He turned as we entered, confusion flickering across his features as he registered our arrival together, our clasped hands.
Understanding dawned a moment later, his expression hardening into something that hovered between disbelief and disgust.
"You've got to be kidding me." His voice held a brittle edge I recognized—the tone he used when wounded but unwilling to show it.
"Please tell me this isn't what it looks like."
I felt Savannah tense beside me, but she didn't retreat, didn't loosen her grip on my hand.
"Miles." I kept my voice steady, measured.
"We need to talk."
"Talk." He laughed, the sound harsh in the book-lined room.
"That's rich. Since when do you talk, Dad? Since when do you explain anything to anyone?" His gaze shifted to Savannah, something wounded flashing in his eyes.
"And you. I expected better from you."
"I understand this is shocking," she began, but Miles cut her off with a sharp gesture.
"Shocking doesn't begin to cover it. Disgusting might be closer." He moved away from the window, circling us like a predator assessing weaknesses.
"How long? How long has this been going on?"
The question hung between us, loaded with implications.
How long had I been sleeping with his ex? How long had we been lying to him? How long had we been betraying him?
"Since the wedding in wine country," I answered, refusing to parse the timeline in ways that might seem defensive.
"Not while you were together. Not immediately after."
Miles ran a hand through his hair, a tell that revealed more profound distress than his angry façade suggested.
"The wedding." He shook his head, connecting dots.
"That's why you were at the hospital together, why you've been different lately. Why you—" He stopped, something dawning in his expression as he looked at Savannah.
"Is that why you ended things with me? Because you wanted him instead?"
"No." Her response was immediate and firm.
"You ended our relationship, Miles. A year before I ever met your father. Don't rewrite history."
"And I'm supposed to believe this is just a coincidence? That of all the men in San Francisco, you happened to fall for my father?"
"Not a coincidence," I said, stepping forward.
"But not planned either. It just... happened."
Miles turned on me, eyes flashing.
"Nothing 'just happens' with you, Dad. Everything is calculated. Everything is strategic. Everything is about winning."
The accusation sliced with uncomfortable precision, targeting insecurities I'd spent a lifetime burying.
Had I pursued Savannah as some subconscious competition with my son? Was this about possession rather than connection?
