark what was mine, to establish boundaries no other man—especially my son—could cross.

It was irrational. Unbecoming. Beneath the carefully cultivated image I'd built over decades.

And yet it consumed me, this need to claim her not just physically but in every way that mattered. To establish that whatever had existed between her and Miles was a pale shadow compared to what burned between us now.

By the time I arrived at the Westlake site that afternoon, I'd regained some semblance of control. Had reminded myself of the stakes, of the need for discretion, of the professional relationship that must take precedence over personal entanglements while in public.

All that carefully reinforced restraint threatened to crumble the moment I saw her.

She stood with Miles and the project architect near the model unit's kitchen, sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows to catch the copper highlights in her hair.

Professional, polished, in a tailored navy suit that revealed nothing yet somehow emphasized everything.

Her posture was perfect, her expression engaged as the architect explained some feature of the custom cabinetry.

Beautiful. Intelligent.Mine.

The possessive thought came unbidden, unwelcome in its raw intensity. I pushed it aside, approaching with the measured confidence expected of Lucas Turner, CEO.

"Mr. Turner," the architect greeted me, extending his hand. "We were just discussing the materials upgrade for the penthouse units."

"Savannah had some excellent insights about marketing the sustainable aspects rather than just the luxury," Miles added, his hand coming to rest at the small of her back in a casual gesture that sent fresh heat coursing through me.

She tensed almost imperceptibly at his touch—a reaction so subtle only someone attuned to her body language would notice.

Her eyes met mine briefly, a flash of recognition and awareness passing between us before she returned to pure professionalism.

"Mr. Turner," she acknowledged, extending her hand as if we were meeting for only the second time. As if her body hadn't been wrapped around mine less than fourty-eight hours ago. "I hope you don't mind my suggesting some adjustments to the marketing approach."

"Not at all," I replied, taking her hand. The simple contact—brief, appropriate, entirely professional—sent electricity racingup my arm. "Your expertise is why we're considering bringing you on board."

Miles beamed, mistaking my approval for endorsement of his choice rather than the woman herself. "I told you Dad would see the value you bring."

If only he knew just how deeply I appreciated that value. How completely I understood what Savannah Blake had to offer beyond her professional skills.

"Let's see the master suite," I suggested, deliberately moving ahead to separate Miles from his proprietary position beside her. "I want to ensure the finishes match the renderings exactly."

The tour continued, with Miles handling most of the presentation while the architect chimed in with technical details. Savannah observed everything with that keen intelligence I'd come to admire, asking insightful questions that revealed how thoroughly she'd studied the project materials.

I contributed where necessary, maintaining the expected involvement while watching her from the corner of my eye. Noting the slight flush that rose to her cheeks when our gazes happened to meet. The way she avoided direct contact with either Miles or myself, keeping a professional distance that wouldn't raise eyebrows.

The way her body subtly oriented toward mine despite her obvious efforts to prevent it—a subconscious betrayal of awareness that satisfied something primal in me.

After viewing the model unit, we moved to the sales center, where renderings of the various floor plans lined the walls. The marketing director had joined us, eager to discuss launch strategies and target demographics.

"We're thinking of a tiered approach," he explained, gesturing to a timeline displayed on a large monitor. "Start with the mid-range units to establish momentum, then releasethe penthouses closer to completion when we can showcase the actual views."

"That's backward," Savannah said, the certainty in her voice drawing everyone's attention. "You should lead with the penthouses. Create exclusivity and urgency for your premium product."

The marketing director—Jason Reynolds, who'd been with Turner Holdings for nearly a decade—frowned slightly.

"With all due respect, Ms. Blake, we've found that building momentum with more accessible units creates a stronger overall sales picture."