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The accuracy of her assessment momentarily stole my prepared response. I had felt that—the cold calculation overriding desire, the mental ledger shifting from potential gain to likely loss.

The businessman's instinct to cut ties when an investment turned problematic.

But there had been something else she hadn't named, something I barely acknowledged even to myself: fear.

Fear that if she could lie so convincingly about something so trivial, what else might she conceal? Fear that the connection I'd felt with her—the recognition that had seemed so profound—was another fabrication.

Fear that I might be losing control not just of the situation, but of myself.

"Why are you here, Savannah?" I asked instead, refusing to confirm or deny her observation.

"After four days of silence, why come when I called?"

"You know why," she said softly.

"Tell me anyway." I needed to hear it, needed the admission as evidence that I still maintained some control over this unraveling situation.

"Because despite everything, despite knowing better, despite all the reasons this is destructive..." She swallowed hard, her composure finally cracking.

"I can't stay away from you. Can't stop wanting you. Can't pretend that what's between us is something I can simply walk away from."

Her vulnerability should have satisfied me, should have restored the equilibrium I sought.

Instead, it tore at something inside me—the part that recognized her admission as a mirror of my own unspoken truth. I had called her here despite my anger, my sense of betrayal, my logical assessment that continuing our involvement was a risk I couldn't afford.

Had called her because I, too, couldn't simply walk away.

"And Miles?" I asked, the name bitter on my tongue. "What's between you and him?"

"Nothing," she said immediately.

"You know that. He's a former relationship, a current professional connection. Nothing more."

"Yet you lie to protect him. To avoid 'complications' where he's concerned." I moved past her to the window, putting necessary distance between us.

"He still matters to you."

She made a frustrated sound. "Of course he matters. Not romantically, not sexually, but as a human being I share history with. As your son."

She followed me, her reflection appearing in the glass beside mine.

"Lucas, I lied to avoid having to navigate the minefield between you, not because I have feelings for Miles."

I wanted to believe her.

Wanted to accept the explanation that absolved her of deeper betrayal. But the businessman in me—the strategist who had built an empire on anticipating others' moves—couldn't dismiss the possibility that her motivation was more complex.

"I considered ending this," I said finally, turning to face her.

"Calculated the risk against the potential reward and found the equation unbalanced."

Pain flashed across her features, quickly masked but unmistakable. "I understand," she said, her voice steady despite the emotion in her eyes.

"I wouldn't blame you."

"I didn't say I reached that conclusion," I clarified.

"Only that I considered it."