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"Let him notice," I said, the words emerging before I could temper them. "Let him wonder. Let him realize what he lost."

Her eyes met mine, surprise evident in their depths.

"That sounds like you want him to know."

The observation gave me pause, forcing me to examine my own motives.

Did some part of me want Miles to discover our relationship? To understand that his father had claimed the woman he'd discarded? To recognize what he'd failed to see in Savannah?

"No," I said after a moment's consideration.

"That would be needlessly cruel. And potentially damaging to both of us."

"Then what do you want?" She studied my face, searching for something beyond my careful exterior.

What did I want? The question seemed simultaneously simple and impossibly complex.

I wanted her—in my bed, in my life, in ways I hadn't wanted anyone in decades.

I wanted to possess not just her body but her mind, her passion, her future.

Wanted to erase any trace of other men from her memory, especially my son. Wanted to claim territory that should never have been mine to claim.

"I want you to understand something," I said, voice dropping to ensure absolute privacy. "Something I realized watching you with Miles today, with Knowles, with everyone who fails to see what I see in you."

She waited, tension evident in the set of her shoulders, the slight parting of her lips.

"You weren't made for him," I said, the words emerging with an intensity that surprised even me.

"You weren't made for men who see only your surface, who value you simply for what you can do for them, how you can advance their interests or enhance their image."

I stepped closer, close enough to catch the familiar scent of her perfume, to see the slight dilation of her pupils as she registered my proximity.

"You were made forme, Savannah. For someone who recognizes your mind as well as your body. Who values your strength rather than seeking to diminish it. Who sees all of you—the ambition, the intelligence, the hidden intensity you keep carefully contained."

Her breath caught, a small sound that sent satisfaction coursing through me.

"Lucas—"

"Tell me I'm wrong," I challenged softly. "Tell me you don't feel it too—this recognition. This certainty that whatever exists between us was inevitable from the moment we met."

She didn't answer immediately, conflict evident in her expression. The professional woman who understood all the reasons to walk away warring with the woman who had texted meI want moreless than twenty-four hours after leaving my bed.

"I can't tell you you're wrong," she finally whispered.

"But that doesn't make this right."

"Right and wrong are relative concepts," I countered. "What matters is truth. And the truth is, you belong with me in ways you never belonged with him. Never could belong with him."

The naked possession in my voice should have alarmed me—should have triggered the caution, the restraint, the careful control I'd built my life around.

Instead, it felt like the most natural declaration in the world. The simple acknowledgment of something I knew with bone-deep certainty.

"Eight o'clock," I reminded her, forcing myself to step back, to restore professional distance before anyone returned. "I'll send a car."

She nodded, composure returning gradually. "I'll be ready."

I watched her walk away, the graceful confidence in her stride, the subtle power she wielded without ostentation.